Both sides cried out in shock. The horses of the dead men seemed equally confused, veering to the side or stopping short. The ranks behind them pulled back on the reins, horses rearing and snorting.
The charge stalled. The militiamen cheered and drove forward, spears bristling.
Rowe chuckled. "Seeing that, sometimes I wish I'd been born a sorcerer. Then I remember what pricks most of you are."
He snapped out his sword, the steel coming alight with the unearthly colors of its enchantment. Rather than joining the charge, he peeled off to grab the reins of one of the horses that Cally had relieved of its rider. The animal tossed its head but allowed Rowe to climb into the saddle.
The spearmen met the enemy, jabbing and thrusting, unhorsing several of the Lannovians and jostling others into those behind them. But before they could force the enemy to retreat and regroup, nether swarmed three ranks back. Brought to the hands of Vassimore, who wore a long cloak, his face hidden within his hood. He hurled it into the militia like dark lightning.
It shredded the men down where they stood. The cavalry formed up, readying to take advantage of the increasing room to maneuver. The militia held their ground, but as a second tumble of nether appeared around Vassimore's arms, they fell silent, spears frozen in their hands.
Vassimore windmilled his arms, sending another barrage of black bolts at the city's defenders. Cally struck back, his counters zipping forward like dragonflies on the wing.
He couldn't catch all of them. Three men fell. But the others whooped and charged once more. Rowe came in from the left, sword flashing as it met the blade of an enemy soldier and cut it right in half.
"I know that face!" Vassimore pointed straight at Cally. "You're like a tick that won't let go of its host, boy. Time to put the flame to you."
He launched his next volley at Cally. Cally's vision seemed to leap forward until the streaking bolts were all he could see. He felt them as well, pulses of energy far more commanding than the dull reality behind them. He trusted this sense more than his eyes as he sprayed shards of ether at the bolts, shattering each one of them.
"If you hated me before," Cally said, "wait until you hear that I'm the one who learned how to destroy your wights."
He threw three black arrows at Vassimore. The man made a slashing motion with his arm, dashing the attacks apart so easily that Cally's heart sagged. Yet around them, the militia fought on, goring riders and dumping them from the saddle. If not for Cally, by now they would all be fleeing or dying. That was something.
Vassimore struck at him again. Cally reached to the nether and found it growing more and more stubborn. He barely had time to counter the assault, the black sparks of deflected shadows hissing harmlessly against his face.
Vassimore's hands were already darkening with his next attack. A spear flew toward him from the right. He whirled, attempting to sidestep it, but it caught him in the left leg. He yelled out in pain.
Quick as he could, Cally threw two more bolts at him. Vassimore swatted both aside, yanked the spear from his leg, and launched it at Cally, obliging Cally to skip to the side. Hooves knocked against the cobbles: Rowe charged in from the opposite direction the spear had been thrown from, holding his sword out to the side. Cally grabbed at the nether, meaning to distract Vassimore, yet the enemy was too fast for him. A shadowy missile flew from his hand toward Rowe. Rowe grunted, swearing, and swung about. At the last second, he jumped off the left flank of his horse. The attack gouged across the horse's right flank. It screamed, kicking, then galloped away.
All signs pointed to the idea that Cally couldn't beat Vassimore in a fair fight of sorcery. Carvahal, as Cally was coming more and more to favor, scorned and loathed those who ignored portents of failure. He had no time for blindly hoping that what did not appear to be true so far would somehow become true later on, made real through the special magic of lumbering perseverance. Instead, Carvahal favored innovation.
So Cally took up the spear Vassimore had thrown at him and charged.
Vassimore laughed—though Cally didn't see what was so funny about it, as Vassimore didn't seem to be armed at all—and slung another bolt at Cally. Cally already had the shape of its counter in his hand, though, and knocked it aside. And then the one that followed it. Vassimore backed up a step, but he still wasn't running. Not smart. Another second and Cally would—
He felt the shadows stir but he couldn't see where. The cobblestones just in front of him belched upwards, opening a hole in the ground. It wasn't terribly deep, but he was running as fast as he could and had already committed to the next step. His foot fell right into the hole. His toes caught on the forward edge, spilling him forward. He landed hard, pain banging up his hands, knees, and ankle.
The spear flew from his hands. He scrabbled for the shadows. Too late. Vassimore's bolt was already flying straight for his head. Grateful that it would at least be quick, Cally began to close his eyes.
Motion flashed from the corner of his sight. A figure, tall and lean, leaping headlong across Cally's path.
The bolt hit Rowe in the center of his chest. He hit the ground along with a spatter of his blood. He didn't move. His sword fell beside him, gone plain and dark now that it had lost contact with his body.
Time stopped. Images, fragments of thoughts. Rowe stretched out like cloth on a loom. Blood shiny and black in the dim light. The thumps and crashes of the battle right next to him. The nether circulating through Rowe's body slowing and fading, already almost nothing.
Two choices. Save him, or press on.
He snatched up Rowe's sword with a scrape of steel on stone. He gasped as the weapon seemed to pull some deep piece of him into its shape. The blade hummed to life, once more coated in shimmers of black and purple and silver. He brought the nether to his other hand and ran. Vassimore fired another nethereal missile at him. Cally batted it aside, sprinting through the black and white embers of its destruction.
At last Vassimore turned and ran. He twisted his head, launching another missile at Cally. They were so close Cally had to strike the attack the instant it left the man's hand. Cally reached for the nether, but it was like trying to pull an angry cat from a door frame. Darkness condensed in Vassimore's hand. Cally switched to ether. He wasn't sure that he would have time.
Cally could almost hear Carvahal's laughter as Vassimore, still looking behind him, tripped on a fallen saber, coming down just as hard as Cally had moments before.
Cally loomed over him. Vassimore rolled onto his backside. "No!"
Cally swung. Vassimore held up his arm to ward off the blow. It did no good. The blade, churning with hungry sorcery, passed through his arm with a hard click. And carried on, down into his chest, digging deep. Vassimore grimaced, a ghastly spasm, his whole face seeming to change shape. Cally yanked out the sword to deliver a killing blow, but there was no need.
He swayed back, dizzy, half-crazed. Then he spun around and ran. Someone else was crouched over Rowe. He feared, madly, that it was one of the Lannovian horsemen come to finish him off. Then he saw the swirl of nether around her hands as it passed into Rowe.
"Volarra!" He couldn't tell if he was making a question or a command.
She glanced up, then frowned and returned to her work, releasing a second wave of shadows into Rowe. Cally didn't know that any amount would be enough—Vassimore's bolt seemed to have shot straight through him—yet as he sent his mind into the nether within Rowe, he felt flesh and skin regrowing with astonishing quickness. The bolt had ruptured one of his kidneys, but Volarra was tending to that too, streaming shadows into it and solidifying them into fresh matter, the organ restoring itself, following the natural patterns that lay within its design.
She finished and sat back. Rowe's chest rose and fell.
"Rowe?" Cally leaned forward. "Rowe!" He cocked back his hand, ready to deliver the man a firm slap.
Rowe's eyes snapped open. "Don't you dare."
"You took the blow for me? Why?"
Row
e sat up, wincing preemptively. He stretched out the fat round hole Vassimore's strike had blasted through his doublet.
He laughed, then looked up at Cally. "Because it was finally worth taking."
Cally and Volarra helped him to his feet. Cally handed Rowe his sword. Rowe gazed at the body of Vassimore, then assessed the ongoing battle between militia and riders, which had flowed some ways down the street. He gripped the handle of his sword, ready to rejoin the fray. Before he could take so much as one step forward, the riders hollered to each other and began a disorderly withdrawal, scattering down whatever side streets they could find.
The militia had no way to keep up. They didn't need to. Many of the riders had been killed in the skirmish. More yet had been forced to leave behind the riderless horses they'd brought with them to bear Lady Minabar and her nobles to safety. Whooping and cheering, the militiamen rounded up the loose horses. Others jogged back up the street. Those at the front caught sight of Cally, Rowe, and Volarra and stopped short.
Without a word, they lifted their arms in salute.
Rowe smiled grimly. "Work's not done yet."
"Back to Tannagar Square," Cally said. "It's time to bring Lady Minabar the bad news."
They proceeded in a loose march, catching their breath after the frenzy of battle. The soldiers chatted back and forth, spirits high. Cally sent his moth to ensure the way forward was clear. Seeing nothing, he ordered it onward to Tannagar Square, where Garillar's attack still hadn't broken through to get inside the building. In response, he'd realigned his forces into a siege position, with most taking cover on the south of the market where the riders had intended to converge. A smaller force was arrayed at the north end of the square to prevent the Lannovians from fleeing.
The fight was far less ferocious than when Cally had left it, with just a few arrows exchanged back and forth, and almost no sorcery at all. Either the two sides were waiting for news, or they'd depleted themselves. Likely both.
Garillar had taken up position behind a low wall along with his advisors and most of the surviving Masters. Cally hesitated, considering whether to deliver the news to Garillar in private or call it out loud. As he thought this through, Rowe strode forward, planted his feet wide, and cupped his hands to his mouth.
"To the rats trapped in the walls! Vassimore is dead. No cavalry is coming to save you. You have two options left. First, you can surrender. That's what I'd do. Because your second option is for me to burn down the entire market with you inside it."
He crossed his arms, awaiting an answer. Garillar glared at Rowe, unable to decide whether to be outraged at his presumption or heartened by the news. His conflict quickly resolved itself in favor of his authority.
He stomped toward Rowe, finger pointed in accusation. "Former Sergeant Rowe! You have no authority to speak terms for the Order of the Healing Shadows. Step back and be relieved of your weapon!"
"No," Rowe said.
Garillar's face darkened with an increasingly familiar shade of red. "Staff! Disarm this man!"
A pair of burly men dislodged themselves from the wall the Order's leadership had been covering behind. Rowe gave them a reproachful look and reached for his sword.
Cally pointed to the market building. "Look!"
The doors had opened. From them, Lannovian soldiers walked out, cast their weapons to the ground, and put up their hands.
"Come forth and surrender yourselves," Garillar said, turning away from Rowe for the moment, although Cally suspected he'd have much more to say and do about it once this unexpected turn of fortune was done with. "You will not be harmed!"
Warily, the disarmed soldiers made their way across the killing field. The Order's troops advanced on them, watching the dark windows for signs of betrayal, then taking the weary, sweat-drenched Lannovians back to be arrested.
There was a pause then, even the breeze going still, as if the city had seen too much that night and needed a moment to close its eyes and breathe. Then the first of the enemy monks emerged in their gray and crimson robes, followed by the more senior priests, eyes darting as if expecting to be slaughtered. The Order took them in, watching them just as closely as the Lannovians were watching them.
But there was no sign of Minabar.
"Lady Minabar!" Gallivar boomed. "You have failed. Your fight is over. Come down and turn yourself over to our mercy."
A face appeared in a central window of the third floor. Minabar leaned out, her dark hair pulled tight, her face even tighter. "You think that I've failed?"
"Yes," Gallivar said dryly. "That is why you are trapped by yourself in one of my buildings, while I have you surrounded with my army."
She laughed, full of scorn. "Your Order was founded in defeat!"
"My Order was founded on the ashes of a brutal and corrupt way of life that promotes sorcerers as avatars of conquest and death. It is clear the gods favor our new way, and that is why we have triumphed tonight. Our movement will spread, for it is a moral one. In time, your people will come to see its wisdom as well. They will join us without shedding so much as a single drop of blood. This will continue, inevitably, moving from kingdom to kingdom, until every nation of the world is marching alongside us as one."
"I almost pity you, Garillar, to be so old and still so naive. Have you won tonight? Yes, maybe so. But I expect it's the last victory you'll ever see. For the victory of your foolish movement isn't 'inevitable.' Quite the opposite: it was doomed from its very inception. That was the entire point of it. Enjoy what you have for the short time you have left."
Garillar scowled. "Enough of this. Come down and be arrested."
"So you can execute me? Oh yes, I'll be right down!"
"Obey, and you will not be executed. You will be imprisoned and treated as befits your station. Our law is not nearly as barbaric as your own."
She stared down at him, frowning. "How can I trust you?"
"You are the oathbreaker, not me; that is why you fear that I will do to you what you would do to me. When a Master of the Order says that he will not kill, it is known that he will never break his vow."
She lingered a moment, surveying the square, her people being taken peaceably. "Make your vow before the gods, and I will come down."
Garillar did so. Mirabar nodded and withdrew from the window.
As soon as she was out of sight, Cally darted to Garillar's side. "Master. You can't do this."
Garillar looked down in annoyance. "I will not be lectured by a disgraced apprentice."
"But think of everything she's done!"
"She will face justice for it, you fool. But that justice will be done in our own way."
"It isn't just a matter of justice, Master Garillar. It's a matter of what she knows. It has to be destroyed."
"I am forbidden from shedding blood with my sorcery," Garillar said through his teeth. "But not with my fists. Shut your mouth and keep it closed, or I will make your time in the Wizard's Solution feel like an afternoon at the lake."
Cally bowed his head and stepped back, grinding his teeth. Across from them, the door to the markets opened. Lady Minabar emerged alone. She took in the scene, shook the folds from her dress, and walked across the empty ground, chin held high.
Cally stood a little ways from Garillar. Seeing him, Minabar rolled her eyes and uttered something halfway between a sigh and a grunt. "You again? Won't I ever be free of you?"
"Don't worry," Cally said. "After this, you'll never have to see me again."
He lifted his hand as if in benediction, touching it gently to her forehead. And drove a spike of nether through her brain.
She collapsed.
Her people exploded with angry shock. The Order's soldiers and priests ran to assuage them and separate them, attempting to forestall a riot.
Garillar's mouth hung open. Veins pulsed across his bald head. "Callimandicus of Arrolore! You have profaned yourself and our people. You are cast out from the Order!"
"You can't cast me out," Cally said. "
I already quit."
He removed the leather cord from his neck bearing the symbol of the Order—a simple silver ring engraved with the twelve lords of the Celeset—and cast it on the ground with a thin clink. He turned to go.
"You will not leave," Garillar intoned. "You are cast out from the Order—and now you will be arrested by that same Order."
"Don't think so." Rowe seemed to float up beside Cally. His sword was bared, angled downward, casting writhing black and silver light across the ground. "Move. Now."
Cally turned and walked away. He felt certain that they wouldn't just let him leave—that a mass of guards would swarm him, or a team of priests would lock him in place—but perhaps they were too busy quelling the Lannovians.
Or perhaps what he had done, and was doing now, was simply too audacious for the members of the Order to do anything more than gawk at him.
As he neared a cross street, he glanced back. Somehow his eyes seemed to settle right on Volarra. She lifted her hand and waved.
Rowe walked alongside him. As soon as they were out of sight Rowe broke into a jog. "Good work."
"You approve?"
"Yeah. But if it's truly good work, you shouldn't care who approves." He glanced behind them. "Where are we headed?"
"To the Citadel," Cally said. "I thought we ought to revisit Merriwen before the Order gets itself together enough to take charge of its old home."
They hiked back toward the heart of the city. People were shouting news of their victory from the rooftops and citizens were flooding into the streets, laughing and hugging and singing old songs. Cally suddenly felt very light, as if he could cast off the weight of his shoes and start floating, soaring all the way to the reopened keep.
Yet even without the power of flight, they soon arrived before the towering walls of the Citadel. The gates remained open, but out of respect or fear of the place—or the simple fact no one had thought to check the gates in the first place—the courtyard was empty. Cally crossed it holding tightly to the resentful remains of his nether supply, which felt like enough to take care of one wight—maybe two.
The Sealed Citadel Page 27
