by Tim Marquitz
The girl’s head lolled and his father growled. The truth of Sebastian’s words glowed red on his cheeks. “Don’t be reckless, boy. This is not the time to make a stand. Draw them away, and then follow after us.” He gave Sebastian a fiery glare. “None of your heroics this time, you hear me, boy?”
Sebastian nodded and shoved at his father. “Go.”
Darius did. Belying his age and the girl in his arms, his father dashed into the trees with a quickness that would have surprised Sebastian had he time to consider it. The shouts of the approaching soldiers left him no room for anything beyond survival.
He drew in a deep breath, tasting the stench of magic, and pressed his will to strengthen his shield. He waited just a moment longer for the Red Guard soldiers to close and spy him through the trees. When their voices rose up in a barked chorus, Sebastian dashed off, making sure he went the opposite direction that his father had gone.
If he could accomplish nothing else before he was run down and killed, he hoped to keep his father safe.
Thirteen
The White Witch prowled the dais, her hands clasped into fists so tight they ached. Her thoughts were a storm, held back at the dam of her tongue while she fought to keep her anger contained. She spun to glare at the door as it creaked open. Shade slipped inside with her head down. Deborah stopped her pacing and moved to the edge of the stairs, her heart fast in her chest.
The assassin came to stand before the dais, and Deborah spied the crusted red of blood that stained her shoulder. Pale and puckered flesh peeked out from beneath the torn cloth. She removed her mask gingerly, the ice of her eyes settling upon Deborah. The White Witch glared down at her.
“You failed me,” she said, her voice a frigid counterpoint to the fury inside.
Shade nodded. “It was not Elizabeth Bourne I found when I came across our informant, but instead a warlock.”
“He bested you?”
A menacing laugh slipped from Shade’s mouth. “He did not, but he had an unseen accomplice who struck me a blow, which would have changed the favor had I remained.”
Deborah began to pace once more. “The warlock: was he wounded as well?”
“He was, though not seriously.” She seemed to anticipate the next question, answering before it could be asked. “This warlock is young, but he is skilled, his powers trained much like mine, to augment the blade rather than as an offensive weapon. Despite being little more than a child, he is a threat.”
The White Witch growled. “Do you know if he is in league with Elizabeth?”
Shade shook her head. “I didn’t have the opportunity to interrogate him, but if he is, our problems have grown a magnitude greater.”
“What do you mean?” Deborah stomped down the stairs to stand before Shade, their faces inches apart.
Shade smirked. “His companion was the mastermind who nearly toppled the witch rule thirty years back, the general from the Outlands.”
The White Witch’s eyes narrowed as she thought back. “Darius?”
“General Darius Crane, yes.”
The name was like a physical blow to Deborah. She turned quick to keep Shade from seeing her reaction, and returned up the stairs to the dais, forcing each step to be calm, measured. A mask of impassivity set in place to guard her emotions, she dropped down atop the throne and looked again to Shade. “Perhaps he is where Elizabeth’s new boldness comes from. The general was always so sure of himself.”
“Perhaps,” Shade agreed. “That would be my belief, as well.”
Before Deborah could say anything else, the doors to the throne room burst open with a crash. She looked up to see Gracelin rushing in, her green robes flailing out behind her. Her normally composed hair trailed wild in her wake as she hurried to the dais.
“Carrance and her men have come across Emerald.”
Deborah jumped to her feet. “Where? Do they have her?”
The Green Witch frowned. “The nearly did, but a warlock—” She cast a glance at the assassin. “—likely the same one Shade encountered, stole her away, killing a number of our griffins.”
Her hands curling into fists, Deborah howled through clenched teeth. “Shade, go to Carrance and help her bring this upstart warlock to his knees. I want him dead so I can burn his body as a warning to the rest of the resistance.” She waved the assassin away. “Go now.”
Shade turned and strode off. Once she was gone, Deborah turned to Gracelin. “We cannot leave this in Carrance’s hands. We must assist her in bringing this warlock down.”
Gracelin stared at her through the slits of her eyes. “Shade nearly laid him low alone. Surely she and Carrance can handle him without too much difficulty.”
The White Witch walked down the stairs and grasped Gracelin’s hand in hers. “We must be certain.” She drew in a lungful of air and let it out slow, hoping to settle her pulse so she could speak without her voice betraying her. “Shade recognized General Darius as the man who aids the warlock.”
Gracelin gasped. “He lives?”
Deborah nodded shallow. “He does, and though I have no proof he’s allied with Elizabeth, it can only be a matter of time until he does, for they both share a common enemy.”
“No matter the general’s tactical prowess, Elizabeth does not have the forces to cause us any true harm. What could he possibly do for her?”
Deborah squeezed her hand. “He has something far greater than military might, woman. He has Alise’s son, and the truth to stand behind.”
Gracelin pulled her hand away, covering her mouth. She spoke in a hoarse whisper, “If the rest of the Council were to learn—”
“Which is why they cannot.” She gave Gracelin a gentle push toward the doors. “Go and make ready. We must be sure that Darius and his whelp find their end before word of the abomination’s origin can surface.”
The Green Witch spun away and raced from the room, leaving Deborah alone with her thoughts. Once more they were dark, though it was not anger that fueled them, but fear. Long had she believed the spawn of her nemesis to be dead, only now to find him alive and trained in the arts of war. It was not his sword she feared, but the lineage he shared with the former White Witch. Were people to learn of him, it would put the lie to story of Alise’s death and would point the finger of guilt directly at Deborah.
Damn you, Darius!
She paced before the stairs, wondering how long it would take before the other members of the Council learned of the war she fought beyond the limits of their eyes and ears. With Carrance a party to the crime of Alise’s death, they’d kept the Red Guard movements a secret from the rest of the Council, assuring the others that peace was fast approaching and the land had come to accept the new order. Happily content to hide away within their towers and bask in the newfound longevity Deborah had brought them, they so rarely left the comfort of Corilea. Were they to wander too far, they would quickly see that all was not as Deborah had claimed; their precious immortality bought through oppression and the slaughter of children.
No matter her status as the White Witch, the title earned through murder, Deborah had no illusions the Council would turn upon her were they to learn the truth of what she’d orchestrated. Alise had been greatly loved. Her rule had been a peaceful and happy one, a prosperous one, many of the witches’ enemies broken during her reign. If the other witches were to realize it was not Elizabeth who killed the former White Witch but Deborah herself, there would be hell to pay. Deborah knew she would not survive such a revelation.
Her stomach in knots, she strode toward her quarters. It had come to this: it was the warlock’s life or hers. It wasn’t even a decision to be made. Before all the threads of her rule could be unraveled, she would end the line of Alise, once and for all. What had begun in blood would end in it.
Fourteen
The Red Guard bayed at his heels as Sebastian weaved between the trees, knowing he wouldn’t be able to lose them no matter how fast he ran. There were simply too many, and they covered too mu
ch ground. With the Red Witch at their backs, driving them on, they would never stop, their fear of her far greater than their fear of him. The only advantage he held was that they couldn’t bring their numbers to bear on the move, the woods forcing their ranks apart.
Unable to go into the treetops for the griffins patrolling the air, Sebastian cast a quick glance over his shoulder in hopes of gauging the thinnest part of the approaching lines. He spotted it and made his choice. All eyes on him, he wouldn’t be able to summon the shadows to mask his presence, its use too obvious out in the open. He would have to do things the difficult way.
He slowed and shifted right, ducking behind a tree trunk only to spin about and dart back the direction he’d just come. The soldier closest met his death first. With wide eyes and an open throat, he stumbled as Sebastian used his body for cover, shoving him backward toward his companions. A thrust to the face sent the next soldier to his grave. After a severed hand and a backhanded slash across the side of his head, the third went down in a heap beside his dead companions.
Sebastian parried a blow and sent the soldier who’d thrown it sprawling with a kick to the back, barely getting his sword in place to protect against another incoming strike. He drew the tip of his sword across the soldier’s eyes and left him to his slow, miserable death as more of the Red Guard closed about.
Sebastian moved behind a nearby tree to gain some space, but the effort did little to help. These weren’t the same soldiers he’d fought at the caravan, fresh recruits pressed into service to oppress the rabble at the furthest edges of the newly united Mynistiria. These were the true Red Guard, headed by their master, the Red Witch herself. They were warriors through-and-through, and he’d misjudged them.
Cursing, Sebastian knew he had to do something different, something unexpected. He wouldn’t succeed at picking them off a few at a time and carving a hole in their ranks to rabbit through. He crossed swords with yet another soldier, wasting precious seconds while he dispatched him. Sebastian’s eyes darted about as a waft of brimstone filled the air. He leapt to his left and saw a Red Guard captain appear. She swept her cloak aside and hurled a ball of fire. It struck a nearby tree and exploded, the green wood engulfed as though it had been dead for centuries. A shower of ash and burning splinters rained over Sebastian as he circled the base of another tree. Right then an idea hit him.
He held his breath, to keep from sucking in the smoky air, and focused the whole of his will on his sword. His shield flickered and fell as a deep green light engulfed his blade. Holding the weapon in two hands, he swung it with all his might at the base of the tree trunk. His shoulders screamed when he connected, the impact reverberating through his joints as the quicksilver sword cut clean through the three foot thickness. A solid kick to the trunk afterword, the whole of his weight behind it, sent the tree toppling. It fell with an eerie, drawn-out creak. The canopy thrashed as if in a seizure while the tree tore through its neighbors branches on its way to the ground.
Warning shouts cried out but were buried beneath the roar of the falling tree. The Red Guard captain tried to run, but in her panic to find the safest route, she darted beneath one of the larger branches and bore the brunt of its hurtling momentum. She went down to the snapping crack of her bones, the sounds of her death drowned out by the crash of the tree. A cloud of dust and debris filled the air.
The soldiers not caught by the tree scattered, and Sebastian took advantage of the lull. He ran toward the tree the captain had set alight and slashed at its branches as he passed, flinging burning ash toward the stalled soldiers in hopes of setting more of the forest on fire. Without a look back, he barreled on through the woods, randomly darting right or left, but always keeping in mind to move away from his father and the girl. His flight would serve no purpose if he mistakenly led the Guard to them.
As he ran, he caught the scent of brimstone once more. He knew it brought. Sebastian dug in his heels and spun, diving aside. Fire screamed past him, its heat drying his eyes and misting the sweat that ran from his brow. He rolled across the humus and got to his feet, looking to find his assailant. His heart sunk when he saw her; it was the Red Witch herself.
She walked toward him through the blackened swirls cast off by the burning trees. Her blond hair streamed out behind her like a halo reflected in the golden firelight, the blue of her gaze locked on him. Her crimson robes matched the shimmer, which fluttered about her fingertips, her magic at the ready. She strode forward with bold steps.
Sebastian’s stomach turned to knots at seeing her. Here before him stood one of the women who had killed his mother, murdering her but moments after his birth. His destiny had caught him unprepared, delivering her into his hands, and he was uncertain. He’d been trained to face the witches, his father teaching him the subtleties of avoiding their attacks, but he’d never had the true opportunity to test his skills. The knot in his stomach tightening, he held his ground.
“Elizabeth is a fool if she thinks she can raise an army of abominations against us,” the witch said, her smile sharp. “You will die at our hands, just as every enemy of the Council has done.”
Sebastian felt the heat of his anger overtake the burning woods at her comment. She had no idea who he was; who his mother had been. The witch presumed he worked with Elizabeth. His knuckles ached against the hilt of his sword. Fury was a voice in his head: kill her! He was all too ready to comply. His chance was now and would likely never come again. He hoped his mother watched.
The Red Witch grinned, bringing her hands up as Sebastian set his stance. “Time to die, warlock.” A roaring wash of fire sprung to life at her palms and rushed toward Sebastian. It devoured the trees and shrubs as it closed on him. The air was black in its wake, its bitter stench in his mouth. Death was coming.
Nowhere to run, his fury cooled in an instant, Sebastian dropped to the ground and tucked his head, willing the whole of his power into his shield. The tsunami of flames crashed over him, the heat lashing at his flesh, raising it in reddened welts.
In a heartbeat, he was engulfed.
Fifteen
Her head filled with clouds, Emerald reached for the reins to slow the galloping horse that jarred her without mercy. Her hands settled against warm and wet, stubbled flesh, her fingers sensing a strange familiarity her mind couldn’t quite comprehend. She cracked her eyelids and saw a blur of lines swimming before her, the images incoherent. Emerald blinked to clear them and at last noticed the face of older man uncomfortably close to her own, yet no sign of a horse. She could smell the sourness of his breath as he huffed, the air rushing in and out of his open mouth like a bellows. His gaze darted to hers, and despite the effort on his reddened face, his chapped lips broke into a tiny smile.
“Don’t worry, young lady, I won’t hurt you.”
Emerald barely caught his words, his voice so ragged as to be nearly indistinguishable from his exhalations. She stared at him a moment and recalled having seen the man before, but couldn’t place his face. It took another few seconds to realize she was being carried. She felt her heart sputter.
“I—” she started loudly.
“Shhh,” he whispered again. “Lower your voice, girl. They’ll hear us.”
“Who?”
The man came to stop and set her on her feet. She felt a sudden dizziness and nearly tumbled, but rough hands caught her and held her up. Spots of white flickered before her eyes, blotting out pieces of the man’s face as though it were an incomplete puzzle. She felt weak.
“Be quiet, please. The Red Guard is at our backs.”
She clutched to his arms, glimmers of memories coming to her in ragged glimpses. “Donlen?”
“I’m sorry, but he’s dead, girl.”
The image of the warrior’s face popped into her mind, the red mess of his collapsed skull splayed across the humus. Her stomach roiled and she leaned away as sour bile gushed from her mouth. It burned her lips, splashing wet at her feet. She fell to her knees beside the glistening pool, coughing
up the lingering phlegm that hung in her throat.
Voices broke through her haze, the words harsh and seemingly distant. The man shook her shoulders with gentle insistence.
“We need to go, child. Now!”
The sharpness of his voice brought her to. She looked up at him and despite the leathered harshness of his lined face there was concern in his eyes. She drew a breath, wrinkling her nose at the smell of her vomit, and let the man help her to her feet. Her mind, though still sluggish, began to clear. The shock of seeing Donlen dead, crushed beneath the hooves of his horse had struck her harder than she could have imagined. Her whole life spent behind the walls of Corilea, she had never seen the brutality of battle so close. Though she understood what her mother was capable of, knew what lay in store for her child were she to be caught, it had never been clearer before Donlen’s death. Without her guide, she was alone in her journey. She would never find the resistance.
Emerald looked to the man who’d saved her. For all his apparent kindness, he was a stranger. She knew nothing of him or why he risked his life to keep her from the Red Guard. All she knew was that he had. She took a step back, pushing his hands away so she could stand on her own.
He glared at her, but didn’t try to touch her again. “Come on, girl. I promise I won’t hurt you, but I make no such promises about them.” He motioned toward the woods where a number of red flashes were visible through the thick foliage.
Emerald stared at the Red Guard and knew what she must do. She reached inside her boot and tugged loose the dagger Victor had given her, a chill running up her arm at the contact. She pulled it free of its sheath and heard the man hiss his disproval as she turned to face the approaching soldiers.
“Where did you get that?” he asked, then shook his head. “Never mind, we have to go. We can’t fight them, girl, there are too many.” He took a step closer, his hand out to her.
