Konstantins Crusade English version - E W (ebook reader for comics .txt) 📗

or better the Men of the Golden Guard might be, the first ones fell and if the Stone Giant attacked again they would be lost. And that included him too, Cyrus thought.

He turned back to Anselm and tried to speak as clearly and calmly as possible. The young man still seemed to be only half there and when Cyrus put his hand on his shoulder, he visibly flinched.

"Listen, we never make it over this place and that includes Macon and his people. Running away is not an option either. Not as long as this thing bombards us with magic and building parts. "

"And what should I do about that?" Anselm almost screamed, looking at him with wide eyes. There was still fear and panic in it.  In other circumstances Cyrus might have shouted at him as well, but the truth was that he felt a certain affection for the man. And understanding. He had also been young once. No, not young, he thought. That was the wrong word. Innocent maybe? Not dulled by too much death and terror until nothing moved him, except the goal to somehow survive.

"Well, can you do something?" Cyrus asked, still trying to sound calm.

Anselm took a deep breath, "I ... Maybe. But only once and only because otherwise we will die." What now shimmered in the face of the young magician Cyrus liked even less than the panic from before. It was cold. "You will not ask me for this a second time."

Why did Anselm have such a reluctance to use his abilities? Now was not the moment to ask him, but still ... Cyrus had seen what he was capable of. So why was someone like him sitting in a ditch in the midst of a contested city instead of serving as one of the Order's high mages? Protected from the worst turmoil of the war ... and respected.

Anselm stood up, trembling, with clenched fists, and at that moment the stone golem at the other end of the square turned to them ... and froze. Cyrus did not know what to expect when he asked Anselm for help, but for a moment the mage and the gigantic construct stood motionless. The air seemed heavy and almost electrically charged.

A tremendous bang echoed out, loud enough that even Macon and his men paused for a moment, looking back at them. Rock broke as if it were under tension, lights danced around the figure of the golem. Cracks spread across the prior smooth stone surface of the construct, as if crushed by invisible forces. Anselm had raised his arms and closed his eyes. His hands were shaking.

For a moment, there seemed to be some kind of deadlock between the two. The golem remained frozen where he was, Anselm's hands remained in the air, frozen as if they were made from stone as well or pressed against an invisible wall. Cyrus could almost watch individual gray strands appear in the mage's hair, his features becoming visibly paler.

Then everything happened very fast. A flash of light enveloped the golem, blinding them all for a moment as the crystals embedded in his body lit up and dispelled the magic Anselm had cast. A blast ripped open what was left of the pavement of the place. Shrapnel and dust whirled  up. Something hit Cyrus shoulder and threw him to the ground. A brick as big as a fist. The dull throbbing pain made him moan. The ground shook, gave way and sagged. Cyrus rolled to the side, trying to escape as the world tilted to one side and plunged dust and debris into the depths. Half the plaza began to lower, tearing buildings and debris with it. Cyrus made it to level ground and looked back. Anselm was gone. Where the makeshift barricades of the Golden Guard had been, there was now only a field of rubble, half-fallen ruins, sand and dust, slowly trickling down into the pit that the failed spell had opened.

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter 13

 

 

 

 

 

Anselm blinked. Dust trickled down around him, dancing in the light. Light that came in through a handful of cracks in the rock right above him. Brick rubble and huge boulders were wedged less than two hands above him. He tried to stand up, bumping his head against the low-hanging rocks and tasting blood.

"Cyrus?" The words came only as a strangled whisper and he had to cough. The air was full of dust, which still threatened to suffocate him, even if the rocks did not give way. "Macon?"

His voice echoed strangely, shaking with every word. Silence was all that answered him. But not complete silence. He could hear something. Not the muffled noise of the battle that had to rage somewhere above him. Flowing water. As carefully as possible he tried again to move. For a moment Anselm squatted under the rubble and stared into the half-light. Before him,  the cave that the rubble formed widened and went out to something that looked like a brick-made dock. The rushing of water he heard seemed to come from underneath that. Where had he ended up?

Trying not to touch any of the unstable debris, he cautiously pushed onward. At least his legs still carried him, even if they felt like rubber. And then he heard something else. Voices...

For a moment he was tempted to call out to them, but quickly changed his mind. Wherever he had landed here, it was unlikely that anyone here would be friendly. Not if the battle was still going on above. The voices seemed to be heading in his direction. Maybe a group of temple guards who wanted to see how big the damage was? He briefly weighed his chances to escape before they reached him, but he still had no idea where he was at all. So what  else could he do?

Kill them.

The thought came so suddenly that it startled him. So easy. Without consciously raising it, flames danced across his fingertips. He had the power to do so did he not? If it was really only a patrol that wanted to inspect the damage, they would have no way of actually opposing him and yet ... that was not him. Not really. Not again.

Anselm banished the thought. If magic was not an option and he could not escape, all that remained was to hide. Problem was there was only one hiding place around here. Anselm threw a skeptical look back at the rubble cave from which he had just climbed. The light filtering in from above made it hard to really hide, but as long as he did not move ... maybe they would not look too closely.

The rocks crunched alarmingly as he ducked beneath them and cowered into the darkest corner he could find. The stone in his back, however, had nothing reassuring. Not at all. Anselm took a deep breath, trying to distract himself from the fact that gods knew how many tons of unstable debri lay over his head. He closed his eyes. Listened. The voices were so close now that he could pick out a few words. And what he heard was certainly not the official language of the empire. Before the Order had sent him here, he had studied the language of the pyramid city. And even if most of the words seemed familiar to him, they somehow did not sound right.

"Destroy entire city ..." The voice sounded... small, he thought.

"Is he ... safe?" Who? Anselm resisted the urge to lean out of his hiding place. Instead, he slid down the rocks, trying to move as little as possible.

"As safe as the last hundred years." Came the answer. "...  because of him we are out here."

"... the tunnels collapsed... will take months ..."

The voices were close now. Whoever was down here, they seemed to be in a group of four. Three of the voices belonged  to a group of men, the last was that of a woman.

"No metal." A stone was kicked and echoed against the wall of the tunnel. The disappointment of the speaker was clear.

"Would only be wasted on you anyway. Help me figure out how bad the damage is. "That was the woman's voice.

"These soldiers with the red cloaks have metal. I had to bring one of them a message today. "

"And they would kill you before you can even apologize if you even look at their armor wrong," the man who spoke first said.

"Who says I would apologize?"

"Because of this, boy." Something clinked. "And what's going to happen to you if you do not. Believe me, questioning the bond is a bad idea. "

"Grandfather Girsz only lost a hand and with the iron, he has covered his whole house and captured the attention of every girl in the village."

"Did he also tell you how he got there? You can not take Grisz stories seriously. Half the time he does not even know his own name and the other he spins yarn. Not that this was ever any different. "

The footsteps of the group came to a stop and for a moment Anselm was convinced they had left. But then the voice of the woman broke the silence again.

"Is he dead?" Something, a foot, bumped against his leg and he just managed to keep himself from moving. "I could use some new boots."

"They are not new." Came the answer of another person. At least three again, Anselm thought, maybe more. "Looks like one of those Imperial guys. You y know those in the green coats. Have seen them from the Walls once. You know. Ganelle? "

"That's called turquoise, Ewec. Turquoises. And this one looks pretty torn up. I would think this over again before taking the shoes. "

"Heh. Plucked. Like a chicken. Damn when was the last time I had something to eat. Have heard people taste similar. "

"You really only think with your stomach, Ewec. Do what you want, but his shoes are mine. "Anselm felt something pull on his foot and actually managed to release one of his boots

"Then I'll take his leg." The scraping of a blade that was pulled out of its sheath finally convinced Anselm that acting dead had not been a good idea. Not with ... whatever lived down here. He still did not want to kill them but he also did not know what he was dealing with. But it was dark down here ... maybe he could blind them  and escape that way? He jumped on his feet. The now unprotected foot stepped on a sharp-edged stone and he flinched involuntarily.

The light spell he had prepared slipped away from him, the concentration required to maintain it in a controlled manner, fizzled away. Instead of a simple sphere of light, his entire palm suddenly radiated as if it were being illuminated directly by the sun, drawing sharp shadows out of the darkness. Anselm had to squint his own eyes and the outcry that followed his magic showed him that he had succeeded. Only running away was out of the question. He could hardly orient himself, there was only debris behind him, and in front of him three figures emerged, two with their hands raised to protect their eyes and the third with one of his boots in his hand. And they were