Earth's End (Air Awakens Series Book 3)

by Elise Kova

  Vhalla blindly raced into the day. Baston swerved and dodged around trees and low branches. The horse found a second wind and spurred its feet to a run again. Her Channel still felt weak, but Vhalla used that magic to put the wind at his hooves. She ignored the mental debate of whether she was depriving Aldrik of strength by using her magic. She was damned no matter what she did, so all Vhalla focused on was moving forward.

  Dusk came upon her, the day sinking into night, and Vhalla’s eyes began to droop closed. She hadn’t made it away from the fall unscathed, and every wound she’d endured, however superficial, was ripped open and bleeding. Eventually Baston’s and her exhaustion forced them to slow. Vhalla would rather walk or trot if it meant avoiding stopping again completely. The hours she had slept already weighed heavily on her mind.

  Blinking away exhaustion, Vhalla tried to find her headway. The canopy was particularly dense and she couldn’t catch one glimmer of light to see by. Tilting her head back, Vhalla looked up to try to find a break in the trees, to see by the light of the moon.

  And her heart stopped.

  High above, blocking the moon, were the silhouettes of houses and walkways built into the branches and the trees themselves. Vhalla had read about the sky cities of the North. But the books read more like fantasy than fact. Even standing below one, Vhalla couldn’t believe her eyes at the expanse of buildings built in, and around, the treetops.

  She slowed Baston to a walk, barely inching the horse forward. Vhalla dared blinking her eyes, shifting into her magic sight, and she choked on shock. High above her, in the darkened outlines of the buildings, was the unmistakable glow of people. Not just a few, but many across every tree and in almost every structure. She was surrounded from all sides in the dead of night.

  Slowly drawing on her chainmail hood, she pulled back on the reins. The horse barely inched forward, making almost no sound. Vhalla breathed shallowly and her heart raced frantically.

  By the time she was almost out from under the dwellings, her lungs burned from trying to take only shallow breaths despite her panic. Their escape went smoothly until Baston let out a whinny, caused by Vhalla’s nervous tugs on the reins, shaking his head in protest. The clatter from his bridle rang across her ears and seemed to echo for eternity. It echoed into every ear as the people above stirred, lighting fires.

  Vhalla snapped the reins and dug her heels into Baston’s sides, forcing him into an all-out run. From above, she heard the shouts of her waking enemy.

  Thick and melodic calls erupted in the night, a language completely foreign to Vhalla’s ears. She didn’t have to know the words to know they weren’t friendly, so Vhalla pushed harder, pressing herself to Baston. Vhalla took a breath as she heard arrows being knocked overhead.

  The sound of bowstrings being drawn in mass made gooseflesh dot her arms. Another shout, a single word and arrows cut through the air, determined to rain death around her. Even if Vhalla was certain her chainmail would shield her, the horse was completely unarmored; if Baston died, she was as good as dead. Vhalla twisted in her saddle, sweeping a hand through the air. The curtain of wind sent the arrows scattering harmlessly.

  They shouted in protest, angst-ridden that she continued on unscathed.

  The second assault came faster and hastened Vhalla’s mounting frustration. She had to be out of their range soon. More lights began to blaze above and behind her, casting the ground below in a faint glow. The light illuminated the edge of the city, and Vhalla was forced to stake her life on the hope that once she was out they wouldn’t catch her.

  The arrows soared through the air once more and Vhalla twisted, knocking them away in mass. She expected to hear a cry for a third assault, but instead what she heard was even more disheartening. Two words that someone said in a thick Southern Common.

  “Wind Demon!”

  She became their prey. The sound of thundering hooves came from the direction of where the city first began.

  Vhalla crossed under the edge of the city, plunging into the welcoming darkness. Had it been a day ago, Vhalla would not have given those riders a moment’s worry. Baston would outrun any normal horse, plus with her wind he was faster than thunder across the sky. But Baston had been ridden hard with only a brief rest.

  Vhalla shifted her vision and peered over her shoulder. In the distance she saw them, riding relentlessly after her.

  Sweating, panting, clutching the reins with white knuckles, Vhalla pushed all her energy into the wind at Baston’s and her back. More—they both had to give more. In her blind determination she almost missed the whiz of an arrow through the air.

  Vhalla thrust out her arm and stopped the arrow midflight. She closed her fist and threw her arm backwards. The arrow turned and sped back at its original owner. Vhalla watched it soar straight into the Northerner’s eye, the one she pointed a finger at. The man slumped, and then fell off his saddle. She swallowed hard, looking away as the others’ cries grew louder.

  Eyes, she would always go for the eyes. Whether someone was or wasn’t a Groundbreaker with stone-like skin was a risk she couldn’t take; she wouldn’t have many shots. Another archer held his bow, waiting for a different opportunity to take his chance.

  Baston was already breathing heavy, and Vhalla knew she had to get them off her tail. The four riders behind her rode on fresh mounts and had the advantage of their night’s worth of sleep. Vhalla turned and pointed a finger. Sweeping her hand upward, an arrow freed itself from the other archer’s quiver. With a twist of her wrist, and the keen focus of a killer, Vhalla sent it into the unsuspecting Northerner’s eye.

  One of the remaining two riders fell away as they swerved through the trees, his companion pushing forward. As the man swung wide, Vhalla realized they were trying to flank her. Vhalla grabbed for the dagger strapped to her wrist, sending it straight for his eye.

  In the process, the woman rider had caught up with Baston, raising a wickedly curved blade toward his haunches. Vhalla threw out her other arm, sending the rider toppling head over heels. It wasn’t chance that the assailant’s blade slit her wielder’s throat in the fall.

  Vhalla held out an expectant palm, her own dagger returning to it after a moment. Wiping the blood on her thigh, she quickly sheathed it against her wrist before grabbing the reins once more. Vhalla swallowed a cry for speed; shouting at the horse would not make it go faster. It would only further compromise her position.

  Vhalla pressed her lips together, forcing herself to keep her composure. It was not the first person she had killed. She had killed on the Night of Fire and Wind, she had killed the man who had murdered Larel, and she had killed with her bare hands at the Pass.

  What had sunk deep into her bones was the acceptance of what she must do. It was knowing she had become a killer. It was how easy it was for her to slay her foes without even thinking of each of them as a whole person that showed Vhalla she’d gone far down a path she’d never wanted. They were entities, enemies, barriers, but they weren’t human.

  Distracted by her inner conflict, Vhalla was caught completely off-guard by the first assault coming from the trees. A Groundbreaker swung down from the air, bringing his sword against the back of her head. Vhalla attempted to dodge at the last second, but it was too late. The blade slipped off her chainmail but it left her vision blurred and her ears ringing.

  She blinked, trying to sort her senses as she pushed Baston onward, putting the assailant behind them. Groundbreakers jumped from limb to limb in the trees above her—free and fearless. Vines came to life to meet their extended hands, allowing them to soar through the air. With a twist or a tug, their lifeline shrunk back, curling around branches to pull them upward.

  She wanted to feel amazed; perhaps she would have, if these people weren’t out to kill her. Another swung low, and Vhalla dropped off to the side of the saddle to dodge. Righting herself, Vhalla redrew her dagger in one quick motion as a third swung forward to attack. She sent the blade soaring through the vine the Groundbreaker
held.

  The man fell through the sky; Vhalla’s mind betrayed her, showing a different body plummeting through the air.

  With a growl, she turned her blade to the next Northerner she saw, relying on the same tactic. She would show them why one did not hang above the head of the Windwalker. The other body fell with a sickening thud, and Vhalla left them behind her. With a twitch of her wrist, her blade returned to her hand.

  Baston’s pace had slowed, and Vhalla snapped his reins again. This was the first time the beast did not heed her command, and she felt uneasiness settle across her.

  Five Northerners still jumped from tree to tree overhead as dawn began to fade into early morning. Vhalla wondered if they were biding their time for rider and mount to tire. If she were they, she’d do the same thing. Baston’s sides heaved with exhaustion.

  Their presence began to wear on Vhalla, and she watched them with bated breath, waiting for the next assault. Another hour passed and Baston slowed to a trot; she expected this to be the moment they attacked. But the Northerners held fast, following from welcoming branch to welcoming branch, each bent to meet their feet and hands.

  They were toying with her, like cats with a mouse.

  It was a game now, a game of who would tire first. Who would make the first mistake that would result in a kill?

  Vhalla slowly reached into the bag at her hip—no change above. She spared a moment to glance at the compass; relieved her direction had not changed.

  A silent command must have been given around noon and the shrub trees on the forest floor began to close in around her, slithering toward her as though they were alive. Vhalla snapped the reins again and the horse thankfully heeded her demand. She dug deep into her reserves when Baston began to run, putting the wind to his hooves.

  Perhaps she would outrun them yet.

  Her hope was dashed with a root, sharp as a spear, twisting up from the ground. The horse gave a terrible scream and shuddered, impaled upon the wooden pike. Vhalla cried out, seeing her hopes die with the mount’s steaming blood spattered upon the ground.

  This had been the moment her enemy had held out for, and she heard all of them drop at once. Vhalla turned, pulling her leg out of the stirrup. In the same motion, her hand was at her wrist, drawing the only weapon she possessed. Vhalla threw as she fell backwards off the side of Baston. The dagger swung in the wide arc of her hand. It sliced through the first vine and mostly through the second before being caught in the vine’s recoil, bending and breaking in two. But it had done its job, and both Northerners fell.

  Vhalla rolled, hearing a faint, weak, beating on the edge of her mind. It was the sound of the heartbeat of the man she was trying to save, protecting her in his own way despite her distance and his injuries.

  One Northerner swung back up, but two landed around her. Baston continued to stomp his last protests, trying to writhe free of the barb that was slowly killing him.

  “Wind Demon,” the man growled, his sword at her chin. The other Northerner was behind her. He allowed Vhalla to sit, which was his first mistake. He spat a few words at her in a language she didn’t understand, and Vhalla took the opportunity to twist her wrist and magically jerk the sword from his hand. Vhalla turned her head and watched it impale the eye of the Northerner behind her.

  A boot met her temple and Vhalla rolled, overcompensating for the man’s second sword plunging into the ground next to her. Vhalla grasped the weapon from the fallen Northerner’s face, then stood on shaky legs. The man took a careful step in a wide arc, and the forest seemed to hold its breath as she stared him down.

  The tension quivered, then broke.

  Vhalla lunged, letting the man disarm her. He grinned wildly in false triumph and Vhalla’s palm clamped over his mouth. His face exploded with Vhalla’s cry of anguish as she forced every last ounce of power she had in her down his throat and outward. Covered in blood, shaking, Vhalla turned her eyes skyward.

  “Run!” she screamed. “Run or suffer the fate of your friends.” The last warrior hovered in the trees above her. Vhalla didn’t know if they understood her words, but she knew what they had seen.

  “Run fast, for you will need to outrun the wind!”

  Vhalla clenched her fists and stood as tall as she was able. The blood of the man she had killed decorated her like war paint. It must have made a fearsome picture, for the last pursuer made a tactical retreat.

  She watched him go. She watched as the last of the trees bent and swayed in the enemy’s departure. Vhalla was not naive, not anymore. He would leave and return with more men and women. More she would not be able to handle.

  There was one thing that stalled her forward progression. Grabbing one of the fell Northerner’s blades, Vhalla hardened her heart completely and drew it across Baston’s throat. A horse had more blood than she expected, and it coated her hands. Vhalla considered the War-strider, the noble steed of Prince Aldrik. Baston deserved to die a quick death rather than lie writhing on the ground in agony. She was beginning to have a suspicion that she would not be so lucky.

  Vhalla checked her bag, running her bloody fingers through the papers. They were all accounted for. The compass in hand, Vhalla began her march upon wobbly legs. She stumbled and tripped over roots. After an hour, she collapsed for the first time. Dirt and blood mixed with hopelessness as the real possibility of death closed in upon her.

  The image of Aldrik, prone and wounded, flashed before her eyes. Vhalla cursed. Elecia had been right to let Vhalla see him. With a grimace of mad determination, Vhalla pushed herself to her feet once more.

  She relished the pain. Vhalla would buy his life from the Gods, her payment being her body if that must be the price. The cruel and unfair Gods, demanding and relentless; Vhalla would have thought that two lovers trapped in an eternal distance as the Mother and Father were would earn her more pity for her plight.

  The day had faded to late afternoon, and her whole body hurt so much that it gave way to numbness. Her feet tingled at first, but now dragged like stones along the ground. She was thirsty, she was tired, and she was hungry. Her hair clung to the dried blood on her face, and she lacked the strength to wipe it away. Sweat drenched her clothes under her armor, and her breathing was shallow and weak. The world was reduced to her left foot, and then her right foot. Vhalla pressed onward and onward to somewhere that she had never been. Somewhere that might not exist.

  Somehow, even in the midst of exhaustion, her ears picked up the murmur of motion from behind her. It was the whisper of the forest, indicating that people were after her again. The one who had fled had made it back to his tree city, and Vhalla’s enemy was already advancing with reinforcements.

  The sounds began to grow and the sun hung low in the sky. A walk turned into a run and Vhalla realized that this was it, the last of her energy. When her feet stopped they would not move again for some time. In truth, if she fell, she would likely not ever rise as they would be upon her.

  Judging from the rustle of trees and the consistent din of horses, the Northerners were gaining—and fast. Vhalla cried at the futility of her mission, agony coursing through her. All at once she broke through an artificial tree line into a blackened arc of earth.

  The sunset was painfully bright compared to the dim forest, and Vhalla blinked in confusion as she heard a horn ring out to her right. It was a familiar sound that sparked hope in her once more. She turned to see two riders making their way toward her.

  It only took a short assessment for Vhalla to be overwhelmed with relief; she collapsed to her knees as they came close enough for her to see that one’s armor was cast in black steel. She looked upon members of the Black Legion and the Imperial swordsmen.

  The swordsman dismounted and gracefully drew a thin rapier. Vhalla blinked in a daze. He had a strong jaw, angular features, and straight black hair that fell around his ears. He was so familiar that it was almost like looking at a ghost.

  “Who are you?” The man’s sword was at her chin and all famil
iarity to the crown prince vanished as Vhalla was absorbed by his cerulean eyes.

  “Head Major Jax,” she croaked. “I must ... get to Head Major Jax.”

  “Who are you?” the Firebearer demanded.

  “I must get to ... Head Major Jax.” Vhalla pushed against the ground, ignoring the sword at her neck. Surprisingly, the man let her rise. He was silent and Vhalla’s eyes fell to his sword hand. His gauntlet was plated in gold. “You ... You’re ...” She struggled to remember everything Daniel and Craig had said about the Golden Guard on the march.

  “Who are you?” Fire crackled around the fists of the Black Legion soldier, but Vhalla remained focused on the man before her.

  “Lord Erion.” She finally remembered the name of the other Golden Guard still at Soricium. The Western man’s eyes grew large with surprise. “Lord Erion Le’Dan of the Golden Guard. Take me to Head Major Jax. The Northerners are coming and we don’t have much time.”

  “They won’t cross the patrol line,” he said, neither confirming nor denying his identity. “They know this is our territory now.”

  He didn’t realize how sweet the words were to her, and Vhalla swallowed relieved laughter. She kept her face from crumbling into a mess of emotion. “I have a message I must deliver to Head Major Jax. Take me to him now.”

  “Who do you think you are? This is Lord Le—”

  Erion held up a hand, stopping the man’s defense of his nobility. “I’ll take you to the camp palace.”

  “You will?” Vhalla and the Black Legion soldier asked in unison.

  “You speak in Southern common with a Cyven accent, and I assume you are meant to deliver whatever is in that bag?” He pointed to the satchel Vhalla didn’t realize she held in a death grip. She was clearly not about to hand it over.

  “Are you sure this is a good idea?” The Firebearer asked as the Golden Guard mounted his steed.

  “A ragged girl? I’ll kill her if she tries anything,” Erion arrogantly proclaimed while reaching out a hand to allow Vhalla to mount.