Total pages in book: 40
Estimated words: 38711 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 194(@200wpm)___ 155(@250wpm)___ 129(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 38711 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 194(@200wpm)___ 155(@250wpm)___ 129(@300wpm)
Beneath the ground Vasya waited, wrapped in dark magic and feeling put out.
Not yet.
The barrage finally died.
Roman peered at the battlefield. Farhang was back in his powering-up pose. The golden rings coalesced and began their up-and-down dance.
Whoosh. Whoosh. Whoosh.
He was going to do it again. If this kept going, the man’s heart might give out.
Farhang’s eyes were still blank. Focused but blank. He was on autopilot, like an automated Gatling gun. Which meant he would alternate between the two main weapons in his arsenal that were consistent with his faith. He’d done the purifying fire. That left the other option. Now to nudge him toward it…
Okay, so yes, let’s do that.
Roman pushed the bone hands apart with his magic, pivoting them open, thrust his staff at the advancing line, and snarled a command suffused with magic. “Imenem Chernoboga!”
Not a true invocation but impressive enough.
Klyuv opened its beak. A swarm of black flies the size of grapes shot out from the staff’s mouth like a black cloud, spiraled, and fell onto the mercenaries. The Shadow Strikers cursed, waving their arms. The flies wouldn’t kill, but they stung like hell.
Farhang stared at the flailing mercs.
Cleanse them.
Cleanse them.
Farhang rotated his hands. The light rings broke into a glowing wide spiral, picking up snow from the ground. The light-infused snow tornado spun and melted in an instant, turning into a waterspout. The water funnel burst. Glowing water drenched the mercenaries and the flies. Tiny black bodies rained on the ground.
Perfect.
Roman smashed the staff into the porch, driving a spike of pure power into Klyuv, through the shaft, and into the ground below. A phantom cold sprang from him like a magic river and sped through the ground, branching as it flowed. Black ice stabbed through the soil and snow, mirroring the river’s course, and clamped the mercenaries into its bear trap, locking them in place. Even holy cleansing water was still water. It froze, especially when fed with Chernobog’s ice on his consecrated ground.
He had to give it to Wayne’s crew. They didn’t scream.
Wayne jerked a machete from its sheath and hacked at the ice that shackled his shins. “I need fire, Farhang!”
Roman sent an icy mote down below. Now.
A crossbow bolt tore out of the tree line and sliced across his left thigh in a hot burn. The snipers. Damn it.
Roman clenched his fist. The lights went out. Darkness drowned the front yard. Farhang stood alone, illuminated by his golden light.
A deep human howl tore through the night.
Another.
Fire erupted from Farhang’s fingertips, pummeling the darkness at random.
Roman stepped back, whipping the gloom around himself, clothing his body in it like a shroud. It whetted his eyes and the night opened before him, clear as day. Three mercs and Wayne had broken free and hightailed it back to the woods at top speed. Four others remained anchored. Of those, the one on the right was missing a head, his body still locked upright by the ice, and a second one sprawled on the ground. The last two mercs twisted, one frantically hacking at the ice and the other swinging his short sword at the darkness.
Behind Roman, the door swung open. Finn stepped onto the porch, holding a crossbow, raised it, and leveled it at Farhang, who was bathed in his purifying fire like a torch.
“No!” Roman slapped the crossbow down.
“He’s trying to kill us!”
“He isn’t in his right mind.”
A big, chitin-sheathed body burst from the ground. Huge pincers cut like chitin shears and sliced the merc on the left in half.
“Farhang!” Wayne snarled from midway down the driveway. “Do something!”
Farhang clenched his fists. The magic swelled inside him and tore out like a geyser, sending a ball of searing fire ten feet into the air. The tiny sun flooded the front yard, incinerating the darkness in an instant.
Pain lashed Roman with a burning whip, setting fire to his bone marrow, cooking his eyes in his head, steaming his brain. His insides clenched, and he vomited onto the porch.
Magic backlash was a bitch.
The midnight dawn blazed, furious and vivid, making every snowflake stand out.
The last merc looked around, realizing he was the only one left standing. The ground in front of him exploded outward, and a cow-sized black scorpion lunged out, huge, segmented tail striking. The merc shuddered, impaled by the spike. His eyes rolled back in his head, and he went limp.
The remaining Shadow Strikers stared, shocked.
Vasya locked two of the bodies with his pinchers and dove back underground, taking his dinner with him.
“Fucking kill that bastard!” Wayne howled.
Farhang shoved the ball of light at Roman. He saw it coming, and the familiar rage that always fed him when he’d been beaten down reared its ugly head.
Not today. Not fucking ever. Not in my own house.
Roman planted his feet and thrust the staff in front of him. His body opened, like a door, no longer just a physical form, but a conduit to elsewhere, a place without light, a realm of cold, where power lay waiting. He welcomed it. It filled him, packed itself into a huge, clawed fist, and smashed into the ball of light.