Legend (The Arinthian Line Book 5)

by Sever Bronny

  Brandon, on the other end of the rickety rope bridge, flung two consecutive First Offensive vine strikes at him, both of which Augum fluidly blocked with an instantly summoned Shield spell. The shield, heavily fortified by the scion, curled above and around him like a giant half eggshell made from frozen black lightning.

  They went on to cast multiple cycles, pushing every single spell in their arsenal other than Cron, which would come in the afternoon. The other students were seen practicing in the forest around them or in the round tree homes that creaked mightily as the trunks swayed. Even Jez was rumored to cycle with Mrs. Hawthorne somewhere, for the pair were very high degree. Augum would have loved to see that, but there was simply no time for gawking.

  Lunch was spent in the supper room eyeing the shaking stained glass windowpanes. The wind, stirred by distant firestorms, had worsened significantly, now a banshee shriek. They’d be stuck in the castle for the day, a castle smelling as strongly of smoke as the wind-raked outdoors, a castle whistling along with that wind. Voices remained at a murmur. Coughs were constant. Hands clenched and unclenched.

  The portioning was especially generous, though still tinged by the famine—rock hard bread, steaming buttered potatoes, leek and potato soup, the last of the pork (Jez had managed to snatch a small, sickly pig from the Legion). Priya Singh stoically continued to run the kitchen, but they were almost out of food.

  “But no one touches Preenie,” Leera said, stabbing her fork into the air. “Got me?”

  “Of course, Princess,” Charles Poorman said with a light bow. His sniffles had subsided and he looked more at ease since Bowlander’s arrest.

  Then came the hourlies, starting with castle muster drills, during which every warlock and Ordinary scampered to their defensive position, in case of emergency attack. Otherwise, all Ordinaries would be evacuated to the safety of the bathing rooms. The flat entrance doors had completely grown over—and anything hidden naturally would thus be very difficult to find even by arcane means, for there was no intent to hide it. A simple but clever solution.

  The trio strode through the castle and training cavern with Jez and Hawthorne, making final adjustments. The five moveable ballistae were in their ideal strategic positions along a gauntlet path, a path that had been gone over time and time again, optimized for maximum effectiveness. Each was manned by a student—Garryk, Sasha, Isaac, Elizabeth, and Olaf, with Alyssa taking point in the sole fixed ballista above the cellar well (though at the moment, Olaf and Alyssa guarded Bowlander, something they’d have to resolve later). And each ballistae, once fortified by Augum’s tuning, would become invisible, which was the crux of the plan—theoretically, the Lord of the Legion couldn’t fight what he couldn’t see. The question that haunted them was, would a man wielding six scions be able to see through that special tuned invisibility?

  Meanwhile, the four battlement ballistae were manned by Haylee, Brandon, Laudine, and Mary, their backs watched by Chaska and Caireen, who manned the center of the floor, ready to quickly respond should anyone need help. The latter pair also served as messengers, passing on commands up and down the castle. Mrs. Hawthorne’s place would be on the terrace, a position from which she could attack without being struck, for the great protective castle dome should prevent penetrations. Until the Lord of the Legion was lured inside the castle through a special entrance devised solely for him, Jez and the trio were to stay in the vestibule, reinforcing the front doors, judged to be the primary focal point of attack by the main Legion force. All they needed to do was prevent those doors from being penetrated. It was a point of contention, as the trio and even Jez wanted to be on the terrace, but Mrs. Hawthorne convinced them that strategically they needed to be in the center of the castle, not at its top.

  Augum was quietly proud of how quickly everyone mustered to their stations, running at full sprint, the resolve in their eyes, their eagerness to go into a battle they might not live through. Few words were exchanged, other than some notes.

  “Don’t forget to watch your back should the floor guard fall, Tennyson,” Hawthorne said to Haylee at one of the arcane battlement posts infused with the element of ice, correlating to the entrenched warlock’s element. The round room was cold, the walls bleeding with icy mist and frosted over with a thin layer of snow. In the center, Haylee manned a massive castle-summoned ballista made entirely from ice. It was a giant crossbow, wound back using an arcane mechanism. Ancient arcanery from the time of Fentwick.

  She swiveled to face one of the two floor guardians, Chaska. “My guard is strong.”

  “Won’t let you down,” Chaska said. He was dressed in his traditional Henawa war shirt. A bow was slung over his shoulder, a sword in his hand. His milk hair, ever growing longer, was tied behind him in a ponytail that mirrored Haylee’s. The two of them had come to some kind of understanding, though nobody knew if they had broken up or not. It was curious, but something nobody questioned or spoke about. It was their business, and nobody else’s.

  Augum patted Chaska’s beefy arm and gave him a supportive nod. He need not say anything, finding that silence and a look said more than words—especially of late. Like so many other things, it made him feel older than his fifteen years.

  The next hourly was melded with the one following, which was a castle-wide gathering in the main foyer going over defense strategies in case of sudden attack.

  “… and once Augum is tuned to the castle,” Mrs. Hawthorne went on, “Augum will be able to communicate with every strategic position and every room in the castle and bailey, so you will not be alone.”

  Augum nodded in acknowledgment. It was up to him to make sure everyone worked in harmony, a responsibility so grave that, upon dawning on him what it meant, made him double over and vomit in private.

  Yet the tuning gave him hope. There was only one part of it he still did not fully understand for it had not been clear in the compendium: Spirit Form. Somehow, it was supposed to fuse him to the castle and allow him to float about, though what that meant in practice was anyone’s guess, for no one had been able to decipher the cryptic text in the compendium. “Spirit Form” seemed to be one of those things Augum had to simply try to fully comprehend.

  The next speaker, Constable Clouds, wheezed as he lumbered up the steps. He wavered at the top, leaning shakily on his cane. “You have all … performed your duties … admirably.” His eyes fell upon his constantly worried and lately very quiet son, Devon, who stood amongst the crowd. “I … I am so … so proud of you all.” Then, abruptly, the large man collapsed where he stood, cane clanking down the steps.

  Devon let out a horrid yelp and ran to him, crying, “Father, FATHER—!”

  Constable Clouds was quickly attended to by the castle healers Jengo and Kiwi, the pair speaking softly to each other. Post arcane examination, Augum saw a certain knowing look pass between them, a dark, final look. Jengo and Kiwi had often been sequestered with him and his son in a room, emerging with tense faces. No one spoke of it, but all sensed the man was mortally unwell. Rumor had it that it was some kind of sickness fundamental to the body.

  But that did not matter now.

  “Father?” Devon’s lower lip trembled as he sat over his old man. He glanced to Jengo. “Bring him back. Bring him back—!”

  Jengo and Kiwi stood. Those who were sitting on the steps, who had collapsed with worry, stood along with them, heads bowed out of respect. Augum felt their despair as well. It was heavy and cold and rested like a boulder in his chest. Not even Cron could bring the man back.

  Devon rocked back and forth, hands opening and closing, silent tears rolling down his cheeks. As distant castle windows rattled menacingly, it was Bridget that sank to her knees before him and drew him into a soft embrace, whispering soothing words into his ear. As the boy’s shoulders shook, Augum closed his eyes and wished the constable well on his final journey. He could almost hear the wind, whistling through the cracks and doors of the ancient castle, take his soul away.

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  It was with solemn faces that the trio strode to the Trainers. Their final Annocronomus Tempusari training was to be held alone. But there was no joy in it whatsoever, only throbbing heartache. Poor Constable Clouds. Poor orphaned Devon. Yet Augum had a hard time holding back the idea that it might only be the start of it. Worse still was the thought that perhaps the man had been saved from a hideous undeath. It felt like an omen, a portent that stank like the acrid smoke of the approaching fires.

  “Go … your training cannot be skipped,” Devon had whispered, hands firmly gripping his father’s cane. He must have sensed that Augum and the girls wanted to stay, to comfort, to say something more. “Go on … make him proud.”

  And so the trio left poor Devon in the hands of others. And there was little they could say. As always, words were just … words.

  The body had been covered with a black cloth and removed, to be presided over in a proper ceremony tomorrow.

  If there even was a tomorrow. Augum’s inky thoughts swirled. His flesh felt cold and clammy despite the sweat on his brow. Fire. Fire was everywhere. He could sense its burning hooves galloping through the poor Ravenwood, fanned by the winds. The first wave was the scent. Next came the darkness and heat. Then the fires of hell. How much time was left? Would the castle be reduced to embers by the morning, making that powerful arcane illusion Commander Jordan had seen a grim reality?

  After taking a meandering path through the forest, they at last found an old oak with an embedded sword in its trunk. The sword was rusted and had been partially swallowed by the tree, its ancient trunk enveloping it with bark. Below was a carved oval and six scratch marks, indicating a 6th degree Trainer.

  Augum flexed every muscle in his body, the standard procedure before casting Elemental Armor, and incanted, “Armari elementus totalus.” The girls followed suit, each summoning their elemental version of armor—shimmering arcane water for Leera, glittering soil for Bridget.

  “Shyneo.” Bridget’s five glowing earth rings flared as she placed her shining ivy palm upon the oval and said, “Liberai,” the ancient runeword that activated all Castle Arinthian portals. A windy portal exploded to life. She glanced to Leera, who stepped through first, then at Augum, who mutely followed.

  They stepped out on the other side of the portal into the Arinthian blade room, as they were calling it, for it very much resembled the 5th degree Academy of the Arcane Arts Trainer. There were weapons everywhere, except here they floated in midair, weightless. All kinds of swords, daggers, axes, spears—almost every weapon imaginable—gently tumbled along or floated in place. Each could be smacked and sent flying, or shot with a telekinetic push. They were sharp and would have sliced them to bits were it not for their elemental armor, which was the point of the room—to incentivize all trainees in strengthening that armor, holding it up as long as possible. People themselves did not float, remaining rooted to the blade-embedded floor.

  There were also a few platforms and training walls to hide behind. Other than that, it was a vast room of cuts, for once one emerged, that is exactly what one sported—stinging deep cuts, for the Elemental Armor spell would inevitably fail the longer one stayed in the room.

  They strode to the center. Augum and Bridget let the blades bounce harmlessly off, while Leera ducked them, something she liked to do to remain agile. But before they could begin the critical final Cron training, a great horn blast pierced the very core of the castle.

  The room shook with its dissonance. It was so loud the floating blades seemed to move in response, bouncing off each other with hundreds of clangs. When it finally stopped, Bridget placed her gaze on Augum, voicing aloud what he had been thinking.

  “Perimeter breach.”

  Leera spat such a vicious curse that Bridget gave her a furious look.

  “We need to go,” Augum said. Hopefully, it was nothing more than a few undead wandering through again.

  They summoned the portal and quickly evacuated the room, running through the cavern forest, passing multiple arcane ballistae stations. “What’s going on?” Isaac Fleiszmann, manning one of the moveable ballistae, asked.

  “Don’t know yet,” Leera replied.

  They scampered all the way up to the watchtower at the top of the castle, the standard lookout post where they could evaluate what was happening outside.

  “A small detachment,” Augum said, counting the soldiers in the woods. He was careful to stay hidden, merely peeking over the sill. Any visible movement on the part of the Resistance would break through the illusion. “Looks like there’s a necromancer among them. Maybe a revenant, hard to say. Must be passing through.”

  “I don’t like it,” Leera said.

  Augum gave the situation some serious thought. He glanced from horizon to horizon and saw that all was deep mustard and turning pink. Next would come smoky crimson. He nodded at the Legion soldiers. “This might just work.”

  “Huh?”

  “I have an idea, but I’ll explain later,” he said, aware of all the other people up there with them. “Let’s just keep training for now.”

  Bogdan pointed two fingers at his own eyes. “I keep look on scoundrels all times.”

  Augum nodded before he and the girls left for the Trainers. But as they made their way downstairs, Augum received a sudden vision of a Dreadnought-armored soldier standing on the terrace outside his room.

  “Aug?” Bridget said. “You all right?”

  His foot, which was dangling above the next step, returned to the one above. “It’s begun.”

  “What has?”

  “The tuning.” He was starting to glimpse portions of the castle. The compendium and Mrs. Stone’s detailed letter on the scion gave him a good idea of what to expect. Feeling it now, this early, was good news—it meant the tuning might even happen tonight. And the sooner the better, for Augum’s intuition told him they were quickly running out of time. If Sparkstone did not find them, the fires would. Yet all they needed was some luck and he’d make sure they had the initiative, for none of them realized how powerful the scion tuning to the castle was. None of them had studied the scion, the compendium, or those letters like he had. Spirit Form was the final piece of the puzzle he had yet to fully fathom.

  Leera exchanged a look of concern with Bridget. “What’s happening?” she asked.

  “Let’s go see Leland,” Augum said, turning around, curious what Leland was up to. “He’s on the terrace.”

  “How does he know that?” Leera asked Bridget, before prodding Augum. “How do you know that?”

  “Told you, the tuning.”

  “ ‘The tuning’,” Leera mocked quietly to Bridget.

  Sure enough, they found Leland on the terrace. He was standing with a hand resting idly on his shoulder. Beside him stood the captain of Occulus’ ancient guard, a large guardsman wearing matte black Dreadnought plate. His comically oversized sword rested on his shoulder, sleek helm watching the horizon.

  “Playing soldier, are we?” Augum asked, noting Leland’s captain stood far enough away from the terrace wall to remain hidden from the Legion party below. Although Leland could teleport his soldier onto the terrace, no enemy could, for they were barred by the powerful enchantments Mrs. Stone and Lien Ning had cast.

  Leland swung around animatedly, the captain mirroring the exact same movement. The latter sauntered forth, though interestingly, Leland’s legs only wobbled in a mimic of walking.

  “I’m ready,” the captain of Occulus’ guard said in that guttural voice, which was of course Leland talking through the undead man. “I wanna fight already.”

  “Patience, Leland,” Bridget said. “And you shouldn’t be outside. The Legion could hear you.”

  “It’s too windy. Besides, I can see while I use him. I can feel the air and stuff. I can also kind of smell things now.” Leland sniffed the air, the captain aping the movement exactly. “Gettin’ good at this. I wanna keep him. No, I’m gonna keep him.” Leland and the captain made a synchronized di
smissive gesture. “The others can rot.”

  “Please don’t say things like that about your elders,” Bridget chastised.

  Leland and the captain’s heads dropped. “Sorry.”

  Augum certainly couldn’t blame the boy for wanting to see, but … “Hey, aren’t you supposed to be training with someone right now?”

  Leland and the captain shrugged. “Everyone’s kind of distracted—”

  Suddenly the doors of the terrace burst open and out strode Mr. Goss. “Oh thank the Unnameables that you are well, my boy, I thought since—” He froze. “Is that one of Occulus’—”

  “—it is, Father,” the captain said in that deeply guttural voice. The sword swung off the shoulders, mimicked by little Leland. The captain stabbed the tip into the ground before him and placed his hands on the pommel. Leland’s hands, meanwhile, rested in mid-air, but comfortably so, it seemed.

  “Y-you … you can talk through it?” Mr. Goss asked, taking a hesitant step forward.

  The trio exchanged a look. It seemed Leland had taken pains in hiding this ability from his father.

  “I can, Father. And I have a lot to tell you …”

  But what the pair talked about, the trio did not discover, for they politely and quietly excused themselves, giving son and father precious privacy.

  A Small Quest

  “So you were mentioning something about a plan regarding the Legion soldiers outside,” Bridget said as the trio descended.

  Augum thought this as good a time as any to pass along his idea. He stopped the descent and faced them. “After the tuning, we let Bowlander ‘accidentally’ escape.”