From Darkness Won

by Jill Williamson

  Averella ran around to his side and pressed her palm over the other man’s wound, holding his hand in both of hers. “Some linen, quickly, and some water.”

  Noam and Gren scrambled to obey.

  “Noam, when I release him, pour water over the wound. Gren, be ready with the linen.”

  Averella removed her hand. Noam poured the water. Averella wiped her palm off on the man’s cloak, then took the end of the strip of linen Gren held out. “Stop, Noam.”

  Noam pulled the jug away. Averella quickly wrapped the man’s hand until it resembled a snowball. She set it atop his chest, thumb side up, and used another piece of linen to tie it there and keep it higher than the rest of his body.

  An arrow struck the cobblestone a breath from Gren’s knees and skittered over the man’s body.

  “Gren, here, put this on.” Noam held out the front of the black knight’s breastplate.”

  “I don’t know how to wear that.”

  “You need the backplate,” Averella said. “Help her, Noam. It will protect her baby.”

  Averella darted toward another man with an arrow in his thigh. She worked on him until Noam and Gren approached. Noam was carrying a sword and a shield bearing the Mahanaim crest. Gren wore the black knight’s breastplate and helm, and she held a sword of her own. Averella grinned. “But take off the helm for now, Gren, so you do not look like a target.”

  Gren obeyed.

  Just as Averella finished the man’s leg, someone yelled, “Iamos! Help me next!”

  Averella met Gren’s amused gaze and smiled.

  “Not until you put this on,” Noam said.

  Averella turned to see Noam holding up a bronze breastplate and helm. “Where did you find that, Master Fox? It is lovely.”

  “On a dead man.”

  Averella winced. “Then I suppose he will not mind.”

  She allowed Noam to fasten the breastplate over her shoulders and under her arms. As the battle raged around them, no one seemed concerned about the women and the man who moved from body to body, helping those who stood a chance at life and leaving those who did not.

  A squawk pulled her gaze upward. Gowzals circled the Mahanaim watchtower. Averella pulled on her helm and ran inside the double doors, stopping to pick up a discarded sword on her way.

  Averella crossed the vast foyer of the Mahanaim stronghold, darting around drum pillars on her way to the grand staircase, Gren and Noam at her heels.

  They had climbed to the sixth level when Gren collapsed on the landing, gasping and clutching her side. She let her sword clatter to the marble landing and pulled off her helm.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, panting. “I need to stop. Just a moment, please?”

  “Of course.” This was far too strenuous activity for a woman in Gren’s condition. “You should wait here, Gren. Your baby…”

  “I will be fine… in a moment.”

  Noam stepped up to Averella. “Might you take this opportunity to inquire as to Sir Rigil’s whereabouts?”

  “An excellent suggestion, Master Fox. Thank you.” Averella removed her helm and sat on the top step beside Gren. She closed her eyes. Sir Rigil? Where are you?

  We are outside the front doors, my lady. A battle has waylaid us. Please have patience.

  Averella opened her eyes. “They are still in the battle.”

  Gren had already put her helm back on. “I am ready.”

  Noam helped Gren stand. Averella put her own helm back on, and they continued up the stairs, at a slower pace this time, for Gren’s sake. Averella urged herself to be patient, but she felt like a horse before the jousting flag lifted.

  The experience brought a memory to mind. Climbing these very stairs behind an old man named Carlani as he led her to Macoun Hadar’s chambers on the eighth floor.

  She paused on the eighth floor landing and peered down a dark corridor. Macoun Hadar lived down there. The second door on the right. How could she know such a thing?

  Memories flooded her suddenly. A wrinkled old man touching her face. Great pain. Being tied up. Jax. A lecherous man named Khai. A basket full of trinkets, fabric, and hair. His coarse fingers on her neck, his words, a humming threat.

  …tell me what you know of the prince’s plans…

  “My lady?”

  She glanced up, for Noam’s voice had come from above. He and Gren stood on the landing between the eighth and ninth floors.

  A chill gripped her as the understanding set in. The man in the tower was Macoun Hadar. Had to be. The man she must kill. Her old master. She released a shaky breath and continued climbing. “Coming.”

  They made their way to the tenth floor, then down the corridors to the tower stairs. Two guards lay slain at the foot of the stairwell.

  Noam stretched out his arms to stop the ladies. “Perhaps someone has already come to deal with this man, my lady.”

  “Perhaps.” Averella stepped around him. “But I will not rest until I know for certain.” She lifted a torch from a sconce on the wall, pinched her skirt in the same hand, lifted her sword in the other, and started up the stairs. Her thighs ached from the ten levels she had climbed. This flight of stairs would likely take them up another three or four levels.

  Dizzy from circling, she paused at an arrow loop to give her legs a chance to rest. She could see nothing but swirling darkness from the window. Noam and Gren’s footsteps clattered behind her. They would not be sneaking up on anyone, that much was certain.

  Averella continued on. Her temples tickled. Could Prince Gidon be trying to see her thoughts? Someone must be, for the pressure increased. Oddly, however, her fear diminished. In fact, she felt quite calm, as if she were merely going to tea with Gypsum and not off to kill a man. Perhaps Arman had given her this peace. She would need it to be able to do this deed, for she had never killed a man before.

  She set her sword hand on the wall to catch her breath, somehow knowing she was mistaken. She had killed before.

  Whom had she killed?

  Movement above drew her attention. A shadow fell over her. A hooded man knocked the torch from her grip and clamped his hand around her neck. He pushed her against the tower wall and held a knife through the crack in the plates of her breastplate. The steel pricked her waist.

  “All of you!” he said. “Drop your swords, or she dies.”

  21

  Achan hovered, staring at the place where Prince Oren had disappeared. A gust of air tore his gaze to the black knight, who had conjured a new ball of green fire.

  Hatred and anger coiled inside Achan until he folded in on himself and exerted his mind. He didn’t understand how, but he suddenly looked out from the black knight’s mind. Achan saw the battle from the ground. He stood inside the black knight’s body, before the raised drawbridge, holding a ball of green fire in his hand. Achan forced the knight to lob the fireball at another black knight. The man screamed and disintegrated into dust.

  A thick tendril of power sizzled in this man’s mind. Achan seized it and shuddered as it coursed through his body. Green sparks danced along the knight’s gloved palms. Achan could feel the man pushing against him with no more force than when Matthias tried to tackle him.

  Your Highness? Duchess Amal’s voice spoke to his mind. Where are you?

  Inside the last black knight.

  Achan stormed the man’s mind away and sensed it soar into the sky above.

  Come out at once, Your Highness. You must not do that.

  In a moment. The power dancing through this body was exhilarating. Achan focused on the man’s hands, on those green sparks, mesmerized by the brightness, the light. An orb grew between the man’s palms, small at first, then to the size of a human head.

  Your Highness, Duchess Amal called, please leave that man’s body. It is not—

  A humming voice cut her off. Arman is light. In him is no darkness. Seize the light, Your Highness. Use it.

  Achan frowned, for that thought sounded logical. Here Achan stood, holding light itse
lf. He could use it. The power.

  But this light was not Arman’s.

  Oh, but it is! Arman is in you, fool boy. Use your power to serve him. Use your power to do his will.

  Achan took in the activity on the battlefield. The bridge had been lowered. Achan’s army had started to cross over. The line of soldiers and carts ran all the way to the horizon.

  They had won.

  Achan, Duchess Amal said in a firm voice. Please.

  She had never called him “Achan.” He relaxed, intending to obey her, but a screech pulled his gaze to the water. The tanniyn raised its head up out of the water, over the drawbridge.

  Those on the bridge ran, some forward, some back. The tanniyn rammed into the crowd, knocking a knight from his mount. The tanniyn’s jaw snapped onto the horse’s hindquarters and rose higher, its neck slithering, rolling to a height almost as tall as the pillars, the horse dangling upside down, whinnying, flailing its head and front legs.

  The tanniyn tossed the horse and took the entire thing into its mouth.

  Use the light, boy, the man’s voice said. Destroy the beast!

  Of course. Achan glanced at the black knight’s hands. The green light flickered over the black leather, invigorating Achan like a gulp of Carmine red wine.

  The tanniyn swallowed the horse. Then, like a coil of rope suddenly dropped, it fell in one motion and hovered just above the bridge, hissing at the knights still trying to back off the bridge. The procession had pressed against itself. Knights were trying to herd the people back, but many couldn’t see what was taking place out over the water.

  The tanniyn screeched again, its very breath blowing a knight off his mount.

  Strike it, boy! Use the power. Kill the beast!

  Yes. Achan could destroy it with the green fire. His anger boiled. The orb in his hands grew to the size of a wagon wheel. He hurled it at the tanniyn. The green fire sailed through the air as if weightless. It struck the tanniyn’s snake-like throat halfway between its body and head. Green fire engulfed the beast until the entire thing turned to black ash that floated down to the surface of the water and landed in a long, curling, black stripe.

  No, Your Highness! Duchess Amal said.

  Now those soldiers on the bridge, the man said. They are Esek’s men sent to kill your generals in their beds tonight if you do not stop them now.

  Traitors!

  But before Achan could react, something slammed against his mind. His soul flew out of the black knight and into the sky. Cold panic gripped him. He was being stormed. He could not even move his limbs. They were stuck to his sides. Arman!

  Achan lay on his back on his couch. The wagon shifted under him. Moving. About to cross the bridge, or maybe it already had.

  Shung sat beside him, looking down. “The little cham was in trouble.”

  Relief washed over Achan like a warm breeze. “Thank you, Shung.”

  Your Highness? Duchess Amal asked. Are you well?

  Shung woke me. I’m in my wagon. What happened?

  The fire had possessed you. I had no choice but to take you from that black knight by force.

  No, my lady. I was not possessed. Though even as he said this he knew it was a lie. That green light, that fire, that power. It had gripped him entirely, more so than any of Challa’s kisses. He had wanted it, yet there had been a hint of wrongness. Some small thing that had nagged at him.

  —you hear me?

  I’m sorry? Did you say something, my lady?

  You must focus to break free from its hold.

  The power is gone. I was only remembering it.

  Look into the Veil. Now. I am in your wagon.

  Achan met Shung’s eyes. Shung nodded, and Achan pushed himself up to sitting in the Veil.

  Duchess Amal was standing beside his couch. She took hold of his chin. Remembering it is a way to bring it back. Promise me you will guard yourself against such temptation.

  I promise. The words came too easily, though. They felt hollow somehow.

  Look at me, Your Highness. Look into my eyes and promise me.

  He obeyed. Her eyes were green, like Sparrow’s. The thought brought a gasp to his lips, as if she could read his mind. Forgive me, my lady. You spoke wisdom, and I did not heed it. I promise you, I shall flee from that kind of power if ever I feel its presence again.

  And you will never again possess any man.

  I possessed a man? The black knight. When he’d entered that black knight’s mind, he’d been filled with anger because of—Prince Oren! What happened to him?

  Promise me, Your Highness.

  I promise, my lady. Never again will I possess another.

  She released him. Prince Oren stepped in front of the blow meant for you. I did not see where the orb struck him. We can only pray he survived.

  Blood drained from Achan’s face so fast his head lolled backward. How will we know? Who stood guard over his body while he went into the Veil?

  I did not ask. I suspect Sir Gavin will know. Now, Your Highness, stop and—

  A sudden impact jerked the wagon up on two wheels. Achan fell back into his mind just as his head slid against the wall. Shung set his hand on the wall to keep from falling on Achan. The wagon slammed back to all four wheels, and Achan slid off the couch to the floor. Outside, horses squealed and men shouted. Smoke drifted on the air.

  Stay in the wagon, Your Highness, Duchess Amal said. You and Shung must exit when I say. Armed to fight.

  A softer blow rattled the wall. A gust of green light blew the door drape inward and set it aflame. Achan crawled to where his belt and sword had fallen off the table. He drew Ôwr from its scabbard and picked up his shield. Smoke curled down from the ceiling. “Get your sword and shield, Shung. We await Duchess Amal’s word.”

  Shung crouched and retrieved his weapons. “Black knights?”

  Now, Your Highness, Duchess Amal said.

  “Now, Shung! Go!

  Shung held the smoldering curtain aside and ducked out the doorway. Achan hefted his shield over his head and followed.

  They had stopped in a forest with trees so high Achan couldn’t see the tops. The wagon’s tongue had been severed, and the horses were gone. The driver lay on the ground, dead. Gowzals circled overhead.

  Black knights were spaced around the wagon. Achan could hear their low chanting of râbab yârad and so on. Three wielded a wall of apparitions to the north that held off Achan’s soldiers. Three looked south doing the same. The green glows of fake knights arched into the trees, creating a boundary around the wagon’s side. The last two black knights faced the wagon. One was locked in a swordfight with Kurtz. The other stood behind Kurtz, lobbing balls of fire at an invisible foe.

  Duchess Amal, no doubt.

  “Shung, take those three.” Achan gestured north with his sword, then ran south. The three flesh-and-blood enemies had their backs to Achan, focused on their magic. The nearest one had a puff of grey hair that betrayed his identity. Sir Nongo. Did that mean Silvo was here too?

  Beyond the wielders and their puppets, Achan could see Sir Caleb and Toros at the front of the line fighting apparitions as if they were real men. Achan kicked Sir Nongo in the back of the knees. The man stumbled and lost his wooden mask, and his apparitions faded. Toros darted through the gap, but one of the other wielders produced a new foe that pushed the warrior priest back again.

  Sir Nongo turned and drew his sword, holding it two handed.

  “Come to try and sacrifice me to Barthos again?” Achan hefted his shield into place and set Ôwr’s flat against the edge. “Didn’t you learn anything the last time?”

  “I learned to be killing you quickly this time.” Sir Nongo’s black blade snapped forward like a whip. Achan parried it with his shield, caught off guard by the strength of Sir Nongo’s arm. Achan had forgotten. But he’d learned much since that night in Esek’s camp, and he sent a strong cut back to Sir Nongo’s waist.

  Sir Nongo caught the cut with his flat and threw off Ôwr’s
blade. He stepped in close and followed with a series of one-handed blows that didn’t give Achan a chance to counter, as if he were trying to cleave Achan’s shield in two.

  Achan twisted Ôwr out, wrapping the blade around Sir Nongo to strike the back of his shoulder. Sir Nongo’s steps faltered long enough for Achan to throw out his shield against Sir Nongo’s empty arm. The shield’s edge rooted Sir Nongo in place, and they sparred in a one-handed duel, their blades clashing a rapid tempo.

  Sir Nongo’s speed kept all coherent thought at bay. Dozens of swords clanked around them. Men uttered battle cries. Boots shuffled over the dirt road. The wagon fire crackled.

  Kurtz had pushed his opponent near Shung and the mages facing north. A rock struck Achan’s shoulder. The mage Duchess Amal had been fighting was now free, using his magic to throw rocks.

  Duchess? Are you well?

  I fight Macoun Hadar in the Veil.

  Pig snout.

  Sir Nongo cleaved one last strike and darted back, freeing himself from Achan’s shield. Something popped in the wagon fire, sending a splash of sparks over Sir Nongo’s head. Sir Nongo circled away from the fire. Achan moved with him. Heat seared his side. The wagon was blazing now.

  Sir Nongo stabbed. Achan deflected with his shield and cut from side guard. To Achan’s left, Shung fell beside a rock the size of a head of cabbage. Shung’s opponent raised his blade to finish Shung off.

  “No!” Achan deflected a cut from Sir Nongo, unable to do anything for his friend. But Kurtz stepped in and cut the man down.

  Praise Arma—

  Achan’s sword flew out of his hand. He returned his full focus to Sir Nongo, but it was a moment too late. The black knight swept Achan’s legs out from under him.

  Achan fell on his backside. Sir Nongo’s black gauntlet gripped the top of Achan’s shield and pulled. Achan grabbed the straps with both hands, fighting to keep hold.

  A figure leapt over Achan and bashed against Sir Nongo like a battering ram, knocking the man into the wagon, which was now a raging bonfire. Sir Nongo screamed. His hair caught fire, making him look like a living torch.