by J. C. Staudt
“They’re breaking through,” Jeebo shouted, still leaning against the door. An axehead made a splintering gash inches from his face. “Faranion save us all,” he muttered in wide-eyed surprise.
“Surely you do not support his majesty’s aim to destroy the mage-song forever,” said Darion.
Sir Jalleth laughed. “It has been a long time, Darion. You knew me once, though. I would sooner remain a bird if it means keeping magic in this world. Both my forms are getting on in their years. I should like to live out the rest of my days in a realm at peace.”
“Peace does not appear to be imminent in this realm,” said Darion. “Rudgar King’s attack at the Dathiri Ford must’ve happened days ago now. I doubt what remained of the garrison there lasted long against it. Meanwhile, a host of murderers and brigands is on its way here to defend Maergath. And across the seas, his majesty’s armies have invaded Korengad.”
“They’re still coming through,” Jeebo warned. The door was giving out. New holes opened in the wood where their axes penetrated. The falconer had no choice now but to stand back and watch it disintegrate before his eyes. He and Kestrel stood with weapons poised, waiting for the final blow.
“We had best speak of this later,” said Sir Jalleth. “You must leave this place. Olyvard King will be after you unless you run.”
“What about you?”
“I shall spend this night the same way I have spent every night of the last twenty years. Flying. I will watch over you, my boy, as I’ve done these past months. Only tonight, I will finally remember why.” With that, the old knight took two steps backward and shrank from man to bird.
“Here. Unlock me,” Alynor said, handing Darion her keys.
Scarcely had her cell door creaked open than the ragged woman was stumbling through and falling into her husband’s arms, sobbing. Ristocule watched him hold her there for a time, despite the soldiers’ cries and Jeebo’s continued warnings. Darion was a boy no longer. Now he understood the depths of love and all its sacrifices.
As for Ristocule, he was still himself. Yet the changing had shaken his memories loose, and he was also Sir Jalleth Highbridge. An inconvenient plight for the man he had once been, perhaps. But he was himself again, and that was what he’d been wanting all along. He flapped to the windowsill and took flight toward the king’s great hall, burdened with the knowledge that his role in all this was far from done.
Chapter 28
Now that Lady Alynor was in his arms again, Darion was loath to let her go. But his majesty’s guardsmen were almost through the door, and he did not think it would go well for anyone if they managed to open it with Kestrel and Jeebo standing in wait. So he gave Alynor a squeeze, stepped in front of his companions, and began to chant in a low voice.
“He’s casting a spell,” said one of the soldiers, peering through a gash in the door.
“Get to him, quick,” shouted another. “Before he finishes.”
Darion finished before they did. He lifted a hand to release a twisting gout of bluefire. The battered door blew off its hinges to throw the men across the next room in a shower of burning splinters.
Darion stepped through the blaze, casting again. Each time a man tried to rise, Darion flicked his wrist to send them scrabbling to their knees with a sudden itching blindness. The effects would only last a short time, so Darion waved for his companions to follow him. Together they sprinted through the dungeon and scrambled up the stairs.
When they arrived in the long bannered corridor outside the great hall, the doors were hanging open. Flashes of colored light illuminated the darkness within the throne room. Darion rushed to the doors and peered inside to find old Geddle standing on the throne, defending Olyvard King, who cowered behind it. Bloodcaller was still leaning against the armrest. Dead Dathiri soldiers lay all around.
Rylar Prince stood across the room, flinging spells of every sort: bolts of lightning, burning spheres of bluefire, gelatinous globs of acid, and ear-piercing gusts of wind that struck the old mage with hurricane force. Geddle appeared to be holding his own, though. The prince’s tattered red tabard was dark-stained and hanging off him by threads.
At first Darion was not sure what to do. If he defended the king, Rylar Prince would likely come to harm. That would not go over well when his father’s armies arrived at the gates of Maergath. Darion could scarcely help the prince, though; corrupt and unjust as Olyvard King might be, he was still the king of Dathrond, and Darion was no king-killer. If he did nothing, the prince would eventually take the upper hand in this fight. Old Geddle was a skilled mage, but he was no match for a Warcaster in open combat. If Geddle went down, the king would be next.
All of Darion’s doubts and fears began to come back to him. Rylar Prince is the greatest Warcaster in all the realms, Gaelyn had said. And that is something you have never been, Darion told himself. Gaelyn had been right, just like all the other commonfolk who said so. And yet now, with the future of all the realms at stake, you must do something to stop him.
Before Darion could take another breath, Rylar Prince sent a yellow spray hurtling toward the throne, trailing smoke. Geddle managed to stop the first few cinders, but there was no avoiding the rest. The prince’s firestones rained down on the old mage like a storm, puncturing his flesh with searing holes, as if Geddle were no sturdier than a lump of soft cheese. The cinders stuck and smoldered in the king’s golden throne, melting its delicate carvings in much the same way.
Darion knew the king was doomed if he did not act now. He grabbed Alynor’s hand and gave it a squeeze. “Wait here, my lady.”
Alynor gave him a heavy look. She said nothing, though, perhaps too stunned to speak.
“Singer, falconer… now’s the time to do as you promised. Protect my lady wife.”
Kestrel gave him a nod.
“Aye,” said Jeebo.
Darion stepped through the doorway, chanting.
With Geddle out of his way, Rylar Prince was marching toward the king now, full of rage and malice. Olyvard was still cowering behind his throne as drops of molten gold fell steaming to the floor. Darion saw movement from the corner of his eye. A prone druid, one of Torrel Partridge’s hooded men, lifted his arm in Darion’s direction and fired a bolt from his tiny crossbow.
Next Darion knew, Ristocule was sliding past him like a blur to snatch the bolt from the air. Darion saw it come within inches of his arm, felt the bird’s wind on his shoulder, and breathed a sigh of relief. A second later, a side door flew open. Triolyn leaned in and planted an arrow in the druid’s throat from across the room. The druid made a retching sound, then lay still.
Rylar Prince whirled and sent a barrage of firestones toward Triolyn. The archer ducked out of sight just before the doorway erupted in a hail of burning rock. Darion advanced toward the prince, pushing a scatter of glowing purple heartseekers from his fingertips.
The prince snatched up a handful of some protective spell and let the heartseekers soak harmlessly into his outstretched palm. He halted for a moment, studying Darion like a man surprised by some unexpected betrayal. He motioned toward the throne and said something in the Korengadi tongue. His expression was eager; even friendly, somehow.
Rylar thinks I will help him kill the king, Darion realized.
There were several bundles of awakened mage-song floating around the prince. Darion had cast several of his own spells, and he could feel them beginning to fade as he stood there idly. Soon they would both be back where they started.
“I cannot do this,” Darion told him, though he knew the prince would not understand. “I will not do this.”
For a moment it seemed the prince did understand—if not the words, the sentiment. He said something and shook his head with a look of disgust. Drawing a sword from the scabbard of a fallen soldier, he placed his palm against the blade and came toward Darion. Darion could see the blade wavering as the mage-song entered the steel; a weapon well-forged for battle, perhaps, but not one created to hold a spell.
Rylar closed the remaining distance. Swords met in flashes of steel and mage-song. Darion parried, struck, parried again. The prince was sure on his feet, but there was no dance or spring in his step; he was weakened from his long imprisonment. His black hair swung about his shoulders as he took turns hacking and casting, striking and swinging, spreading his fingers to send bursts of colorful energy in Darion’s direction.
Darion was forced to go on the defensive, backing through the room as the prince’s sword, blazing with mage-song, cut deep notches into his. He managed to turn Rylar’s blade aside and land a stabbing cut alongside the prince’s unarmored ribs. Rylar grunted and moved off, giving Darion a chance to catch his breath. The prince is every bit as good as they say, Darion thought, chanting.
Rylar steeled himself, and the two men joined battle once more. Darion lost all awareness of his surroundings, concentrating instead on intoning his spells and using them when called for. Fatigue began to show on the prince’s face, thin and malnourished as he was from his time in the dungeons. He was a solid fighter though, and scrappy. Darion could see him retreating toward his instincts as weariness set in, falling back on years of hard training. Men did not become Warcasters through apathy or carelessness, and the prince was no exception.
Darion tossed a shower of white-hot sparks at the prince, who shielded himself with a wave of his arm. The prince’s sword gave out, crumpling under the mage-song’s pressure like something hollow. He tossed it aside, shouting what must’ve been a Korengadi curse, and began tossing spells at Darion with both hands.
A shaft of red energy struck Darion’s blade, knocking away steel shards as it passed through. The intensity of Rylar’s attack forced him to drop the sword so he could alternate between blocking the prince’s spells and hurling his own in reply. As the mage-song’s manifestations glared and glittered between them, Darion began to fear he would soon be bested as Geddle had. Even in his fatigue, the prince was hard to keep up with, and Darion was slowing now as well.
Triolyn leaned out to send an arrow at Rylar’s back. The prince waved a hand, and the arrow burst to splinters before it was halfway to him. Next Darion knew, Jeebo and Kestrel were charging through the double doors, swords in hand. Rylar covered the floor in an oil spell, and the two men crashed down and tumbled to a halt. The prince shot a firestone, and the oil burst into flames. He was still fending off Darion’s spells with ease, intercepting some and deflecting others with a flick of his hand. He fights as if he’s got four arms, Darion thought with despair. How will I ever disable the man without killing him?
Jeebo rolled away as the flames rushed across the floor, lighting the dead and wounded alike. Kestrel kicked himself to his feet and sprang sideways just in time. Triolyn shot two more arrows, but these met the same fate as the first. Rylar flung a burst of force at the archer’s doorframe to send a shower of stone down around him.
Amid the dust and noise of the rubble, Darion saw his chance. He picked up a spear and charged in, thrusting it with intent to deal the prince a disabling blow.
Rylar spun away to let the spear slide past, inches from his body. He whirled and brought his fist across Darion’s jaw. The force of the mage-song was behind his swing, and the backhanded punch sent Darion flying off his feet. He landed on his back beside the patch of burning oil and felt his sleeve catch fire.
Across the throne room, Olyvard lifted his robes and made a dash for the side door. Rylar was ready for him. The prince lifted his arm toward the fleeing king and delivered the last of his bluefire in a swirling azure globe the size of a man’s head. Olyvard King was too busy running for his life to see the spell coming. He was as dead as old Geddle, only he didn’t know it yet. Darion cried out to warn him, knowing he was too late.
Without warning, the globe of bluefire reversed direction and hurtled back toward the prince. Rylar shielded himself as the spell exploded over him. There was a rush of flame, and for a moment his body appeared to burn like a gigantic blue torch. By the time he snuffed the flames, Triolyn was pulling the king through the doorway to the safety of the outer gallery.
When Darion glanced back, Lady Alynor was standing between the main doors, arms outstretched and breathing heavily. The spell, Darion realized. She’s used the movement spell I taught her. He was so proud he could hardly contain himself. But he was also on fire, so he beat at the flames along his arm until he’d put them out.
Rylar gave Alynor that same betrayed look he’d given Darion earlier. Then he muttered something under his breath and sprinted through the crumbling doorway after Triolyn and the king. Darion got to his feet and rushed to Alynor, skirting the patch of burning oil between them.
Before he could get there, a shadow moved into the doorway and grabbed Alynor from behind. She screamed as the hooded man wrapped an arm around her throat and leveled his wrist-mounted crossbow at her breast. Torrel Partridge’s scarred face cracked an ugly grin. “One move and she dies,” said the druid.
Even with the man’s arm tight around her neck, Alynor managed to gasp out a few words. “My—dearest. Go. Stop—the prince.”
Darion looked to Kestrel and Jeebo, still getting to their feet and brushing themselves off. He’d given them one task, and they’d failed him. He stuffed his anger down all the same and said, “After them, the both of you. His majesty and Triolyn will need your help against the prince.”
“What about—”
“I’ll handle this.”
The singer and the falconer nodded and took off toward the outer hall.
“What is it you want, Partridge?” Darion asked. “Revenge? Is that it? I took my vengeance upon you, and now you seek to take it back? If it’s me you want, you’ve no cause to harm my lady wife. Leave her be, thief. This is between you and I.”
Torrel Partridge’s hideous smile broadened. “You call me thief,” he said in his thick gravelly voice. “And yet your father was the true swindler. You seem to think him an upstanding man, as all sons are wont.”
“My father was a simple glass merchant trying to provide for his family,” said Darion.
“Is that what your mother told you after I gutted him?”
“It is the truth.”
Partridge gave a low chuckle. “Tell me, Sir Ulther. Who does a glass merchant get his stock from?”
“The glassblower.”
“Aye, the glassblower. And do you know who my father was? Do you know how I used to earn my wage as a boy? Your father fleeced us for years. He owed us a fortune in silver by the time I got up the nerve to do something about it. I told him if he didn’t pay what was owed, there would be trouble. I warned him. It wasn’t for lack of coin he chose not to deal with me fairly. It was greed, plain as these scars.”
“Was a pocketful of silver sufficient reason to kill him? To… to—violate my mother?”
“I’d had it out with him before, you understand. It was desperate times back then. I had a family of mine own to feed, and a liege lord none too pleased with my being behind on my levies. I was at risk of losing my home and my family. I’d little other recourse than to take what was mine. Thanks to you and your father, we lost it all anyway.”
Darion could see it now. The shape of Partridge’s mouth; the way his face strained when he spoke of weighty things. This man is Myren and Evulon’s father, he thought. They are so much like him.
Partridge’s face had haunted Darion for a long time, truth be told. He’d tried to put it out of his mind, but he’d never forgotten. “So you’ve spent this second life of yours plotting against me, as if your past were all my fault? I am not my father.”
“You tortured me, Sir U
lther. You put me to death. When I tried to explain my side of things, you wouldn’t listen.”
“I’ve made mistakes, just as you have,” said Darion. “But I’ve come to learn that death must be treated as a last resort.”
“Through many years and many trials, your death has always been my aim.”
“Put aside your vengeance, if only for the nonce,” said Darion. “The king we both serve is dead if we do not help him now.”
“You are too old and slow to defeat Rylar Prince,” said Partridge. “If you face him again, you will not survive.”
“Perhaps not,” said Darion. “Unless you help me.”
Partridge sucked his lip, considering. “This is not over, Warcaster.”
“So be it. We must hurry. Take the great hall. I’ll follow them down the outer gallery. And for the sake of Dathrond, put the prince to sleep. You must not kill him, or we are all doomed.”
The druid slipped into the shadows, leaving a breathless Lady Alynor on the verge of collapse. Darion rushed over and swept her up in his arms just before her legs gave out beneath her. “My lady… it’s alright. You’re alright now.” He held her there until she felt strong enough to stand.
“Go,” she said. “Stop the prince.”
“Find somewhere to hide. I’ll come for you when it’s safe. Sir Jalleth will watch over you until then.”
Up in the rafters, Ristocule gave a screech.
“Nonsense, my dearest. I’m coming with you.”
“No, my lady. You’ll faint if you try to run. Please, you must hide.”
“But I want to help…” Alynor’s voice trailed off.
Darion felt her legs wobble, saw the light fade briefly from her eyes. He looked up at the bird. “Sir Jalleth. You must come down here at once. She’s not well.”
Ristocule flapped down, falling into human form and flopping to the ground. Darion let Alynor lean on the old knight while he removed his surcoat, then took her back to let Sir Jalleth put it on. The moment he shrugged into the garment, there came a thundering crash from outside.
