270. Mt. Tai (V) (Patreon)

Gerard was the first to his feet. He rushed over, shoving aside cringing, stunned soldiers, all propriety for once forgotten. He knelt by the charred husk on the ground, rolled it—him—over until Dorian was right-side-up. He felt for a pulse at the wrist.

Nothing.

No breathing. The organs were roasted. The heart was stopped.

Gerard did not accept this for an answer.

He checked the neck. No. The chest. No. He stuck an acupuncture needle in the chest and probed his core with qi.

And felt something answer him. A weak resonance, so weak he scarcely felt it, but it was there.

Still alive. Relief flooded him but he let not one muscle relax. The moment required precision.

Instantly he produced the most powerful healing elixir he had. One pillaged from Coldheart’s stores—the [Evergreen Brew]. He forced it down the husk’s throat.

Then he stuck three acupuncture needles in the chest, a few over the legs, the brow… the skin was so burnt it gave like paper. He pressed his hands to Dorian’s chest and started to inject his own qi; the needles hummed, lighting up, as his qi flowed across them. Jump-starting an artificial flow. It would be enough.

Beside him a figure pattered up, hesitant. Gerard turned to look at a cringing Sun.

“This wasn’t supposed to happen,” whispered Sun. “I thought—”

A cough.

“Gerard?” rasped a voice, so soft it could’ve been the wind. Dorian grinned at him toothlessly. “Toss me another healing elixir, will you? If I die on your watch, I swear I’ll never forgive you.”

“Yes!” Gerard scrambled to obey.

As he chugged another elixir Sun ambled over, swallowing, ears drooping with guilt.  She opened her mouth.

“Don’t apologize!” said Dorian, rolling his eyes. “Who knew they’d have that stashed away? The plan was a good one. Good plans go wrong. It happens. Besides, I’m alive, aren’t I?”

He waved to the rest of the army. “What are the rest of you looking at? Go! I didn’t almost die for you not to take the godsdamned Fortress! They just wasted two Godkings worth of power on me! Finish them off!”

That shook them out of their stupor. A cheer rose up, tentative at first, then another, full-throated. The dragons stormed off up the mountain.

“What about the forcefield?” said Sun. “And the moat?”

“I’ll take care of it,” said Dorian breezily. He tried to get up to his arms, but only his head and a chunk of his neck moved. The rest of him was limp as a corpse. He frowned at it.

“Go guide your men. I’ll catch up with you in a bit, alright?”

“But—“

“Go!”

With one last sorry look she scampered off.

“Gerard? The Chamber, if you would?” said Dorian. “We’ve got some work to do.”

***

Scraggletooth limped down to the walls to find his fortress surrounded.

“What do we do?!” cried one of his Lieutenants, a chunky one with a big snout.

“Relax!” laughed Scraggletooth. He spread his wings, a great big smile on his face. Usually he never smiled, nor laughed—these things were the sort of crass displays of feeling reserved for hippies and dullards—but right now he was floating on a cloud, and he couldn’t bring himself to care.

“How?!” Big Snout looked on the verge of tears. “There’s—what—two hundred of them! And three dozen of us!”

“Ah, but we have the wall. And the moat. And, most importantly…”

A spiky menace of a dragon rushed forward, bellowing, and was bounced away. There was a shimmering web of gold where he’d struck; the web faded.

“The force field.”

Scraggletooth grinned triumphant for all his troops to see. “I have slain their champion!” he crowed. “Their best hopes are finished, and they haven’t so much as scratched our best defenses!”

A pitter-pattering of Techniques struck the golden webbing, but it didn’t even flex. Just bounced them straight off, almost derisively. He sneered at the effort. “This force field has held under the blows of Godkings! Do you really think these piddling efforts will make any sort of difference? Don’t make me laugh!”

But he did, again, because he felt like it. He’d won, hadn’t he?

The mood was infectious. Soon the rest of his crew were chortling and laughing along. At first a few were doing it because he was doing it, and historically it had been very detrimental to one’s health to not loudly agree with his opinions. But as more and more of the rebels tried the forcefield—and as they all failed, some wounding themselves with their own Techniques—the laughs grew louder of their own accord. A few organic jeers popped up. Scraggletooth jeered with them.

Why ever had he insisted on manners so? Being a boor was damned fun! No wonder all his troops insisted on it all the time.

His qi had been emptied in that blast, but his Infinity was fast refilling him. Soon he’d be recovered enough to sweep these nuisances off his lawn. Soon this would all be over. His mind had already turned away from this to the future—to him lounging in his garden once more, with his lovely harem. That little cutie Moontail in particular. The little thing still had a defiant streak! But they all did, at the start, until he broke them. No doubt this incident would go a long way to stamping that out.

Scraggletooth licked his lips, feeling devious. It was much like training any pet, really; they were not truly yours until they accepted your mastery. He’d let her run off her leash thus far. She was young, and pretty, and so he could forgive a lot of her. But she’d yapped long enough. It was high time he whipped her into submission. He imagined doing it now, imagined her soft little whimpers, and his eyelids fluttered. An inconvenient heat was spreading in inconvenient places—

Then he saw a ghost.

It sent such a spike of fear through him that it totally ruined the mood.

He shook himself, sprang upright.

It was still there. Striding up behind the enemy army, a fat grin plastered on its face.

He had never been so flaccid in his entire life.

“No,” he croaked. “No! That—it’s not possible!”

“Hey!” said the invader.

His own army scrambled out of his way, shrieking in surprise, clearing a path for him all the way up to the forcefield.

“Miss me?”

“You’re DEAD!” he shrieked. “You’re—that’s—”

He whirled to his army. “DO NOT PANIC! It’s a fake! It’s an illusion!” His voice cracked badly at the end there.

“Am I, now?” mused the invader. His aura exploded out of him. Mighty, full, so imposing all those present felt like they stood in the presence of an emperor. Scraggletooth felt an absurd urge to kneel.

From somewhere far below—the dungeons?—there came a squeal of joy. “YES!”

Was that Moontail? The world seemed to spin before Scaggletooth’s eyes. “I don’t understand,” he croaked. “I don’t—how—?” he kept mumbling, trembling.

“I suggest you get off those walls and find cover!” said the invader. “Or you may find the next few breaths quite traumatic.”

He sucked in a breath, and blew.

Every dragon present knew what he was doing. Every one of them had dragon’s breath, after all—but what came out of the invader’s mouth was no breath. It was like he’d opened the gates to another plane, and all of Hell roared out of his mouth at once.

Scraggletooth screamed and ducked for dear life.

A breath passed—a breath full of devilish howling and bonfire crackling. But he felt no heat. He felt nothing at all. He poked his head up.

The forcefield was holding!

A gold web in the sky strung in a dome, like the outline of a turtle’s shell. It shimmered against an ocean of red and black. And it really did feel like an ocean; like they’d been spirited to the ocean floor and were staring up at some unfathomably vast mass. Just one seam in that defense—the tiniest crack—and it’d all pour in.

The forcefield was fine for now. But not even Scraggletooth dared be smug about it. He had this horrible feeling that it wouldn’t hold much longer at all. Whirlpools of fire and darkness licked hungrily above. Waiting for their moment.

One breath. Two. Three. The tension was unbearable. And the breath didn’t let up in the slightest. A fourth breath passed and the flow thickened if anything. How much qi does he have?!

Five breaths had gone by. Just long enough for Scraggletooth to hope, just a little.

Then the forcefield sagged.

...Fuck.

All Hell broke lose.

***

You had to commend the fortress’s architects. That was stone of quality. It looked only slightly seared after that mass of qi splashed down upon it like a molten avalanche.

You couldn’t say the same for the dragons on the walls, unfortunately—most of them had changed states of matter.

“CHARGE!” yelled Sun, and the army swept forth, brandishing their claws. Up on the ramparts there was a strangled cry. Scraggletooth had taken flight in a herky-jerky panic. His tail had gone from spiked and sleek to the shape of ice cream left out on a hot day. His wings hadn’t fared much better. At first Dorian thought he’d flown away to get a better vantage to strike, but Scraggletooth kept flying. And flying. Soon he was a dot in the distance.

Dorian thought about chasing him—but why bother?

It wasn’t much of a battle after that. They crossed the moat without much issue. The walls were a little harder, but it was like Scraggletooth’s soldiers didn’t dare throw a strike. They competed against each other for who could surrender the quickest.

Soon Sun was being paraded about on dragonwing to cheering crowds.

“I have something to say!” she cried. “Let us have a feast! A feast for a freed dragonrealm! Spare no expenses, dragons—don’t be shy! Bring out your best dishes! It’s time to celebrate!”

In that moment she probably could’ve asked to be crowned eternal empress of the realm and they would’ve obliged her.

Snorting, Dorian left her to it. It was time to reunite with an old friend.

***

“Salas Godhunter,” he said. The body lay slumped and cold, yet it still radiated a Godking’s aura. Standing this close he felt a draw, some kind of magnetism at the level of the soul.

“Do you know how much grief you’ve caused me?” He chuckled. Then he strode over. “All right, then. It’s long past time I reclaimed you.”

He pressed a hand to Salas’s belly, feeling for where the core was, and that sense of magnetism grew stronger. His fingers practically tingled at the touch. This was him. The qi there, dormant as it was, of foreign Laws too, still reacted.

There was even a Spirit Weapon there.

Memories tickled at Dorian. He smiled fondly. It felt like stepping into a childhood home, and seeing everything so much smaller than you remember.

I wonder if this stuff still works? Would that Weapon still summon? Could those Techniques still be dusted off and used, even? It had been so long…

He didn’t know how this fusion would work—if it could work, even. These were qis of entirely distinct Laws, and powerful Laws, at that. These things seldom played nice. 

But he did know his Star system could support it. And his soul was bonded to this core too—a core that was also of Godking caliber. Which put him in an incredible rare, possibly unique position.

Salas’s core wished to be his once more. There was just the matter of getting at it.

For a few seconds he frowned at his former self.

“Gerard?” said Dorian.

“Hmm?”

“Do you happen have a hacksaw?”