Wintertide: Book Five: the Riyria Revlations

by Michael J. Sullivan

  “Stop right there, Royce!” Merrick shouted when he had reached the far side.

  From the sound and angle of his voice, Royce knew Merrick was on the second floor of the warehouse.

  “All of the lower doors and windows are sealed. I have a man with a dagger to the empress’s throat.”

  Royce ignored him. He deftly climbed up the closest lamppost, shattered the lantern, and snuffed out the flame. He repeated this twice more, darkening the area.

  “I mean it, Royce,” Merrick shouted again. The tinge of panic in his voice betrayed that his old partner could no longer see him. “Don’t make the mistake of killing another innocent woman tonight.”

  Royce tore the bottom of his cloak and soaked the scrap in the lamppost reservoir. Then he walked to the warehouse.

  “You can’t get to me without killing her!” Merrick shouted again. “Get back where I can see you.”

  Royce began coating the base of the walls with oil.

  “Damn it, Royce. I didn’t do it. I didn’t kill her. It wasn’t me.”

  Royce struck a light, catching the oiled cloth on fire and pushed it under the door. The wood was old and dry, and the flames hungrily took hold. The brisk winter wind did its part, spreading flames to the clapboard sides.

  “What are you doing?” asked Saldur’s voice, rising in terror. “Marius, do something. Threaten to cut Modina’s throat if he doesn’t—”

  “I did, you idiot! He doesn’t care about the empress. He’s going to kill us all!” Marius shouted.

  The flames spread quickly. Royce went back for more oil to lure the fire across the timbers. The exterior of the storehouse blazed, and sheets of flame raced upward. Royce stepped back and watched the building burn. He felt the heat on his face as the flaming building lit up the street.

  Shouts came from inside, fighting to be heard over the crackling of the fire. Royce waited, watching the cloverleaf insignia burn away.

  It was not long before the first man jumped from a second-story window. He managed to land well enough, but Royce was on him in an instant. Alverstone flickered in the firelight. The man screamed, but Royce was in no hurry and took his time. He cut the tendons of the man’s legs, making it impossible for him to run. Then, sitting on his chest, he severed the man’s fingers. It had been a long time since Royce had used Alverstone to dismember someone. He marveled at how well the white dagger cut through the toughest cartilage and even through bone. Royce left the first man to bleed when he noticed another one jump. This one came from a third-story window. He landed awkwardly, and Royce heard a bone break.

  “No!” the man cried, struggling to crawl away as Royce’s dark form flew toward him. The man scraped desperately at the snow. Once more, Royce was slow and methodical. The man howled with each cut. When he stopped moving, Royce removed his heart. He stood up, drenched in blood, his right arm soaked to the elbow, and threw the organ through the window the man had leapt from.

  “You’re next, Saldur,” he taunted. “I can’t wait to see if you actually have one or not.”

  There was no response.

  Out of the corner of his eye, Royce saw a dark figure moving from the back of the building. Merrick was barely noticeable as he slipped through the dancing shadows. Royce guessed he was planning to hide on the lip under the Langdon Bridge, which the Black Diamond used to ambush targets. Royce left Saldur to burn. The fire completely engulfed the second floor. It would just be a matter of time. The only way out was for the regent to jump, and a man his age would fare poorly in a three-story drop to frozen ground.

  Royce chased after Merrick, who abandoned stealth to make an open run for it. Royce caught up quickly, and Merrick gave up near the middle of the bridge. He turned, his dagger drawn, his face covered in sweat and soot.

  “I didn’t kill her,” he shouted.

  Royce did not respond. He rapidly closed the remaining distance and attacked. The white dagger lashed out like a snake. Merrick dodged. He avoided the first swipe but Royce caught him on the return stroke, slicing across his chest.

  “Listen to me,” Merrick said, still trying to back away. “Why would I kill her? You know me! Don’t you think I knew she was my protection? Have you ever seen me do anything as stupid as that? Just ask yourself—why would I do such a thing? What would I gain? Think, Royce, think. What reason would I have to kill her?”

  “The same reason that I’m going to kill you—revenge.”

  Royce lunged. Merrick tried to move, but he was too slow. He would have died instantly if Royce had aimed for his heart or throat. Instead, Alverstone caught Merrick in the right shoulder.

  It plunged deep and Merrick dropped his weapon.

  “IT DOESN’T MAKE SENSE!” Merrick screamed at him. “This has nothing to do with Jade. If I wanted revenge, I could have killed you years ago. I only wanted Saldur and the empress. I was never going to hurt her. We’ve made our peace with one another, Royce. I was serious about that offer to work together again. We are not enemies. Don’t make the same mistake I did. You were set up when Jade died, but I couldn’t see that—I didn’t want to. Now someone is doing the same thing to me. I’ve been set up, don’t you see? Just like you were. Use your brain! If I had a bow, would I have let you burn the warehouse? It wasn’t me. It was someone else!”

  Royce made a show of looking around. “Funny, I don’t see anyone else here.”

  He pounced again. Merrick retreated and his heel hit the short curb of the bridge.

  “You’re running out of room.”

  “Damn it Royce, you have to believe me. I would never kill Gwen. I swear to you—I didn’t do it!”

  “I believe you,” Royce said. “I just don’t care.”

  With one final thrust, he stabbed Alverstone into Merrick’s chest.

  Merrick toppled backward. He reached out for the only thing he could grab, and together he and Royce fell over the edge.

  ***

  When the gate had burst open, Hadrian did not wait for the others. Instead, he spurred his horse and raced toward the river. Malevolent slipped on the snow and nearly fell as he rounded the corner to Landon Bridge. On the far side, the warehouse burned like a giant pyre. The street lamps on that side of the bridge were dark. On his side, the iron swans, dusted with snow, flickered with an eerie orange light. The tall lampposts cast wavering shadows—thin, dark, dancing spears that fluttered and jabbed.

  Hadrian saw her lying near the side of the bridge.

  “Oh, dear Maribor, no!” He ran to Gwen’s side. Flakes of snow gathered on her closed eyes and clung to her dark lashes. He put his head to her chest. There was no heartbeat—she was dead.

  “IT DOESN’T MAKE SENSE!” Hadrian heard someone cry out. Looking down the bridge, he saw them at the very apex of the span. Royce had Merrick backed up along the edge. Merrick was hurt, unarmed, and screaming. Jumping to his feet, Hadrian sprinted forward, his boots slipping on the slick snow. From only a few strides away, Hadrian saw Royce stab Merrick and watched as both of them tumbled over the side.

  He slid, caught himself against the lip, and looked over. His heart pounded in his chest. Far below, the churning water of the Bernum River revealed itself as a dark line broken by moonlit explosions where water crashed against rocks. He saw something dark still falling. A moment later, it hit the surface with a brief flash of white.

  ***

  Arista flexed her fingers and climbed back on her horse. Breckton remounted as well and rode forward to speak with the shouting gate guards. Hadrian had already disappeared into the twisting streets.

  No one mentioned anything about the exploding gate.

  Without Hadrian to guide them, Sir Breckton led the detachment through Colnora. They crossed the Bernum using the Warpole Bridge and were midway across when they saw the warehouse ablaze near a bridge farther down the river, signaling their destination. Rather than backtrack, Breckton continued across the Warpole and arrived at the Langdon Bridge on the warehouse side, causing them to pass in front
of the monstrous blaze.

  The building was an inferno. The burning hulk mesmerized Arista. Huge spirals of flames reached to the sky. All four stories were on fire. The north wall blistered and snapped. The east wall curled and partially collapsed, releasing a burst of sparks and a rain of burning debris that hissed when it struck snow. White smoke billowed out from shattered windows and a nearby oak tree blazed, its naked limbs turned into a giant torch.

  Arista heard a woman cry out.

  “That’s Modina!” Amilia shrieked, pulling back so hard on her horse’s reins that the beast shook its head and backed up a step. “SHE’S INSIDE!”

  Sir Breckton and several of his men dismounted and rushed to the doorway. They broke down the bolted door, but the heat forced them back. Breckton pulled his cloak over his head and started to enter.

  “Stop!” Arista shouted as she slid from her horse.

  The knight hesitated.

  “You’ll die before you reach her. I’ll go.”

  “But—” Breckton started to say then stopped. Rubbing his jaw, he looked at the fire and then back at Arista. “Can you save her?”

  Arista shook her head. “I don’t know. I’ve never done this before, but I stand a better chance than you do. Just keep everyone else back.”

  She pulled the sleeves of Esrahaddon’s robe over her hands and the hood up around her head and then approached the crumbling warehouse. Realizing she could sense the fire’s movements was exhilarating. The blaze moved and acted like a living thing. It withered, snapped, and fed on the old wood like a ravenous beast. It was hungry, starved for nourishment, a never ending want, boundless greed. Approaching the inferno, she sensed it noticing her, and the fire regarded Arista with desire.

  No, she told it. Eat the wood. Ignore me.

  The fire hissed.

  Leave me alone or I will snuff you out.

  Arista knew she could conjure a rainstorm, or even a whirlwind, but rain would take too long, and wind would collapse the fragile building. Perhaps there was a way to eliminate the fire altogether, but she was not certain how to go about it and Modina could not wait for her to figure it out.

  The fire snapped. She felt its elemental eye turn away and Arista entered the blackened doorway. She walked into an inferno of smoke and fire. Everything around her was burning. Hot currents of air whipped and gusted, blasting through the building’s interior. She moved through a raging river of smoky air that parted around her.

  After finding the scorched wooden stairs, she carefully began to climb. Beneath her feet the planks fractured, splintered, and popped. With the protection of Esrahaddon’s robe, she felt warmth but nothing more. Breathing through the material, Arista found fresh, cool air.

  “Thanks Esra,” she muttered, pushing forward into the thick, surging smoke.

  She heard a muffled cry from above and climbed. On the third floor, she found Modina. The empress was in the center of a small room, hands and feet bound. The fire was busy enjoying the older, drier timber of the main brace on the far side of the room and ignored the greener floorboards where Modina lay. Running along the rafters it ate into the supporting beams with wolfish delight.

  “Not much time,” the princess said, glancing up. “Can you walk?”

  “Yes,” Modina answered.

  Arista cursed herself for not wearing a dagger as her fingers struggled to untie the empress’s hands. Once loose, they worked to free her feet.

  Modina coughed and gagged. Arista removed the robe. Instantly the intense heat slammed into her. She wrapped the garment over their shoulders like a blanket and held one of the sleeves to her mouth.

  “Breathe through the robe,” she told Modina over the roaring blaze.

  The two women moved down the stairs together. Arista kept her focus on the fire’s intentions and warned it away when it came too close. A timber cracked overhead and crashed with the sound of thunder. The building shuddered with the blow. A step snapped under Arista, and Modina pulled her forward in time to save the princess from a two-story fall.

  “We can thank the dungeon for you not weighing much,” Modina said through the sleeve pressed against her mouth.

  They reached the ground floor and raced out together. The moment Modina emerged, Amilia threw her arms around her.

  “There’s someone else up there,” Sir Breckton announced. “In that upper window near the end.”

  “Help!” Saldur cried. “Someone help me!”

  A few looked to Arista, but she made no move to re-enter the building.

  “HELP ME!” he screamed.

  Arista stepped back to get a better view. The old man was in tears. His face transfigured with horror.

  “Arista!” he pleaded, spotting her. “In the name of Novron…help me child.”

  “It’s a shame,” she shouted back, her voice rising above the roar of the fire, “that Hilfred isn’t here to save you.”

  There was another loud crack and Saldur’s eyes filled with panic. He grabbed the windowsill and clung to it as the floor gave way beneath him. With a final scream, his fingers slipped and Maurice Saldur, former Bishop of the Nyphron Church, co-regent and architect of the New Empire, vanished from view into the inferno.

  ***

  Hadrian was bent over the bridge’s edge, looking over the side. His eyes fixated on the spot far below where the body hit the river. A gust of wind revealed a familiar cloak that flapped out from below the skirt of the bridge.

  His heart beat faster as he spotted four fingers clinging to a hidden lip that ran beneath the span. He hurriedly wrapped his feet around a lamppost and lowered himself farther. Royce was there, just out of reach. His partner’s left hand held the underside of the Langdon, his feet dangling free.

  “Royce!” Hadrian called.

  His partner did not look up.

  “Royce—damn you, look at me!”

  Royce continued to stare down into the foaming waters as the wind whipped his black cape like the broken wings of a bird.

  “Royce, I can’t reach you,” Hadrian shouted, extending his arm toward his friend. “You have to help me. You need to reach with your other hand so I can pull you up.”

  There was a pause.

  “Merrick is dead,” Royce said softly.

  “I know.”

  “Gwen is dead.”

  Hadrian paused, “Yes.”

  “I—I burned Modina alive.”

  “Royce, goddamn it! That doesn’t matter. Please, look at me.”

  Slowly, Royce tilted his head up. His hood fell away and tears streaked his cheeks. He refused to meet Hadrian’s eyes.

  “DON’T DO IT!” Hadrian yelled.

  “I—I don’t have anything left,” Royce muttered, his words almost stolen by the wind. “I don’t—”

  “Royce, listen to me. You have to hang on. Don’t let go. Don’t you dare let go. Do you hear me? Are you listening to me, Royce Melborn? You have to hang on, Royce. Please…Give me your hand. Give me your hand!”

  Royce’s head snapped up. He focused on Hadrian and there was a curious look in his eyes. “What—What did you say?”

  “I said I can’t reach you. I need your help.”

  Hadrian extended his arm farther.

  Royce sheathed Alverstone and swung his body. The momentum thrust his right hand upward. Hadrian grabbed it and lifted.

  THE RIYRIA REVELATIONS

  If you enjoyed this novel, you will be happy to learn that…

  Wintertide is the fifth in a six-book series entitled The Riyria Revelations. This saga is neither a string of sequels nor a lengthy work unnaturally divided. Instead, The Riyria Revelations was conceived as a single epic tale told through six individual episodes. While a book might hint at building mysteries or thickening plots, these threads are not essential to reach a satisfying conclusion to the current episode—which has its own beginning, middle, and end.

  Eschewing the recent trends in fantasy toward the lengthy, gritty, and dark, The Riyria Revelations brings
the genre back to its roots. Avoiding unnecessarily complicated language and world building for its own sake, this series is a distillation of the best elements of traditional fantasy—great characters, a complex plot, humor, and drama all in appropriate measures.

  While written for an adult audience, The Riyria Revelations lacks sex, gratuitous violence, and profanity, making it appropriate for readers thirteen and older.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Born in Detroit, Michigan, Michael J. Sullivan was raised in Novi. He has also lived in Vermont, North Carolina, and Virginia. He worked as a commercial artist and illustrator, founding his own advertising agency in 1996, which he closed in 2005 to pursue writing fulltime. His first published novel, The Crown Conspiracy, was released in October 2008 and sold out its first printing in December 2009. He currently resides in Fairfax, Virginia, with his wife and three children.

  WEBSITES

  Author’s Homepage: www.michaelsullivan-author.com

  Author’s Blog: www.riyria.blogspot.com

  CONTACT

  Twitter: @author_sullivan

  Email: michael.sullivan.dc@gmail.com

  BOOKS IN THE RIYRIA REVELATIONS

  The Crown Conspiracy

  Avempartha

  Nyphron Rising

  The Emerald Storm

  Wintertide

  Percepliquis*

  *Coming in April 2011

  AWARDS FOR THE RIYRIA REVELATION BOOKS

  THE CROWN CONSPIRACY

  2009 Dark Wolf Award for Top 10 Fantasy Books

  2009 National Indie Excellence Award Finalist

  2008 ReaderViews Literary Award Finalist

  2007 Foreword Magazine Book of the Year Finalist

  AVEMPARTHA

  2009 Winner Book Spot Central Tournament of Books

  2009 Dark Wolf Award for Top 10 Fantasy Books