Realms of the Arcane - Brian M. Thomsen [39]
Torrid rainwater pummeled the shields atop his feathers and fur. Peregrin's wings unfolded. Already the tension of battle was easing from them. Josiah hauled a new battery of spells into his mind.
Here, beyond the edge of the floating city, the storm was black and omnipresent. Whirling winds… endless night… popping ears… The violent darkness defied direction sense.
Feeling sudden vertigo, Peregrin began to bank back toward the city. A strong crosscurrent lashed the rain sideways. He deepened his angle into the gale. A warm updraft enveloped him. He continued his turn, rolling over.
His wings lost lift. Griffon and rider plunged.
Peregrin foundered. Each flap of his wings dragged them faster into the fall. One wing caught upon the chaotic air, but the other lashed emptiness.
Josiah clung tight all the while. Hands full of saddle and wand, he shouted spell fragments into the buffeting air. Useless.
They spiraled downward.
Downward… At last, Peregrin knew up from down. He folded both wings, nosedived, and then spread his plumage. Feathers found purchase, and he soared out of the dive.
He breathed deeply, calming himself. How far have we fatten?
Neither griffon nor rider could glimpse the ground. Peregrin glanced upward, seeing the city high above. Faint golden specks swarmed about it, griffons regrouping for another attack.
Sorry, Josiah, sent Peregrin.
It's a thunderstorm, the mage said, the worst skies for a battle.
The griffon was already straining his wings to rise toward the floating rock. / don't suppose you brought any levitation magic…
The mage's reply was slightly chiding. I'd not considered this possibility. Then he sent, Don't strain too hard. I imagine we're out of this fight.
The storm's already done half the battle for us, anyway. Another five miles in this squall and Lhaoda would be destroyed, with or without us, thought Peregrin.
Yes, the mage responded wryly. He seemed to consider as he repeated, Yes. Why haven't they steered clear of it?
Perhaps they can't steer clear, Peregrin replied. Perhaps the storm has damaged their navigation center.
Josiah perched a hand above his eyes and looked upward at the shimmering outline. He gave a gasp, and sent the image in his eyes to Peregrin: the city was much closer than it had been moments ago. Peregrin could not have risen this far this fast.
The only explanation was that the city was falling.
Falling? We haven't done that much harm, the griffon responded. He sent back the view from his own, much sharper eyes:
Firelit billows of spray rolled around the edges of the city. The torrent was so strong that it added a deep thrumming drone to the cacophony of the storm. Falling.
Peregrin fought his way forward through the streaming darkness, struggling to get out from under the thing.
Our fliers wouldn't have slain the levitation council, Josiah thought. That's against all the treaties. There hasn't been such a massacre since… His thoughts trailed away as he assembled a quick casting and began the arcane gestures.
It's not in free-fall, Peregrin pointed out. His surging muscles bore them clear of the descending city. It hasn't capsized. Somebody's trying to hold it aloft.
Josiah finished the casting. A chill went through the man and continued on, into the bird-lion. It's not just somebody. It's everybody. Their whole levitation council is still alive. They're gathered at the center of the rock, trying to hold it in the skies.
Peregrin made a long, slow turn, just beyond reach of the sinking city. The rock filled half the black, stormy sky above. Tith Tilendrothael's griffon riders swarmed the enclave. Did the Lhaodagms deplete their spell banks? Is there a magic barrier, or a negating sigil, or something?
The mage shook his head. No, nothing like that. Magic is cascading from that rock, but it's being drawn away, straight down. It's as though the storm has carried them-carried us all-into a dead-magic zone.
The city filled the whole sky now. Peregrin