"No," I growl, reaching out with my swordbreaker and hooking it around the base of his sword blade. I manage to pull the blade out, but the top is red with Sturgis' blood. The Nightingale staggers backward, clutching his stomach with a look of shock painting his face.
I quickly end the fight with the final guard, opening his throat with a swift flick of my dagger. As his body goes down, I rush to Sturgis' side.
"My own... damn fault," Sturgis mumbled, falling to his knees with one hand pressed to his bleeding wound. "Should have... kept my eyes on the fight."
"Easy, now," I say, easing him down to a sitting position. "Let's take a look at this." I gingerly pull away his hands and examine the wound, resisting a grimace when I realize that it doesn't look good. The blade went too deep, I think, noting the size of the hole. His organs have likely been punctured. He's done for.
With a surprisingly strong voice, Sturgis brings my attention away from his gut wound. "Don't fuss over me," he grunts, eyes blazing. "I'm not going to be much more use, but you have a job to do, Protector. See that it gets done."
I meet his gaze, then nod, standing up and taking a deep breath. "Go meet with the others, if you can. They may need your help holding the hallway."
He gives me a stout, "Aye," and then I turn, leaving him for a set of gilded doors on the far side of the room.
As I approach, I can hear fierce whispering on the other side, and I think I can recognize one of them as the harsh voice of the king. Setting my jaw, I push open one of the doors and step inside, weapons at the ready to deal out the justice we have come to administer.
I barely make it three steps, though, before something takes hold of my legs, squeezing my ankles like metal vices and preventing me from moving forward. Growling, I look up to see a woman with a glowing blue crystal in her hand pointing at me while wearing an imperious expression.
My eyes betray some surprise as I recognize this woman.
The High Magus, I think, struggling as shimmering blue bindings wrap themselves around my wrists as well. What is Sylvania Holdyn doing here?
"Elias Keen," says a deep voice, and I turn to see King Aethelgar stepping out from behind a stone pillar, a small, knowing smirk on his ruddy, black bearded face. "I should have known that if anyone could break into my palace, it would be you. Pity I did not kill you weeks ago when I had the chance."
I rip my gaze away from the red robed king and give the High Magus a confused, if not wounded look. "Why are you working with him, Magus? This man will see this kingdom destroyed by the R'Laar."
The corners of her eyes pinch together, but her lips purse together in a tight line. "The king and the Conclave may be at odds with each other at times, but we do not condone regicide as a reasonable solution to our problems."
"No," I reply, accusation heavy in my voice. "Instead, you would stand by while he kills and plots to consolidate his power. Your inaction has led to the death of thousands and will likely lead to the death of thousands more."
Again, I can see conflict in the woman's eyes, but she does not release me from her spell.
"Your words are meaningless, ranger," the king sneers. "Or perhaps I should call you Nightingale? It's hard to tell. Turncoats have a way of switching alliances whenever the need suits them."
"I serve only the realm, your majesty," I reply through gritted teeth, "which is more than can be said of you."
The king goes up to stand beside Sylvania, his hands clasped neatly behind his back. "The Nightingales are rebels and traitors. All deserve the headsman's axe, which is precisely where you will be soon. Once the High Magus and I have completed our business, I will see to your execution personally."
Anger boils into rage in my stomach, and I turn once more to the High Magus in a desperate attempt to sway her. "Zara Dennel would be ashamed of you, Magus, if she was still with us. She would never have stood by while you bent the knee to this tyrant."
This seems to strike a nerve, and her eyes briefly go wide with shock. "What do you mean?" She replies, taking a step toward me. "What has happened to Seeker Dennel?"
"The traitor is speaking lies, Magus," the king replies behind her, his face flushing a deep crimson. "Do not listen to him."
"My last communication with Seeker Dennel indicated she was with the Nightingales camped in the Heartlands," she says, insistent. "Speak, ranger, and tell me what has happened to her."
"Your Seeker is captured, likely rotting in some dungeon in this very city," I declare bluntly. "King Aethelgar took her and my former apprentice when he murdered the Nightingale Protector under the banner of peace."
The blood drains from the High Magus' face and she whirls to face the king. "Is this true?"
King Aethelgar flashes her a self-assured grin and makes a placating gesture with his hands. "Are you really going to listen to this man, this traitor? I have no idea what he is talking about."
"Every word of it is true," I shoot back, hardening my tone. "You slaughtered your potential allies and took Owyn and Zara as an act of petty vengeance. Do not deny it!"
The king's eyes blaze and he abruptly pulls out a dagger from the folds of his robes, bearing down on me as if to strike. "You dare speak to me in such a way? Filthy woodsman! I should kill you where you stand!"
"Do not touch him," the High Magus says coolly, stopping him dead in his tracks. Then, after a pause, she asks, "Is it true, your majesty? Did you imprison one of my most trusted mages without my consent?"
The king lets out a low, dangerous chuckle then turns to face the her. "You are weak, Sylvania. That is why the Conclave wanes in strength. You lack the resolve to do what is necessary while your authority is leeched away. Yes, I took your precious Seeker captive, but she is no longer in my possession. I had the pair of them exiled for committing treason against the crown!"
Sylvania gasps, raising a hand to her mouth.
Though the admission is egregious, I can't help but smile inwardly, oddly feeling a small sense of hope. Owyn is skilled enough to survive the wastes beyond the Arc... I'd wager he's still alive out there. Better to be free in a wasteland than half dead in some cell.
"You had her exiled, simply for being stuck on the wrong side of the siege?" The High Magus sounds horrified.
"Yes," the king replies, giving her an arrogant smirk. "And I'd do it again, too. There can be no room for traitors in this kingdom, even among the mages."
"You're a real bastard for a king," I say through gritted teeth.
Again, Aethelgar turns toward me with his dagger raised menacingly. "One more word out of you, and I'll make you wish for death. My torturers have become exceptional at squeezing every drop of pain out of Nightingale scum."
"You'll do no such thing." The High Magus draws herself up to her full height and raises her chin at the king.
Surprisingly, I can feel the magical bonds around my wrists and ankles loosen, the spell suddenly being released. I do not move, however, as the king's attention is now fixed on Sylvania and not on the fact that I am now free.
"Ranger Keen is privy to important information that the council of lords will no doubt want to hear. I will not allow you to bring him to harm without a fair trial." Her tone is icy cold as she regards the monarch impassively. "Consider this man now under the Conclave's protection."
The king smiles, a wicked grin brimming with hatred, and he opens his mouth as if to speak. Then, without warning, he lunges forward and rams his dagger straight into the High Magus' stomach, going deep and twisting violently.
She gasps and staggers backward, and I let out a bellow of rage. Striding forward, I shove the king aside as he pulls out the bloody blade, knocking him hard to the floor. He yells, shrieking for his guard, for anybody to help him, but it is too late. I leap on top of him and slide the edge of my belt knife across his throat, silencing his cries.
He gurgles, eyes going wide as he reaches up to stem the flow of blood, but within a matter of seconds he goes still, face frozen in an expression of complete
and utter shock.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Zara
Source energy courses through me, radiating my bones and electrifying my flesh. I focus all of my attention on gathering to storm within to the palm of my exposed hand, compressing it to the smallest pinprick imaginable, then take aim at the Arc in front of me. A spell of penetration, I think to myself, ignoring the profound weariness seeping into my mind. Perhaps a needle will work where a hammer has failed. Pulling back my fist as if to throw, I hurl the spell like a crossbow bolt at the wall of energy, watching it explode into a thousand tiny stars.
My vision clears, the Arc coming back into focus before me, but my heart sinks at what a see.
Another failure, I think bitterly, heaving a frustrated sigh. Light... I was hoping that would work.
I release my grip on my talisman and loop it around my neck, letting the source energy leave my weakening body. When it recedes, going back like the lapping waters of Loch Morloch, it leaves behind a pounding headache, putting me in an even worse mood.
"Harakat qiling," Liyaa says gently behind me, offering words of encouragement. "Bajarmaslik kerak."
I turn to look at her and offer a fatigued smile. "Men ta'slim bo'lmayman." Liyaa has become a rather promising young mage initiate, as have the handful of other youths who had begun training with me back in the cave. Ever since we have come to the edge of this wretched wasteland, they have hardly left my side, watching silently and learning from my endless barrage of mistakes.
Resisting the urge to sigh again, I make my way over to a blanket that has been stretched out and pick up a skin of water. The warm liquid isn't very refreshing, but the moisture still feels good in the heat of the afternoon sun.
As I pull the water skin away from my lips, I notice a commotion happening on the far side of camp, near the barrier Owyn and the others had built. In fact, everyone seems to be running about in a near panic.
I glance questioningly at my initiates, but they merely shrug, appearing just as confused as I am. Finally, I see Owyn break away from the group and begin sprinting toward our position.
“What’s going on?” I ask, raising my hand to shield my eyes from the afternoon sun.
“Gorgons!” Owyn shouts, stopping in front of me and breathing heavily. “Lots of them. They’re making their way to our position!”
“Light,” I whisper, feeling the blood drain from my cheeks. “I thought that we had more time.”
“I did as well,” Owyn replies, wiping sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand. “I’m not sure how they found us, but they did, and now we have to fend them off. How are you feeling? Can you fight?”
I nod, though in truth, I feel like passing out from fatigue.
Owyn eyes me, expression tight with worry, but he doesn’t object. He realizes just as I do that we are woefully ill-equipped for this sort of fighting. He and I are the only ones with any real experience, the others too new and skittish to pose any real threat to the demons.
“How are the barricades?” I ask, squinting to examine the front of the camp. “Are they sufficient to keep the demons from overwhelming us?”
“Sufficient enough,” Owyn grumbles. Together, we begin making our way to the front of the camp, my young initiates following nervously. “The trenches we have dug should prove to be obstacles to the gorgons, the banks of dirt too high for them to climb easily. That leaves only one real entrance for them to gain access to the camp.” He points with his quill dagger to a gap set into the barricades. “That is where I will array the spearmen.”
“Alright,” I say, setting my jaw. “Where do you want us?”
He pauses and quirks an eyebrow at me. “Us?”
“Me and the initiates.” I incline my head to indicate the group of youths following me.
“Do... do they know how to cast any spells?”
I give him a small smile, then lean forward and plant a kiss on his cheek. “You let me worry about that, alright ranger boy?”
He gives me a curious look, then shrugs. “Alright, then. Stay behind the walls and take out any demons that manage to get through. Throw fire on them if possible, and do keep yourself from getting killed.”
“You, too.”
He flashes me a crooked smile that does not reach his eyes, then rushes off to see to the defense of the walls, such as they are.
Alright, I think to myself, taking in a couple of deep breaths and clearing my mind of all excess thought. You can do this, Zara. You’ve done this before. We just need to drive off this raiding party, then get back to figuring out a way inside the Arc.
The plan seems simple enough, but even as I consider it, flaws immediately become apparent. Will I have the strength to carry on after exerting myself so? How soon before more demons come? There isn’t time to continue experimenting on the Arc... every one of us is going to die, and it is all my fault.
Blowing out a frustrated breath, I shove those doubts aside and turn to face the anxious mages in training.
“I am going to need your strength to help me fight the demons,” I explain in their language, looking to each of them in turn. “Alone, I am too weak to fight back. Together, we can become strong.”
They each nod their heads, expressions grim but determined as the others run about preparing the defenses. Not one of them offers a word of complaint.
Reaching out, I take Liyaa by the hand, gripping my talisman tightly in the other. “Quick,” I say, motioning for them to follow suit. “Join hands and open yourself up to the power. We will share our energy.”
They do so, joining their hands to form a chain of some half dozen youths. Every one of them appears to be frightened, their eyes darting about uncertainly, but even now, I can feel their strength as we join ourselves together to fight for our very lives.
“Follow me,” I say when everyone has formed up, taking a step toward the barricade. “And do not let go!”
As one, we march in a line, making our way to the patch of dirt immediately behind the walls. From here, we can see the entrance, as well as the group of men who have gathered to protect us. The majority of them are up on the banks of earth, clutching rocks nervously as if to throw them down on the coming enemies. The rest, mostly young people armed with crude-looking spears, cluster in ranks before the gap in the wall, staring out with looks of unrestrained fear.
Owyn races up to the group of guards, shouting one-word commands and pointing to places on the ground. His bow is slung on his shoulder and a cloth-made quiver of arrows is strapped to his back, his dirt-stained ranger cloak billowing behind him as he moves.
As he takes command, I can’t help but think that he looks every bit a ranger from legend, a hero from the stories I heard as a child.
You better not get yourself killed, Owyn Lund. I don’t think I can face the end without you.
An idea suddenly strikes me, and I quickly usher my trail of budding mages to the lines who are anxiously awaiting the demons’ arrival.
Approaching Owyn, I transfer my talisman to the fist holding Liyaa’s hand and use the other to lightly touch his arm. “Darian au glam'drytl,” I utter, casting the spell to form a radiant shield. Shimmering blue light coalesces around Owyn, clinging to his body like a second set of skin and giving him an extra level of protection.
I proceed to do this with every one of the gathered youths, drawing upon the strength of those I am connected to in order to properly channel the source energy. When I am finished, the lot of them have a radiant sheen to them, a bluish aura that seems to make them glow.
Out of the corner of my eye I can see the demons fast approaching, their black-armored forms racing up the hill with their curved blades drawn. Wishing the soldiers luck, I retreat with my retinue back behind the barricade, falling in on the flat expanse between the earthen wall and the mass of tents.
Before long, I can begin to hear the bestial roars of demons coming from beyond the barricade, their guttural voices carrying over the hilltop and mixing hau
ntingly with the ever-present howl of the wind. Those atop the walls of dirt begin to hurl their rocks, their movements hasty and uncertain with fear.
“Stand firm!” Owyn shouts in the common tongue, relying on the authoritative timbre of his voice rather than the language he is using. “Hold the line here!”
He stands amid one of the groups of spearmen, his bow in hand and an arrow nocked. With ranger dexterity he shoots and redraws, quickly emptying his quiver as the youths all cluster nervously around him. Then, with a growl, he shoulders his bow and pulls out his quill blade, holding it in front of him and bracing for contact.
From our position behind the barricade, we can see the first demons start to attack the spearmen, their mottled, deformed features snarling as they bear down on the defenders. They approach tentatively at first, then quickly grow bolder when they realize they are not dealing with trained soldiers. When they begin striking out, however, they quickly learn that their blades have little effect against the radiant shields the youths now wear.
Owyn strikes out and spins, using his weapon with expert skill and felling several of the monsters as they stare at their swords in confusion. The spearmen, emboldened by their radiant shields, begin thrusting out with their spears, drawing black blood as well.
Looking to the chain of youths behind me, I set my jaw and say urgently in their tongue, “Lend me your strength,” Then, I speak the words of power.
“Fos lasair!”
Magefyre materializes in my palm and I promptly hurl it over the wall. Screams follow shortly after, harsh screams in a language I do not recognize. Smiling grimly, I set to the task of conjuring more.
The connection I feel with the six youths is powerful, and it allows me to channel great amounts of magic despite the exhaustion I already feel. I’m going to have to be careful, I think as I lob another ball of magefyre over the barricade. If I don’t watch myself, I could risk burning myself or one of these youths out.
Exiled Page 19
