by Jordan Rivet
Siv pushed thoughts of his sister’s self-arranged marriage out of his head and wiped his hands on the animal-skin coat he wore. He and Berg would never pass for dark-skinned Soolen citizens, so they dressed as Cindral traders and carried bundles of fine paper on their saddles.
“Remember I am doing all the talking,” Berg muttered.
“I won’t say a word,” Siv assured him.
There was no one to talk to when they rode into Brach Town anyway. Signs warned the townspeople to stay indoors, and an air of anticipation permeated the streets. Sweat trickled down Siv’s forehead as they trotted up the main street. Anyone could be watching them from those shadowy windows.
They didn’t see a soul until they reached the bridge itself, which was guarded by eight Pendarkan soldiers. They looked like an excitable bunch, especially when they saw actual humans approaching through the silent town.
Berg rode straight up to the soldiers to ask permission to cross the bridge. He thickened his accent and made it sound as if they’d been out of contact with civilization for the past few weeks.
The leader of the guard told him to go away in no uncertain terms. “Can’t you see this is a war zone?”
“We have heard no news in the forest,” Berg said. “You are saying this bridge is closed?”
“That’s right,” the guard said, making a show of adjusting the saber at his hip. “Take your trade somewhere else.”
Berg nodded, watching the soldiers warily. Only one among them, the man right next to the leader, did not have his hand on a weapon. Berg began to turn his horse.
“We are thinking you may want our goods,” Siv blurted out. This was their only chance to get to Khrillin in time to prevent the battle. They couldn’t take no for an answer. “We are carrying the finest papers in this land. Perhaps your leader is wanting to see them.”
Berg glared at him. Maybe he’d laid the accent on a little thick.
“Our lord is too busy fighting a sun-blasted war to look at your goods,” the lead guard said. “Be on your way.”
“But—”
“Now.” The guard drew his sword. The man beside him shifted his weight, and a thin rim of silver appeared at his fingertips.
Found the Waterworker. Siv raised his hands slowly. “We are meaning no harm,” he babbled. “For you, I have the finest paper in all of Cindral Forest. I give it to you as a gift.” He reached for the bundle on his saddle, tearing it open to reveal the contents. He hoped a glimpse would be enough to convince the guards that this was quality merchandise.
“Sir,” one of the other guards whispered. “Cindral paper is real val—”
“We don’t take bribes,” the man snapped, but his eyes roved over the bundles of paper, calculating their worth.
While all the attention was on the goods, Siv pulled a knife from his sleeve and hurled it directly at the Waterworker’s heart.
The man stiffened, his eyes opening wide in shock. A bit of silver glowed in them for an instant, then he toppled to the ground.
The guards realized what was happening and erupted into action, but Siv and Berg were faster. They drew their swords and plowed onto the bridge, slashing and slicing their way through the defenders. The broad structure vibrated under their boots as they advanced, shuddering whenever another man fell. The guards screamed as Berg and Siv cut them down, some rolling away across the sloping bridge, others falling into the churning depths of the Granite River below.
Siv had plenty of fighting experience by now, but he almost forgot what he was doing when he saw Berg in action. The old coach was nothing short of magnificent. His blade blurred as he cut a path through the guards, dispatching them with neat thrusts while holding off the others with carefully timed parries. His masterful precision and speed made him one of the most formidable fighters Siv had ever seen—and he had spent months in the Steel Pentagon. Berg had always claimed to have slowed down in his old age, but Siv pitied anyone who’d faced him in his youth. It was all Siv could do to keep up with the old duelist as they fought their way across the river.
They made it over the bridge and ran headlong toward the fort. Shouts rose behind them, but not a single guard was in good enough condition to give chase.
Furtive faces appeared at the windows as they charged through town. The streets were deserted on this side of the river too, but activity bustled atop the fortress walls ahead. Several hundred yards from the gates, Siv spotted the landmark Latch had mentioned, a stone plinth topped with the bust of an ancient Soolen military hero.
“This way!” They turned off the main street and hurried down an alleyway to an unassuming house with a door painted an unusual shade of blue. It was quite similar to Amintelle blue, Siv noted as he ducked into the humble house. It was completely empty of furniture, serving only to obscure the secret entrance.
Siv darted to the cellar door by the back wall and broke the lock with his sword hilt. The door opened with a rusty squeal, revealing the gaping mouth of the tunnel. Siv was about to dive into the dark passageway when he realized Berg was limping.
“What happened?”
“I am missing one counterattack.” Berg shuffled toward Siv, leaving a thin trail of blood on the floor. He squeezed a gash on his leg as more blood spilled over his blunt fingers.
“You should stay here,” Siv said. “I’ll go on alone.”
“I am only bleeding,” Berg said. “I am not dead.” He shouldered Siv out of the way and climbed into the tunnel.
Siv followed, pulling the cellar door closed over his head. They’d have to hope no one had seen them enter the house. Berg’s blood would point them right to the tunnel if they opened the door.
Siv took the lead once they were in the passageway, wishing he could help Berg walk without mortally offending him. The older man had just pulled off the most spectacular sword-fighting Siv had ever seen, but it had taken a toll. This plan had better be worth it.
The tunnel was dry and free of dust. The Brachs clearly took meticulous care of it, a habit no doubt born of so many generations guarding a sensitive border. The members of the noble house had always been as pedantic about their responsibilities as they were about their secrets. Commander Brach had thrown away a long and proud tradition for his ambitions, but there might still be time to salvage some it.
Siv and Berg reached the door at the end of the tunnel and waited in silence for a few minutes, listening for any hint of movement on the other side. Latch had assured him no one else knew about the secret entrance. The absence of any guards in the house with the blue door seemed to confirm that, but Siv couldn’t be too careful.
“Are you sure you want to come up?” he whispered to Berg.
“I am already telling you yes,” Berg said, but his face was pale, and his trousers were black with blood.
“I can talk to Khrillin alone,” Siv said. “He’s my father’s old friend.”
“That is not a reason to trust him,” Berg said. “I know the kind of man he is.”
“Still,” Siv said, “you shouldn’t risk yourself on my account.”
“Is not for you,” Berg grunted. Then he paused and thumped a blood-covered hand on Siv’s shoulder. “But you are a good man too. You are like your father in this way.”
“I . . . thank you.” Siv cleared his throat, touched by the old sword master’s words. He turned to the tunnel exit. “Let’s do this, then.”
He eased open the heavy wooden door, and he and Berg entered the bowels of Fort Brach together.
Kres March was waiting for them.
24.
Flight
DARA kicked through the Watermight pool, wishing she were a better swimmer. The silvery substance swirled around her, lighter than water and more difficult to navigate. Her pursuers charged into the cavern, shouting curses and reaching for streams of the power.
Dara shot darts of Fire to keep them away from the pool. The first man fell, but the next raised a Watermight shield to block the fiery missiles. When the Fire str
uck the shield, the resulting concussion sent ripples back across the pool toward Dara. The Worker pulled a jet of Watermight from the source, spinning it deftly into a cord. He was going to snatch her right out of the pool!
Not when I’m this close.
Dara plunged out of the way as the Worker unleashed the attack with a crack like a whip. Tossing aside her misgivings, she gathered in her remaining Fire, sank deeper into the silvery pool, and opened her mouth. Watermight flooded over her tongue and down her throat. It filled her body and sent ice spiking along her bones. It made her feel strong, as if her muscles were feeding on the power.
Another cord of Watermight lashed across the pool. Dara dodged it, struggling to keep the two substances separate within her while flailing around to avoid the attacks. Her time with Wyla had paid off. It was becoming easier to tame the torrents of burning and freezing power within her. She summoned the necessary feelings of passion, anger, fear, and determination. Time to see if she was right about how to control them.
Her skin tingled as the unknown Worker prepared his next attack, forming daggers of ice in each hand. Before the Watermight could sharpen in his grip, Dara pulled the two powers together and hurled a blast of energy directly at the roof of the cavern, spinning it at the same time.
The force pushed her beneath the surface of the pool as the magic burst out of her. But instead of blasting in all directions, the power surged upward in a glittering spiral. With a deafening crack, the roof of the cavern exploded outward. A tremor surged across the Watermight pool, and the whole earth seemed to quake. Dara glimpsed the look of surprise on her attackers’ faces. Then the passageway and half the cavern collapsed in a roar of dust. Dara’s power protected her from the falling debris, but it didn’t help the soldiers, who were instantly buried beneath piles of rock and dirt.
Dara found herself floating alone in the center of a massive crater, ears ringing, as morning light flooded in from the brand-new hole in the earth.
As her hearing returned, shouts sounded above her. Screams of pain and confusion. More rocks tumbled into the gaping hole that had once been the secret Brach power source as the earth continued to shudder.
Dara hoped no villagers had been nearby when the hillside exploded. With luck, Khrillin’s soldiers had taken the brunt of the damage—any that Surri hadn’t already dealt with before the blast—but she didn’t have much time before any survivors recovered enough to renew their attack.
Dara kicked toward the edge of the pool. She paused to drink up more Watermight, ignoring the dirt sifting through it from the cave-in. She had used up every drop of power in her body during the blast. Without the Fire, she wouldn’t be as strong, but she’d still received Watermight combat training back in Pendark. She shouted for the Cindral dragon as the power filled her bones once more. She didn’t have to wait long. A shadow covered the pool, and Surri swooped into the crater like a huge black crow.
“Drink as much as you can,” Dara said. “Quickly!”
Surri didn’t need to be told twice. She took one look at Dara swallowing as much power as she could hold and bent her snout to the surface to do the same.
More voices shouted above her. Dara used her Watermight-enhanced strength to pull herself out of the pool and clambered across the rocks to the dragon’s side. Surri was still steadily gulping down Watermight. Footsteps drew near. They couldn’t waste their Watermight fighting through the guards here. They needed it for Dara’s father.
“Come on, come on.” Dara urged Surri on with a hand on her muscular flank. “Just a little more.”
Faces appeared above the lip of the crater. Flashes of steel, swords and arrows pointing their way. Dara spun Watermight out of her skin, wincing at the pain, and blasted the edge of the crater. The attackers retreated from view, shouting for reinforcements.
Surri was still drinking, filling her body with power. This was taking too long. Dara dipped back into the pool to swallow more Watermight. She defended their position desperately, shooting high-pressure jets whenever a face or a weapon appeared above.
Suddenly, a blast of power knocked her off balance, and she fell, scraping her knees on the jagged rocks. She barely managed to hurl a counterattack—bulbs of Watermight designed to attach to her enemies’ faces—at the rim of the crater. This took all her power, and she had to dip her face in the pool yet again. As she leaned toward the water, movement glinted in the pool’s reflection. A soldier with a bow had managed to creep to the lip of the crater while she was distracted with the Watermight attack. Dara spun, knowing she was too late, as he loosed his arrow with perfect aim.
But as the shaft streaked toward her heart, it ignited, burning away to nothing in an instant. A screech erupted above them, and another blast of Fire followed the first, engulfing the archer’s head. He toppled out of sight, screaming.
“Rumy!”
The little cur-dragon shrieked triumphantly and sent another jet of Fire at the soldiers attempting to advance on the crater.
With Rumy covering her, Dara scooped up one last mouthful of Watermight then scrambled toward the dragon.
“That’ll have to do, Surri,” she said. “Time to go.”
Surri snapped her silver-edged jaws and lowered herself by a large rock so Dara could climb onto her back. The moment she was seated, the Cindral dragon gathered her haunches beneath her and launched into the air. They soared out of the crater past the gaping Pendarkan soldiers. Rumy flew alongside them, covering their retreat with bursts of Fire. The soldiers below shouted curses as the two dragons ascended out of their range, paying them no more attention than they would an army of mice.
Surri moved slower than before, her wings straining with each beat as she struggled to gain altitude. Dara could sense the weight of the power the dragon carried in her belly, the only chance Dara had of defeating her father with magic. She hoped it would be enough.
Dara and the dragons rose into the bright-blue sky, leaving the exposed pool of Watermight and the village of Mirror Wells behind. They glided over Cindral forest, high above the vast green canopy speckled with those strange summer flowers. Far away, the Soolen army marched on Fort Brach, steel glittering in the sunlight. Hopefully, they’d heard enough of the commotion here to make a difference. Siv might even now be making his last desperate suit for peace. Dara hated leaving him behind, but if they were ever going to get married and return to the mountain, she had a job to do first.
The wind blasted her, drying her clothes and competing with the Watermight chill deep in her bones. She tightened her grip on Surri’s neck and looked to the northwest. Somewhere ahead, her father was marching with his army and his Fire Weapons, preparing for his next deadly conquest. It was high time someone stopped him.
25.
Fort Brach
A smile spread across Kres March’s face as he drew a rapier from his belt.
“Right on schedule.”
“Hello there, Kres,” Siv said. He glanced at Berg, who was still bleeding from the leg. They wouldn’t make it through another fight—not against Kres the Master. They were trapped at the end of a basement corridor, with nowhere to go except past the pen fighter’s blade.
Siv racked his brain for the right thing to say. “Before you kill us, I need to speak to King Khrillin.”
Kres chuckled, but he didn’t step aside. “I’m sure you do.”
“This is a diplomatic mission,” Siv said. “I have no interest in hurting anyone.”
“Indeed? Is that why you fought those soldiers on the bridge?”
Siv winced. News traveled fast. “That was unfortunate,” he said. “But it’ll be worse for everyone when that army gets here.”
“We shall hold the fort against the Crown Prince’s force, make no mistake,” Kres said.
“Maybe,” Siv said. “But both sides will suffer losses, ones you can’t afford right now.”
“I have no doubt your losses will be far dearer than ours, Siv lad,” Kres said. “You have already been given a
chance to serve the great King Khrillin, and you treated it with contempt.”
Something dark and dangerous flickered in Kres’s eyes, and Siv feared he had underestimated the pen fighter. He had thought Kres was motivated by money and prestige alone, but this went deeper. Kres spoke about Khrillin with the kind of soul-deep devotion Siv had only seen a few times: Captain Lian felt it for the old Pendarkan king, Berg for his father, and Dara for him. He should have seen it sooner.
Kres smiled. “King Khrillin will never stand aside for lesser men again, and I have been essential in his rise. I have been waiting for this opportunity for a long time.”
“Your ambitions aside,” Siv said, “I have information for Khrillin, information he’ll want to hear before he—”
Quicker than Siv could follow, a knife appeared in Kres’s hand. With a casual flick of the fingers, it sailed straight at him. Siv gaped at the knife as time slowed to a crawl.
Then the knife thudded home—in Berg Doban’s shoulder. The dueling coach hit the ground, the knife meant for Siv imbedded deep in his flesh. Siv barely had time to shout before Berg was pulling himself to his feet in front of him and raising his sword.
“Go now,” Berg grunted.
“But—”
“Go!”
Berg charged at Kres, knife hilt sticking from his shoulder, blood soaking his leg, and raised his sword on Siv’s behalf once more.
But Kres was an expert swordsman too. The pen fighter halted Berg’s advance with a fluid parry. The steel clanged like a bell, and the two old sword masters stared at each other for a crystalline moment. Then they began to duel.
