Chains of Blood

by M. L. Spencer

  The Sultan paused in his tracks and swung back toward him. “Do you see that?” he raged from across the square. “Go do your job! Go help my people!”

  With that, he lurched toward his tent with his unconscious daughter in his arms. Gil stared helplessly after them as another fireball crackled as it shot by overhead. It was so close to the ground that he ducked, throwing his arms up to shield his head.

  The fireball struck the burning Lyceum. With a terrible roar, the entire building collapsed in a great gush of fire and showering embers. Flames roared, threatening the surrounding district.

  Gil stood shaking his head slowly, thinking of the thousands of books that graced the shelves of the Lyceum’s library. He swallowed dryly, his head murky. He willed his feet to move, but they did so only grudgingly, carrying him toward the barricade. Clutching Thar’gon close, he fell in with the current of soldiers swarming in the direction of the front lines.

  Rylan strode at Xiana’s side over one of the improvised bridges their engineers had erected over the canal—a feat accomplished in only a day. They walked hand-in-hand, the thin chain linking them draped from their wrists. Through that connection, Rylan could sense her gratitude that he was there beside her. Though they walked into battle, he was not afraid. He felt confident in a way he’d never felt before a fight. They had each other, a complete and perfect union. With Xiana at his side, he was invincible.

  They moved at the head of a column of soldiers, two other kaiden of mages following behind them. Overhead, the clouds flickered with an eerie amber glow, reflecting the lights of the fires. Every once in a while, a shooting fireball shot across the night sky, a barrage meant to soften the enemy before the main offensive. The Warlord was taking no chances.

  They reached the new encampment erected on the far side of the canal, and there joined the ranks of the soldiers forming up, preparing for the assault. Xiana led him to the head of the lines, where she was greeted by one of their commanders, a grisly old man with a face that looked carved from granite. As Xiana spoke with him, Rylan’s attention was drawn toward a large fire burning just to the south of their position, its orange glow bathing the sky. He recognized a building next to it and was sure it was the Lyceum that burned.

  He didn’t want it to burn.

  He brought his hands up to clutch his head against a cyclone of conflicting emotions. He didn’t want to kill anyone, didn’t want to see the city fall. And yet, another part of him did. He understood why their campaign had to be successful. It was for the good of the Empire, who needed the Lyceum’s mages desperately, to defend itself against the hell it had unleashed by the opening of the Sky Portal. It was for the good of the people of Karikesh who, for the past twenty years, had known only instability. And it was for the good of the Kingdoms, which had been fractured in a series of wars that had lasted a thousand years. Once the entirety of the continent was under Imperial rule, then peace would reign from sunrise to sunset, from pole to pole. Real peace.

  He felt a hand on his arm. Swallowing his emotions, Rylan looked away from the haunting glow of the fire, though its roar still echoed in his ears. Xiana’s conversation with the commander had ended, and she stood looking at him with concern written on her face.

  “I’m fine,” he told her. The conflict within him had been resolved. Residual feelings of sadness remained, but those feelings could be dealt with. The crippling guilt had been eradicated.

  Xiana nodded, understanding in her eyes. “It gets easier,” she assured him, then kissed him lightly. “Every day will be a little better. I’m worried you’re not ready for this yet.”

  “I’m ready,” he said, thinking of the brothers and sisters who’d been slaughtered in their barracks.

  “Good,” Xiana said curtly. “Because the general is ready.”

  She led him toward the front of the waiting column of soldiers. They took up position in the advance guard behind a company of pikemen. There, they waited for the other kaiden to join them, and for the commander to give the order to march. The nervous tension of the soldiers was evidenced by the shifting of weapons and the rustling of armor. No words were spoken, and yet Rylan knew innately what all must be feeling. Even though they were on the brink of victory, they would have to cut a bloody path to it.

  He looked back at the fire consuming the Lyceum, thinking how strange it was that he no longer resented the Malikari invaders who had conquered his homeland. He’d spent two long years of his life fighting them. Two long years he could have spent home with his wife and his children. He’d let a useless war rip him away from his family, and he hadn’t been there when it mattered. Instead, he had wasted time and blood fighting a Sultan who had shown him only kindness.

  The thought of Sayeed sent a shooting pain lancing through his heart. He’d seen Ashra in the barracks, shortly before the attack. She must be dead with all the others. He closed his eyes and searched for her through his link with the community. He couldn’t feel her… and then he did. A small feeling. A small, terrified feeling. Wherever she was, she was in danger. Rylan’s throat constricted.

  The commander shouted the order to march, and Xiana caught his hand. He looked at her for reassurance. She smiled and kissed his hand. Then the column started forward. He walked beside her as they made their way through the center of the encampment, past rows of tents and thick forests of pickets, and onto the main boulevard that led straight into the heart of the city. The sound of their passage rattled the walls of the buildings, a growing rumble that overwhelmed the cadence of the drums and shimmied the cobbles of the street.

  They advanced two blocks unhindered. Then, from out of the night, a dark cloud of arrows rained down upon them, launched from a rooftop on the other side of the street. Before Rylan could react, Xiana threw up a shield to protect them. Arrows hit the shield and exploded, sending shards of iron and slivers of wood ricocheting off the bricks of the building next to them. He glanced up at the bowmen positioned on the rooftop, ducking back behind the cover of a wall. He felt a sharp tug through the chain: the magic field was being drawn into him, through him, summoned by another’s will. His first response was to fight the sensation. He had to force himself to relax, to allow it to happen without a struggle. Xiana deftly wove the sum of their mutual power into a shaft of magic that erupted from the rooftop, spewing violent jets of light. The men who weren’t torn apart from the blast screamed all the way to the ground, hitting the pavement in a series of dull-sounding thuds.

  Rylan shivered as he felt Xiana draw harder on him, absorbing as much of his magic as he could pass to her. The part of him that was Keio Matu reveled in the feel of the pairing. It was familiar, a tender intimacy he had shared with Ilia, though he had always been the one in command of the link. He would have to get use to the sensation of being powerless, fully at another's command. He had not been prepared for how vulnerable he would feel when the roles were reversed. Still, he trusted her with all his mind and soul.

  A crackling fireball plowed into a building just a block away, bringing the whole structure thundering down in a roaring maelstrom of flames. When the noise at last settled, it was replaced by the resonating sounds of battle dead ahead: shouts and screams and the ringing clatter of weapons against armor.

  Xiana pulled harder through the link. She threw up an absorption shield above them, woven of delicate tendrils of magic. Just a week ago, he would have had no idea what it was. But now, filled with all of Keio’s knowledge, he felt certain he could duplicate it. Rylan watched as she expanded the shield to cover the other mages in their group. She probably could have extended it further, but that would risk it becoming too thin. When another volley of arrows plunged from the sky, they struck her shield with a clatter, like a bucket of nails spilled across an old tin roof. Most of the arrows ricocheted off; the rest snapped into bits that fell dead to the pavement.

  By then, they were on the edge of the battle. A frantic melee overcame the intersection a block away, where the soldiers of their advance
force had engaged the men guarding the Sultan’s encampment.

  Ahead, a group of Malikari regulars were attempting a sortie. They charged out from behind a series of improvised barricades, bellowing war cries at the top of their lungs, swords and spears hacking a path through the Khar assault force. Again, Rylan felt a powerful stirring as Xiana summoned the magic field through him, using him as a conduit. She waved her hand, and a pool of liquid flames erupted under the feet of the Malikari defenders. The sounds of their screams quickly drowned out the clamor of the battle. Intent on the survivors, she tried to rush forward, but Rylan balked, repulsed by the sight of so many men enveloped in flames.

  Xiana looked back and smiled like a child who had just performed an accomplishment that would make her parents proud. Then she called on him again, wrenching him open and drawing magic through him painfully. This time, she wove a ball of flames that coalesced into a blazing fire strike, which she hurled into the thick of the Malikari encampment. Flames gushed high into the air as men and horses screamed and scattered, many leaping over the barricades onto the swords of their enemies.

  Laughing, Xiana took Rylan’s hand and pulled, siphoning a horrendous amount of magic through him. It was excruciating. He gripped his head, biting back a scream. She spun their combined power into a swarming mass of air that ignited as it spun, evolving into a fiery vortex that resembled a tornado. With a cry, she hurled it directly at the enemy.

  The mass exploded in midair. Like it hit a brick wall. Rylan could feel Xiana’s shock through the link. She drew up short, her eyes widening.

  Before them stood Gil Archer, holding a silver morning star that blazed like the sun. Surrounding him was a halo of gleaming light, a testament to the enormous amount of power he was drawing, too great for one human body to possibly contain. It leaked out of him in waves, distorting the air. For a second, Rylan stood still, jaw slack, just staring at him. Then it hit him: Gil had countered Xiana’s strike.

  And he’d done so effortlessly.

  Rylan could feel Xiana’s frustration. She tore more power from him, taking so much, so fast, that he staggered and almost dropped to his knees. Xiana lifted her hand in the air and made a motion like throwing a spear. A shaft of light shot out of her hand, hurling through the air. Until it reached Gil Archer’s shield, where it met a violent and spectacular death.

  Xiana screamed in frustration.

  Gil brought his weapon around, and a wave of air sped toward them. It impacted before Rylan could get his hands up, bludgeoning him in the face and bowling him over. He lay on the ground, stunned and winded. A galaxy of stars exploded in his eyes. He rolled onto his stomach and struggled to sit up, but another blast of solid air knocked him back to the ground.

  Molten fury raged through the link.

  Wrenching herself upright, Xiana lifted her arms and summoned a crackling fork of lightning that stabbed down at Gil before he could get a shield up. He went down with a cry, filaments of electricity clawing over his body. Another stab of lightning spiked down, piercing him in the back.

  Somehow, he clawed his way upright, getting his weapon up just in time to partially deflect a tidal wave of flames. He wavered over his feet for a moment, then fell to one knee in the center of the blood-slicked street. Half of his face was blistered, the other half covered in grime, his chest heaving.

  The sight of him made Rylan wince. He could see it in Gil’s eyes: the man was at the end of his strength. The realization ripped him in half.

  Xiana sensed it too; Rylan could feel her eagerness through the link. With a cunning smile, she drew mercilessly on his power. Above them, a glowing web of light balled into an attack devastating enough to avenge their fallen brothers and sisters.

  Gil brought his hands up, as if such an act could ward off death.

  It couldn’t.

  Nothing could defend against Xiana’s wrath. Rylan looked at her, beautiful and glorious and wrapped in power. Then back to Gil, courageous and alone and completely at her mercy. No matter what he’d done back at the citadel, Gil was a good man. Like the Sultan, he was only trying his best to help his people.

  Looking into Gil’s eyes, Rylan felt a cold thrust of sadness pierce his chest, more powerful and painful than the Word of Command.

  This was wrong.

  It was all wrong.

  The Rylan Marshall he remembered wouldn’t be doing this.

  He made his decision in an instant—an instant that seemed to last eternity. In that moment, he ceased to be Rylan Marshall and became Keio Matu. He lived his ancient life all over again. He fell in love with Ilia all over again. He watched her laugh and cry and shudder with passion. He married her again. Made love to her again. Held her in his arms as she died again. She was the woman he loved, the woman he’d died loving. She was everything.

  But Xiana wasn’t Ilia.

  And he wasn’t Keio Matu.

  A tidal wave of anguish broke over him, drenching him in emotions. Flailing wildly at the link between them, Rylan fought to turn it around, to take back control of the magic Xiana was siphoning from him. She gasped and spun around, her face twisted in anger and disbelief. She set her jaw stubbornly and wrenched on him harder. It was too much; he broke quickly. With the chain in place, she was in complete control. All he could do was watch her weave her strike with his stolen power.

  But magic wasn’t the only defense he had. There were other, darker forces that stirred within him, of a type that chains could never bind. He had a choice. Oh, gods, he had a terrible choice. He didn’t want to make it. But if he didn’t, Karikesh would fall and Gil Archer would die.

  And so would Rylan Marshall.

  He closed his eyes and struck out at Xiana with the Onslaught. He heard her scream, a horrendous sound that ripped his heart in half.

  Reaching out, he caught her as she fell. He sank to the ground with her in his arms, staring deeply into her dying eyes. Her lips moved, and a shiver of breath passed between them. A thin streak of blood leaked from the corner of her eye, rolling down her cheek like a teardrop. She looked up at him in pained confusion.

  “Why…?” she whispered.

  He couldn’t answer her.

  He wept as she died in his arms all over again.

  He could feel the moment she left him, through the link. It was like a hot knife stabbing at his soul, and he threw his head back and howled in misery. Through his link with the community, a collective outcry of horror and dismay reverberated through his mind like the outrage of a god. It was horrendous. Unbearable. The only thing he could do was hold her and grieve.

  All that was beautiful in the world had been crushed by his own hands. Barely aware of a battle raging over him, he hugged her close and sobbed. He stroked her hair, as if such a gesture could make her forgive him.

  But it wouldn’t. All the grieving in the world wouldn’t bring Xiana back. He bowed his head and sagged against her body.

  A glint of color caught his eye. When he realized what it was, he grimaced in agony. Ilia’s opal pendant gleamed at him from its golden chain. In a fit of rage, he tore it from her neck. He was about to cast it away, but something stopped him. Instead, he clutched it in his trembling fist.

  A Malikari soldier not far from him erupted in flames. Rylan looked up and, through eyes bleary with tears, saw that the city’s defenders were overwhelmingly losing. Bodies littered the street, most wearing green and black uniforms. The Sultan’s men were retreating, but not fast enough. The defenders were being mowed down by a devastating assault of magic they had no hope of defending against. They were losing far more than their own lives—they were losing the entire city.

  Rylan didn’t realize he’d removed the shackle connecting him to Xiana until it was off his wrist. Immediately, the god-like outrage of the community vanished from his head. The relief was so vast, so intense, that he fell to the ground, gasping. He lay on the cobbles next to Xiana, panting and quivering.

  A second later, he was being trampled. He struggled to
rise, but a heavy boot impacted with his face. Another hammered his ribs. A body fell on top of him, crushing the air from his chest. He was cracked in the head again and again, and his vision went black.

  His head throbbed in agony. He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t see. He struggled weakly, trying to rise. His stomach lurched. He fought his way to his feet and stood there, reeling, unable to see through the blood washing into his eyes. He wiped it away and glanced around, his vision red-stained and murky.

  All around him, the Sultan’s men were being pummeled by magic. Within seconds, a score of men were cut down, then another score seconds later. Everywhere he looked, soldiers exploded in flames. Others were crushed. Still others were shredded like stew meat. Rylan watched it all in abject horror. He watched until he couldn’t bear it any longer.

  Then he reacted.

  He opened himself fully to the magic field, filling himself with as much raw power as he could draw, until it seeped from his pores. Reaching out, he flung everything he had at the ranks of the Turan Khar. Men screamed and went down. He lashed out again at the Khar forces, burning fiery holes through armor and flesh, taking down rank after rank in quick succession. He strode forward through the embattled street, carving a path paved in blood. Seeing the destruction he was weaving, soldiers broke from the fight and rushed toward him, determined to bring him down.

  None reached him.

  He killed and killed until there was nothing left to kill. Until he stood alone in an intersection littered with heaps of steaming flesh. Then he stopped and stood still, all his strength leaking out of him.

  He looked around as slow degrees of horror crept over his skin. He turned slowly, taking in the carnage he had wrought. His stomach clenched, and he became suddenly, unbearably ill. He fell to his knees and vomited, retching again and again until there was nothing left to bring up.

  Then he dropped to the street and sobbed.

  The woman he loved was dead. He had killed her. His daughter was now lost to him. He had brutally slain hundreds of people who had only fought because they had no choice, because they didn’t have the will or the knowledge to resist.