The fight was all finished by the time she returned. The surviving mercenaries, a dozen or so including the big northman, along with Calcote’s aide, were seated together and held at swordpoint. A couple of Rafe’s men were in the process of binding them with rope. From the looks of it, Rafe had lost six men, with another ten or so wounded.
“Ferret! You caught him?” Rafe was looking incredulously from her to Calcote.
She hopped down from the horse. “Aye. Bastard decided to go on a ride through the woods—on his arse mostly.”
“That’s some fine work there.” Rafe came over and clasped her shoulder with a grin.
Ferret puffed up with pride, pleased to note the other men looked equally impressed, and returned his smile.
“Someone tie this sack of shite up so he doesn’t slip off his horse,” Rafe said. “Let’s get the rest of them up and then head back to meet up with the queen.”
“How about we give her a welcoming party if we’re not too late.” Ferret pointed up toward the postern gate. “They left the gate open.”
Rafe nodded slowly. “That’s good thinking.” He turned to the others. “We’ll head up through the postern gate, drop this lot in the dungeon, then welcome Her Majesty home properly.”
As the men sprang into action, Rafe went over and checked the saddlebags of Calcote’s spare mounts. He whistled as gold gleamed in the sunlight.
“Not only did he steal her throne, but he plundered the treasury as well.” Rafe shook his head and spat on the ground.
“Reckon they’ll have to build a bigger gallows to hold this lot,” Ferret said.
“Aye, just as soon as Sianna gives the word,” Rafe replied.
While the soldiers were busy gathering horses and getting the prisoners trussed up, Ferret went to search the nearby ground. She had noticed something missing when tossing the former mayor across the saddle. After a few minutes, the gleam of steel among the leaves caught her eye. To her relief, she found Rabbit-sticker lying on the ground where it had been ripped out of Calcote’s backside. It still had blood on the blade.
That must’ve hurt even more coming out. Couldn’t have happened to a more deserving arsehole.
She wiped off Rabbit-sticker on the grass and sheathed the trusty little blade. Wonder if Mother ever felt the need to stick that in some lord’s noble arse or if this is a first. She laughed at that thought. Too bad you couldn’t have seen that throw, Mother.
The meager birthright of a dead whore had ended up serving both Ferret and the kingdom well indeed.
***
Following the assassination attempt, which had been thwarted by Irralith’s illusion, and the subsequent arrest of the assassin, the entourage had eventually resumed their progress toward the castle. A riot erupted after word of the assassination attempt got out, which had taken some time to quell. But once they got moving again, they increased the pace, fairly confident the sole assassin had been drawn out. But the going was still slower than Sianna would have liked, with the city watch having to clear the way of zealous supporters. She was touched by the enthusiasm over her return and wondered how bad conditions had truly gotten under Calcote’s regency.
Ominously silent, the walls of Castle Llantry rose up before her, the only home she’d known. Its gates were closed fast, but she couldn’t see any sign of guardsmen manning the barbican above. Because of the lack of guards, she wondered if Calcote and his ilk had managed to flee before Rafe could get there to prevent their escape.
“We should deploy the shieldmen first, Your Majesty,” Jahn warned. “This could be a trick for archers to loose a volley down upon us.”
Sianna was about to agree with him, for the tactic had already proven valuable in stopping the assassin’s poisoned quarrel, when the familiar clanking of iron could be heard as the great chains raised the portcullis. The wooden gates creaked and swung open.
The bailey looked empty at first glance, but then Sianna noticed a slight figure leaning casually against the wall of the gatehouse. Ferret stepped into the path and bowed low with a sweeping gesture to the bailey.
“Your castle awaits, Your Majesty. Along with one captured pig of a nobleman and some stolen gold.” She had a pleased grin on her face.
Sianna dismounted at the gate and greeted the girl with a smile. “You never cease to surprise, Ferret. Well done.”
Ferret beamed at the praise.
Rafe came jogging up with a handful of his men, who all bowed. “Welcome home, Your Majesty! The remaining garrison couldn’t surrender quickly enough once we entered with Lord Calcote and his lot of mercenaries in tow. They’re currently residents of the dungeon.”
“It shall be Lord Calcote no more,” Sianna replied. “I hereby strip the traitor of all lands and titles. And well done, Sir Rafe. And all of you men.” She noted their pleased expressions at the praise. “Sir Rafe, will you organize a detail to flush out any remaining rats from the castle? Round up everyone you find—mercenaries and servants alike. Treat the servants gently, for the vast majority remain loyal, I suspect. We shall then sort the bad apples from the good.”
“Aye, Your Majesty.”
Rafe issued some orders, and the men under his command took off toward the keep. Another score from her entourage went to search the barracks and outbuildings and also reinforce the guards in the dungeon. Once the men were dispatched to Rafe’s satisfaction, he went to supervise the efforts in the keep.
“A moment, Iris?” Sianna called. “Would you see that—”
“Food and refreshment are prepared just as soon as those soldiers are finished tromping about the castle and the servants can get back to work. Also, have the place turned upside down and cleaned thoroughly. I imagine the royal chambers could use a good delousing.” Iris wrinkled her nose. “Once that’s done, send an invitation for your fellow monarchs to dine this evening. Am I on the right track?”
Sianna smiled and put an arm across Iris’s shoulders. “You read my mind. I don’t expect all of that ready today, since the afternoon grows late. If it’s too much trouble to accommodate the monarchs tonight, then tomorrow will suffice.” When Iris bobbed her head, she thanked her friend.
Iris flashed her a tired smile and took off to execute the myriad duties required of a chamberlain.
By then, the entire retinue was dismounted, and a clamor of organized chaos was taking place. Jahn was organizing guard details and sending men to stable horses and the like.
Sianna turned back to Ferret, who had remained nearby. “Will you walk with me?”
“’Course, Your Majesty.” Ferret fell in beside her.
“So, your mission turned out well, then?” she asked Ferret, who nodded. “How did it go down?”
“Ah, therein lies a tale, Your Majesty!” Ferret had a gleam in her violet eyes as she began to tell the story with relish.
Blessedly free of any other pressing concerns for a few moments, Sianna allowed herself a break and sat in the garden with the brash and ofttimes crude young woman whom she had nonetheless come to admire, taking pleasure in her story of the takedown of a traitor. As she listened to Ferret, the fact began sinking in that against all odds, and with the vital aid of friends and allies, she had actually succeeded in defeating the Nebaran threat and reclaiming her throne.
She just prayed that Taren and the others would be successful in their quest as well so that it wouldn’t all be for naught.
Chapter 55
Taren watched Nesnys’s eyes go wide as he approached, free of the corruption. She had fallen to her knees, but at his approach, she staggered to her feet with some difficulty, ichor leaking from a hole in her gut.
Nearby, Elyas lay sprawled on the ground, what remained of his head a red, spongy ruin.
“How…?” Nesnys was clearly at a loss for words, shocked at Taren’s recovery.
“You’ll never understand love and sacrifice,” he said.
She stared a moment, but then her eyes narrowed. “You are too late to end this,” she
hissed. “Easilon shall be destroyed, and your mother’s reign in Nexus of the Planes will come to an end. Lord Shaol will reward me upon my return to Achronia.”
“You’re wrong about that. I shall end you first and then destroy that infernal machine. Then you’ll have to face your lord and deal with the price of your failure.”
Nesnys reached for her bone dagger, but Taren yanked it from her hand with a rope of force. He then turned the rope upon her, using it to snare her arms, tightening and stretching them wide, then binding her legs as well. He tightened her bonds until her bones creaked. She hung in the air as if being crucified, snarling and cursing.
For a moment, Taren no longer saw her. Instead, he saw all those he had cared for who had lost their lives to her evil. Yethri’s charred and agonized face filled his vision, as did Aninyel’s serene countenance, drowned beneath the sea and suspended like some beautiful celestial. Next came the resigned sadness in Wyat’s eyes when he told his sons to flee, knowing the price of their survival would be his own life. He saw again Elyas, lying steps away with his head turned to pulp, a victim of Nesnys’s machinations.
Then there was Mira, a paragon of selflessness and loyalty, whose loss hurt the most of all of them.
Taren poured out all of his rage and sorrow on Nesnys. She screamed as he bathed her in fire, torrents of it streaming from his extended hands, all the force of the dying earth behind it. She boiled alive in her armor, much as Yethri had a lifetime ago.
He took no great pleasure in it, but vengeance did have a certain satisfaction. Yet as he destroyed his foe, he was mindful of Mira’s lesson—to not become a threat to the Balance.
Taren snuffed out the fire and released the binding of force. Nesnys’s remains clattered to the ground, smoking, but he paid them little heed. Harsh sobs wracked his body as his pent-up emotions broke loose.
***
Creel struggled doggedly to free himself, but he could only slide the blade in his back upward an inch or so at a time. He could perhaps have tried to turn himself to allow the sword to cut outward through his side as he dragged himself free, but that didn’t seem doable even if he didn’t get caught up on a rib—too much muscle and sinew in the way. Final Strike was currently lodged just to one side of his spine, pressing against it.
He briefly wondered what had become of the surviving warriors who had accompanied them. He’d warned the few survivors off before attacking Elyas, for none could hope to stand against either Elyas or Nesnys, and he hoped they had gone to tend to the wounded. The scene between Nesnys, Elyas, and Taren seemed to have been played out, as all were currently down on the ground.
Creel gritted his teeth as his blood-slicked fingers gripped Final Strike’s blade and inched it upward a bit higher. He cursed when his fingers slipped and the keen edge of the sword opened yet another deep cut across his fingers. A painful spasm ripped through his back and caused him to wait a moment before his next attempt.
Wonder if I could get to my knees and stand, pulling it free all at once. The idea failed to appeal any more than the current process, and he had little enough energy to keep on as he was. With his luck, he’d lose his balance and cut himself open like a braised goose.
“Rest easy, Creel,” a familiar voice said. “I’ve got ye.”
Kulnor stood beside him, looking pale and haggard. One arm was swollen and mottled with livid scars, the sleeve of his mail shirt shredded. He gripped the hilt of Final Strike and pulled it free with a quick stroke.
The burst of agony faded quickly into the background noise of all his other aches and pains. Creel was able to roll over onto his back, looking up at his savior.
“That was unpleasant. You have my thanks.”
“I’ll see if I can fix ye up a bit.” Kulnor slung down a heavy pack and knelt beside him.
“Save it. You look as if you could use another healing spell yourself.”
Kulnor shrugged but didn’t argue. He glanced away, and his eyes widened, drawing Creel’s attention.
Taren was back on his feet, and Nesnys hung suspended in midair, struggling and cursing. The mage’s look of crushing loss swiftly turned to fury, then fire blasted from his hands, cocooning Nesnys in flames. She screamed as she burned, the scent of charring flesh filling the air.
After long moments, Taren relented. Nesnys’s suit of armor and sheathed sword clanged to the ground. Little remained of her but charred bones, much of them crumbling to ash as they struck the ground.
Taren leaned over with hands on his knees, harsh sobs shaking him.
“That should put an end to that bitch,” Creel remarked.
“Nay, not quite yet.” Kulnor raised a finger and pointed.
Kulnor obviously saw something Creel couldn’t, focused on the space over Nesnys’s corpse. Taren must have seen it as well, for he stood straighter, concentrating. His face became strained with effort, and the air shimmered with his flow of magic. Creel could feel it even over the surrounding tumult of the Tellurian Engine.
“What’s he doing?” he asked.
Kulnor got back to his feet, holy symbol in hand. “He’s tryin’ to destroy her noncorporeal form—her quintessence. Fiends respawn in the Abyss once slain. Unless their quintessence can be destroyed.” He chanted in Dwarvish, and his holy symbol bloomed with pure silver light. “Taren, let me aid ye!”
Taren glanced over, looking exhausted but determined, and nodded.
Kulnor moved closer, bathing the area Taren had been focused on in silver light. Illumined within was the hint of a disembodied form—a nebulous shade. It became agitated when Kulnor bathed it in cleansing light. He resumed his chanting, and the radiance became too brilliant to look at, his voice louder and more insistent.
“Mukabe Reiktir daksrul ollyer karae akkama!” he boomed in finality.
Then it was over. His light dissipated, and Creel could see the relief plain on both their faces.
“That bitch is destroyed—utterly,” Kulnor pronounced with satisfaction.
“Thank you,” Taren said.
“Ye’re welcome. Only the three of us remaining?” Kulnor looked around, his expression turning bleak.
“There’s a few others. You can come join us now,” Creel called. He’d spotted them approaching hesitantly once the fighting was finished.
A handful of men, elves, and dwarves straggled out of the darkness, many supporting one another. All were wounded and exhausted, some on the verge of death.
Just then, the floor trembled violently, throwing many to the ground. A chasm tore open across the floor inches from Creel’s boot, and he quickly scooted away. Distressed metal shrieked in the distance, and collapsing stone rumbled.
“We need to put a stop to that damn machine,” Taren said. “Where is the bomb?”
Kulnor pointed at the pack he had set down. “It’s there.”
“I’ll take it from here,” Taren said. “You two have done enough. This task has been given to me. With my magic, I’m the only one who can hope to get close to the machine. See what you can do to aid the others, and get everyone out of here.” He reached out his left hand and clasped Kulnor’s. “It’s been a pleasure, my friend.”
“Reiktir give ye strength,” Kulnor replied.
Taren extended his hand to Creel next, who used his grip to help haul himself to his feet. “You won’t be rid of me yet. The goddess said I should walk the path with you to the end, didn’t she?”
Taren smiled wanly. “She did. But the end lies only a few dozen more paces that way.”
“Nonetheless, I shall walk there beside you.” Creel winced and pressed a hand to the puncture wound just to the right of his sternum. His hand came away wet with blood, but at least he wasn’t leaking like a sieve. He coughed some blood from a lung but less than expected. The itching sensation of mending flesh came from the wound. “I can make it a few dozen more paces.”
Taren looked to have aged ten years, his face lined with weariness and pain. “Then I welcome your company one last t
ime, my friend.” He gestured toward the pack, and it levitated into the air. The obsidian bomb slipped free and hovered before him.
“Hold a moment,” Kulnor said. “We need ye to succeed, not bleed to death afore ye make it there.”
Taren held up his hands and frowned. One had a ragged, bloody hole through the palm, and the other was badly swollen with thumb and first two fingers splayed in unnatural directions.
“This might hurt a bit,” Kulnor warned.
Taren nodded, and Kulnor straightened his broken fingers one by one. The mage grimaced at the pain when each reset with a crackle. Once that was complete, Kulnor grasped Taren’s bloody hand in his, then prayed to Reiktir for healing. A warm glow surrounded their clasped hands, and when the dwarf released his grip, only a red scar remained in Taren’s palm. The swelling had gone down on his broken hand, and he flexed his fingers carefully.
“Wish I had more left in me,” Kulnor said. “I’ll treat ye again after a bit o’ rest.”
“That won’t be necessary,” Taren said. “Here.” He handed his artificer’s ring over to Kulnor. “You’ll need this to open the portal to the surface once we shut down the Tellurian Engine.” He briefly explained how to activate the portal with it.
Kulnor nodded and stuck the ring into his pocket. “And ye, Creel? Can I fix ye up a bit?”
“Better already,” Creel said. Though that was technically true, his chest still ached like a bastard—not to mention the poison burning in his leg and aches from various other half-healed wounds. He’d fought through worse, however. He looked at Taren and met his gaze. “Ready when you are.”
Chapter 56
“May Reiktir give ye strength, me friends.” Kulnor watched dejectedly as Taren and Creel disappeared down the corridor leading to the portal. He wished he could see their quest through to the end but knew he was drained. What little he had left, he needed to use to aid the worst of the wounded.
Trial of the Thaumaturge (Scions of Nexus Book 3) Page 50
