“Advance,” Gaethon shouts to the guards, and half of them do. The fairies dive in to fight them off. Eron stalks toward Margary with his sword raised. Twig bursts to human size beside her. I glance at Mya, but she’s entangled again. Her mouth is bound by black tendrils. Her eyes are wide and shifty. She’s trying hard to fight it.
The shadows are everywhere, though. It doesn’t take long for everyone within the dome to be caught up in them. It happens too fast. There’s no use trying to throw my knives. If I did, I’d have nothing to defend Margy with. Suddenly, that’s all I can focus on. The swirling cyclone of darkness drives closer, reaching out for the princess, whipping and lashing and trying to grasp her. I slash at them with all of my strength and with all the speed I can muster.
The others bear down on us, too. It’s just me, Margy, and Twig who haven’t been overcome by the shadows. Mya doesn’t attack us, but she’s held and struggling to resist. I slash again and again at the tendrils, sending them curling and shrinking away, but for every one I slash, two spring up in its place.
Beside me, Margy and Twig fight, too. She doesn’t say a word, but links arms with Twig, who towers above the two of us. Together, they send beams of light toward the shadows. Vines, like the tendrils of darkness that whip around us. The light twines with the shadow and casts it away. Just as it seems we might gain the upper hand, everyone pauses and everything goes silent. I sense the command before its sent, and my heart sinks.
“Charge the wards,” the shadows command, and the Royal guard is the first to obey. They crash through the wards surrounding and protecting us. They hack at Twig’s vines. The barriers fall away, leaving us undefended.
The darkness from Eron’s cloak and sword retreat to gather around him again, leaving the fairy defenders and the palace guards to pause in confusion over what just happened. He doesn’t release the Elite, though. He uses the power he regained from releasing the others to bind them tighter and bend them to his will. They advance, eyes wild and dark, weapons raised. Lisabella, Benen, Bryse, Donal, Gaethon, all of them stalk closer to us, ready to strike. I take Margy by the shoulders and we back away into the wall with nowhere left to go.
Beyond them, the battle rages between Dusk and Dawn. Fairies charge forward with golems of wood and light and wind. Imps fight beside their own golems summoned from shadow and stone. I don’t have time to see who has the upper hand. I’m too busy hacking and slicing tendrils away from the Elite and keeping them from hurting Margy. She and Twig try their light vine trick again, but it’s too weak. Even with Twig’s help, Margy isn’t trained enough to fight against this sort of magic. She’s worked long at hiding it, but not long enough to know how to use it.
Bryse looms over us, his eyes black with shadow, his stony fist raised in rage. He slams it down and Twig jumps in front of Margy to take the blow. Margy casts a ward, but it isn’t quick enough or strong enough. Bryse’s blow grazes Twig’s shoulder. It’s enough to make the fairy lose his footing. When he does, Bryse picks him up by the wing tips and flings him down onto the stone with an earsplitting roar. Benen follows with a sneer and kicks Twig while he’s down.
“No!” Margy screams tearfully. “Stop! Please!” She dives to Twig and throws herself over him to shield him, but her presence doesn’t make them stop. Lisabella raises her sword, ready to strike. Her expression is filled with hatred and malice. I arc my arm back to throw a dagger, but Donal blocks me with a thrust of his staff to my elbow. Pain sears all the way up to my shoulder and my arm goes limp. My dagger clatters to the ground. In a fit of rage, I throw my second one and strike him in the shoulder with it. Despite the blood that blooms from his shoulder, he doesn’t even flinch.
“Bring her to us,” the shadows whisper, and the rush of nothing that comes with the command helps me understand. Emptiness. Darkness. The shadows aren’t commanded by Eron or that Sorcerer outside. They’re commanded by the Void. The Dusk itself.
Bryse steps forward and swings his club-like hand toward Margy. He tries to scoop her up, but I grab her arm and pull her away before he can reach her. The princess thrusts her hands forward at the same time, and the shadowy tendrils retreat from the light of her spell, but not enough to release Bryse from their hold on him.
“Twig,” she whimpers, and I spare a glance at him. His wings are snapped. He isn’t moving.
“He’s okay,” I lie. “I’m sure he’s okay.”
There’s no time to talk. Lisabella arcs her sword with a powerful swing, and Margy and I both have to duck to avoid being sliced in two. Behind her, a wood golem peppered with arrows splinters as it’s hit by a bolt of purple energy cast by a Sorcerer. Lisabella doesn’t even glance over her shoulder. Her eyes are completely black. She’s empty. Gone. She starts to swing again, and Margy and I have no where left to go. We cower against the wall, holding each other, waiting for the blow.
It doesn’t come. Everything goes silent, and then there’s a blinding burst of light. It glares into every crevice of every crack in the stone. It washes over us like midday sun. Light and fresh. Peaceful and beautiful. Light so bright that squinting doesn’t help me see. I gaze in the direction of it with my healed eye, and even that doesn’t help me make sense of things. A human-sized fairy, carrying Azi’s new sword. The light that floods the area is coming from her wings. Her hair and cloak swirl around her brightly, casting dancing beams of every color, like Flitt’s hair.
“Eron,” I sense Flitt’s voice in the Half-Realm as she pushes it forth.
“I see,” Azi says in reply.
Flitt darts to Twig and presses her hands to his forehead. Pink and purple light mixes with green and swirls around his face. His eyelids flutter. His wings straighten and heal. I glance at Margy for her reaction, but she’s completely still. When I nudge her, she doesn’t move. Everything Azi’s light touches seems to be the same. Frozen in place and time. Unmoving and unchanging. Everything except Eron. He strides forward effortlessly. Raises his sword. Narrows his eyes and clenches his teeth in a threatening grimace.
They don’t say a word. They simply advance on each other with furious speed. Azi’s sword radiates with light as much as Eron’s drips with darkness. When the two weapons clash together, the force of their strikes create sparks of light and darkness that spray out over them. Mercy sheds speckles of tiny stars that scatter across the ground. Eron’s sword leaves a spray of pebbles so black the light can’t touch them.
Azi drives Eron across the circle, all the way back to the pyre. With each strike of their swords, her light dims. The same is true with Eron. Every time their weapons meet, the darkness that drips from his blade seems to weaken. Their fight is fierce and merciless. Eron hacks at Azi, catching her waist with his blade. It slices between the scales of her armor with a sizzle. Azi screams and drives him back again. With a powerful slash, she carves a huge gash in the metal of his gauntlet. He almost drops his weapon then, but makes a quick fumble to save it. Azi takes the opportunity to swing again, and this time she adds a kick at the end that sends him stumbling into the pyre.
Eron screams in frustration and lunges himself at her. Azi spins to dodge him, but he catches her elbow and uses his momentum to throw her back behind him. She careens toward the pyre and throws her hands up to stop herself, and both her hands and her sword plunge into the red-hot embers. Eron gives a triumphant laugh, but it’s short-lived. The fire doesn’t seem to have hurt Azi. Her armor protects her from more than a weapon’s blow. It has wards all over it. Sparks of magic embedded into the gold flecks, that redirect the heat.
“Forgive me, Majesty,” she utters, staring horrified into the fire. She’s so disturbed that she disturbed the king’s ashes that she doesn’t notice Eron creeping up.
“Azi, behind you!” I shout, and she whirls with her sword gripped in both hands. Her blade nearly meets its mark, but Eron parries. More dark pebbles scatter across the stone. More sparks fly from Azi’s sword. One skitters to a stop at my feet, and I crouch to pick it up. It’s not an
ordinary spark. It doesn’t burn me or fade in my hand. It pulses, like a chunk of pure light. It calls out to the fae: Take me. Use me. But all of the fairies and their golems are under the effects of the stilling spell. They don’t see or hear. They hover in mid-battle, helpless and useless. All except Flitt, that is.
She flies up to my palm and takes the spark and goes back to Twig. Her color seems to brighten a little as she holds it, and Twig stirs as she places it on his lips. His eyes fly open and he looks at her, and she presses her hands to his lips and shakes her head. Frantically, Twig looks around. When he sees Margy, he shrinks back to fairy size and darts to her.
“Margy!” he pushes, but the princess still doesn’t budge. “Help me, Tib,” he whispers, and starts shoving her. I get the hint and take Margy carefully around the shoulders and pull her back, out of view of the fight. I wedge her beside me, between the back of the carved stone chair and the low wall. When I’m sure she’s safely hidden, I peek out to keep watching.
Azi’s wings have nearly gone now. Eron’s cloak has stopped swirling. Their swords still glow with light and dark, but both are very weak.
“Look around you,” Eron growls as the two opponents swing and slash and block and parry back and forth across the platform. “You will not win this, Azi. Your people are held fast by darkness. Sorcery has won. The Dusk will rule everything now, and with them, I will claim Brindelier and every land beyond this one. You have failed. Cerion is dying.”
While he talks, he does something strange with his feet. Some sort of sword dance. Through the glow of her skin, I see Azi smirk.
“After all you’ve been through,” she says, “you’re still trying the same tired tricks, Eron?”
She crouches fast and sweeps her sword low, catching both his ankles in one swing. Eron lands hard on his back. His cloak slinks over him hungrily. Azi stands above him, her sword poised to strike. She raises it to thrust. One strike through his heart. One strike is all it would take. A single clap makes her pause. That one is followed by another, until the Mentalist-Sorcerer I spotted earlier steps forward from the frozen battle, applauding. Azi doesn’t lower her sword. She keeps it ready to strike, but the Mentalist-Sorcerer has caught her attention.
“End him,” he pushes to her, “and watch them all die.”
With a flick of his wrist, he gestures to the other Sorcerers. His allies. They creep forward into the light. Their hands are all posed the same way: Palms up. Thumbs touching fourth fingers. Tendrils of the Void snake out from them. Three Sorcerers. Six tendrils. They slink along the ground, absorbing the black pebbles as they go. They wind around the Elite. Her mother and father. Her friends. They pull them up to hover in the air, and push them out over the wall so they dangle high over the rocky cliffs and the dark sea.
“You have something we need, Azaeli Hammerfel, Champion of Light. Something which was stolen from us. Give it to us now, and we might let them live.”
A strange sensation distracts me from the scene. Something else, close by. A suggestion. A redirection. It’s strong. Powerful. Dream Magic. Thoughts and wishes. It forces everything and everyone nearby to look away. Something somewhere else is much more interesting. I see it plainly. A diversion. A distraction.
“Tibreseli, Flitt, Twig,” Valenor’s whisper flicks across our ears. “Look over the wall.”
“Oh,” Flitt gasps as she drifts toward the sea. “Look.”
I keep a hand on Margy and lean way over. With my healed eye, I peer down toward the sea. What I see makes my heart race. Sails and wings floating, held up over the water by great sacks of air. A ship, as fine as I’ve ever seen, hovering just out of view of those above. Ruben bobs just below me, waving excitedly from the crow’s nest. At the ship’s helm, Cort keeps the wheel steady. Raefe paces the forecastle, his hand on his hilt. Golems swarm around him, working the cranks and bellows, watching over the sides of the ship for attackers. Dozens of them. Forty or fifty, at least.
“Hide, Tib,” Twig whispers.
“But, Margy,” I mouth. Twig glances at Flitt, and she nods. She reaches into her belt pouch and pulls out her hand and sprinkles something that looks like gold powder into Margy’s hair. The princess vanishes, but I can still feel her shoulder under my hand.
“Give me your coin,” Flitt whispers, “and take her. You go with them, Twig. You’re too weak. Hurry!”
Chapter Forty-Eight: To the Victors…
Azi
The air is tinged with smoke and shadow. His Majesty’s pyre is dying out; its lingering smoke mixes with that of Cerion on fire. On the platform, everything is silent. The Sorcerers stand poised, holding my loved ones over the edge of the cliff, ready to drop them. Eron lies at my feet, the dark magic of his cloak lapping around him like black water. Mercy vibrates in my hands, pulsing with Light, waiting for my command to end the abomination that was once the prince.
“I have it!” Flitt yelps excitedly into my head. “I have the coin!”
I don’t look away from Eron, whose eyes are black and impenetrable. Flitt shows me something else. A ship. It’s there and gone again, but somehow I understand. She doesn’t want to show me too much. Just enough that I understand what can be done, but not enough for the enemy to glean any information that could help them. I push to her, “Bring it to the gate.”
“Without you?” she asks. I nod, very slightly, and she darts off, hidden in the Half-Realm, unnoticed by my enemies.
“You’re injured, Azaeli,” the Mentalist hisses at me. His words seem to twist into the wound at my stomach where Eron’s blade struck me. My breath catches. “Injured and alone.” Alone.
Mercy pulses with a glow that seems to shove the Mentalist’s intentions away from me.
“Who first, then?” the Mentalist murmurs. “The Paladin, I think. Her mother.”
He points at one of the Sorcerers controlling the dark tendrils, and she drops her hands. Instantly, the tendrils break and Mum plummets out of sight.
“No!” I scream and plunge my sword downward with all my strength. I feel it meet with Eron’s armor and go through to the stone beneath him. He snarls and writhes and his allies cry out in horror. Two of them lunge at me, breaking the tendrils that hold Bryse and Donal and my comrades fall away, disappearing beyond the cliff wall. Mya, Uncle, and Da are the only ones left now. They and the guards and the general are still frozen by the same spell that seemed to blanket this place as soon as I arrived.
The Sorcerers drive the shadows toward me and I lash out. Golden threads that whip at my enemies like arrows and plunge through them, forcing them back. My heart aches for those I failed to protect. I cling to the hope that’ll somehow be saved by that ship, and I let their sudden absence fuel my need for victory. Narrowing my eyes, I guide the golden threads to bind each of those who face me. I imagine them thickening into ropes of gold which shine with the light of love and righteousness. I bind their wrists and necks. I force them to the ground to lie on their stomachs. I command the three who are still holding Mya, Da, and Uncle to pull my companions back to safety. I compel them to release their wicked tendrils. When they obey, I bind those Sorcerers, too.
Holding so many at once takes a great deal of concentration. I feel the power bestowed by the Wellspring slowly draining away. The wound at my stomach throbs, and I press my elbow into it to stop the bleeding. Eron moans and tries to get to his feet, but Mercy holds him. The Mentalist stands a safe distance away and watches the scene cautiously. When he speaks, his voice is both in my mind and outside of it. With every word, my head throbs painfully.
“At this point, one might imagine me offering you a different bargain, Azaeli. Your powers of Mentalism are stronger than I foresaw. One might expect me to offer you a place at my side. An apprenticeship, if you will. After all, it is not every day I am witness to a Mentalist of your skill and power.” He raises his hand with a smirk. “But we both know such an offer would be a waste of breath, my dear. So instead, I beseech you. Release Eron. We would all agree that y
ou are the victor in that match. Lower the magics you have placed on this fray. Allow it to play out. I have every confidence that the Dusk shall be victorious, but it would be quite a sight to see, would it not? Release my allies and your own from the Stilling. Let them have their battle.”
I sense the urgency in his plea. His desperation shows me how important Eron is to their cause. Cautiously, with a firm hold on my sword, I look around at the fight that has been frozen in time, taking it in for the first time. Arrows have stopped in midair. Imps and fae hover in place with colorful blasts of magic puffed out from their fingertips, waiting to release their power. Guards stand encircling Margy’s abandoned chair, their swords and spears pointed at a princess who is no longer there to cower from their assault. Golems of wood and wind lock together with shadow-beings in fierce, utterly still combat. It’s like a painting or an arrangement of statues depicting a great fight, and according to the Mentalist, this is all my doing.
I glance at Eron, whose face is strangely highlighted by Mercy’s golden pulse. No blood flows from his wound. No breath escapes his lips. He can’t gasp or bleed to death. His dead eyes search mine as he struggles to free the blade from his chest.
I try to gauge who has the upper hand in the fight as I look over the scene of the king’s pyre. It seems rather even, as long as the Mentalist stops forcing others to turn sides.
“I’ll agree,” I say, still unaware of how to release the spell, “as long as you agree not to force betrayal any longer. Let the Dawn fight for the Dawn, and not for you. If the Dusk’s might is as strong as you insist, then you don’t need petty tricks of the mind.”
Call of Brindelier (Keepers of the Wellsprings Book 3) Page 48
