Last Stand: The Black Mage Book 4

by Carter, Rachel E.

  I heard their pounding footfall as I lunged.

  My hands caught hold of the nearest wooden beam, and I heaved myself up and over the building for all that I was worth.

  There was a terrible jolt in the sockets of my arms and everything burned.

  I staggered across the slatted roof, trying not to think about what would happen if I slipped, or, gods help me, stepped onto a piece of rotted wood. The beams shook and voices raised beneath—people wondering about the pounding feet over their heads.

  Moments later a dagger whistled across the air. The soldiers had made it up faster than I expected. I didn’t have time to cast a defense as all of my effort was in running across an unstable roof. The blade caught the back of my thigh.

  I had all of one second to make a decision. I couldn’t run with a blade embedded in my leg—it would damage the muscles with every leap—so I jerked the blade free as I cast out a globe. Then I ripped my sleeve and tied a makeshift wrap to my leg. My handwork was sloppy and rushed, but I didn’t have a choice.

  Just because I had a magic shield didn’t mean they couldn’t approach.

  Everything throbbed, and blood pulsed heavily against my leg.

  I stalled at the ledge of the building. There was another roof, but I didn’t trust myself to make the leap with my injured leg. The drop was seven yards and there were no crates to climb, but it was in an empty alley, and no one would see. The fall would be agony on my leg, but it was doable. I just had to make the distance less than it was.

  I ducked—the casting was still up as another throwing knife bounced harmlessly off its surface—and then I crouched, using my hands to clutch the beam as I hung off the side of the roof.

  Then I let go, relaxing my arms and bending my knees as I braced myself for the ground.

  I landed on the balls of my feet and fell to the right. The impact sent me back against the building’s wall. I caught the worst of the impact in my arm. It saved me from a broken back, but from the pain in my lower body and the shooting pain in my wrist, I wasn’t sure I hadn’t fractured my arm in the fall.

  But now I had to run.

  The guards were calling to others over the noisy square. They weren’t going to jump like I did; they were racing back to that first alley with the crates.

  I limped my way to the front and scanned the crowd for the three angry men from before. I couldn’t find them anywhere.

  Good.

  It was time to make my break for the woods.

  I was barely three yards from the King’s Road when someone’s cry broke the crowd.

  “The rebel!”

  Someone had recognized me.

  “It’s her!”

  And then one of the men from before yelled, “Catch that thief, boys!”

  I had no choice. They knew who I was, so there was no point hiding my magic now. I cast a globe and started to run.

  A terrible pain shot up my thigh as I lunged.

  Behind me, the crowd was starting to break. Stones ricocheted against my shield.

  Come on, Ryiah, run! But my limp was getting worse and the crowd was closing in.

  “King killer!”

  “Murderer.”

  I was running, but it wasn’t enough. In seconds, I was surrounded.

  A mob of angry villagers crowded around with the soldiers at the front.

  Can I cast and buy myself enough time to run? That should have been the only question on my mind, but there was another, more pronounced: king killer?

  Someone’s blade jabbed at my globe. I flinched instinctively, and the bandage broke at my thigh. Hot blood slicked down the side of my leg.

  The mob pressed in, their rage beating down on me like a drum. I was safe, my casting would hold. But for how long? Angry chants and more rocks hit the barrier, one by one.

  Panic tugged at my gut. There were close to thirty angry villagers. I could cast, but what would it cost me? Could I go on knowing the price it would reap?

  I couldn’t take that many lives, not when the crowd’s only crime was a misplaced faith in the Crown.

  “Someone get me some shackles and send an envoy to Devon. The reward will be enough to rebuild the entire village and feed our families for years.”

  I couldn’t attack the crowd. They were only doing what was best.

  The ground shifted and groaned. I barely had time to catch myself before I fell.

  What…?

  When I looked up, all I could see was smoke. The globe separated me from the fumes, but I couldn’t see anything beyond it. All I heard were screams.

  And that’s when the first person slammed the side of my shield.

  And then another.

  I watched, horrified, as another slid down the side of my sphere, their hands and mouth trailing blood as they collapsed to the dirt.

  I had no idea what was happening. All I knew was it was everywhere else—everywhere but me.

  There were so many screams.

  I should have reacted. I should have cast something to help, but I was numb. I didn’t know who or what the person was casting, and all I could think was that he had finally caught up to me. Was it him? I wasn’t sure I could fight.

  I wasn’t sure I should.

  Then the screams stopped. A woman’s hysterical laugh rose above the din. Smoke was still clearing, but from what I could see…

  My casting faltered from the horror in my chest.

  A ring of dead villagers surrounded my feet. The cobblestones ran red with their blood.

  A hovering dagger appeared at my throat.

  “There she is. Wanted alive.” A familiar voice spat the last word with venom. Mira. Blayne’s right hand. “The king sends fifty sniveling men and demotes me to a guard.” She snorted. “And look which one of us finally caught up to his elusive little rebel after all.”

  I couldn’t speak. Horror still flooded my chest—not for my sake, but the thirty others in the street.

  “This,” Mira added, “should change his mind.”

  “Did Blayne promote your brother instead?” My rebuttal was weak. I was stalling, trying to buy myself time to think. Darren wasn’t here; it was just her. “Marius always was the better mage.” The blade twitched, and I swallowed as it scraped against skin. “Blayne must have finally figured that out.”

  Everyone knew Marius had been King Lucius’s favorite. It was a sore spot for the jealous sister. She’d had to team up with the king’s heir to finally gain recognition.

  The mage didn’t react as I’d hoped. “You haven’t heard.” Her lips curved up in a merciless slant. “Well, this is a treat.”

  My pulse thundered in my ears.

  “Blayne,” she declared, watching my face, “is dead. The palace healers were incompetent. He was gone before sunrise the night you escaped.”

  But that means… My stomach dropped. I could be a king killer and there could still be a king.

  Blayne had a successor.

  The one person who was never supposed to wear the crown.

  “The new king is the one who ordered the bounty on your head.” Mira continued on with a hint of glee. “You are to be his example to the rest.”

  I couldn’t breathe. My heart thumped heavily and my lungs rose and fell, but nothing was coming. I was numb.

  Darren was king.

  I had never even considered a future in which his brother was gone. I’d been so convinced Blayne would survive.

  And now.

  I remembered his words that night: “You took… everything.”

  “After the war, he’ll hunt the rest of the rebels down. Make no mistake.”

  I could barely process her words. “After the war? But—”

  “What? You thought he wouldn’t continue where his brother left off?” Mira sneered as she drew close. “Your beloved never believed a word you said. He sent the Crown’s Army to march on Caltoth not two days after he was crowned.”

  But this couldn’t be. Darren wasn’t the enemy. The enemy was dead.r />
  But he still believes in Blayne’s cause.

  “I’m sure they’re almost to the border by now. They should reach Caltoth any day.”

  “But I…” I’d been hiding out in the forest for days, slowly making my way north, remaining miles off the main road except for today. It was possible.

  No.

  Darren wouldn’t do this. “You are lying.” She had to be; I couldn’t believe the alternative.

  “Am I?” Mira chortled. “Well, you will see soon enough.”

  The pressure of the blade was enough to draw blood. Little rivulets slid down my neck, slick and warm. The cut was a building sting, but it was nothing thanks to the panic in my lungs.

  If Darren was almost to the border, had he passed the keep? Had he found Alex and Ella? Had he figured out who the rebels were?

  There were a thousand questions, and the worst one was burning a hole in my chest. I couldn’t even process its implications.

  What have I done?

  Mira’s eyes narrowed to slits as she took a step forward, manacles in hand. “You try anything,” she warned, “and I’ll break both your legs. The king might want you alive, but he never said you had to be pristine.”

  One more step. Then another. I waited until the woman was six yards away.

  She must have forgotten how long it took to bring me to my knees, to drain all of the stamina I had spent so many years building. She had grown too accustomed to winning with ten regiment mages at her side in the dungeon.

  Only now it was just the two of us. And right now, I might have been beaten and bruised, but this was far from my worst, even with her blade at my neck.

  And so my muscles relaxed.

  I watched as a bit of tension fell from Mira’s shoulders, her casting wavering just enough. She thought I wasn’t going to put up a fight, and she had unconsciously allowed herself to mirror her opponent’s stance.

  You never were as good as your brother. Marius would never make that mistake.

  My right hand shot up to grasp the hilt of her dagger, and then I jerked it away. The cords of my muscles bunched under the strain, my arm was shaking just to keep the blade at a distance, but it was enough. My casting had strengthened my grip.

  I overcame her hold. Her eyes flared in panic.

  I’m second only to Darren. You never stood a chance.

  My second casting took off. The projection struck against the core of my magic like flint against steel.

  There was an explosion of light, so bright the entire square was nothing but white, and then a bolt of lightning shot out of the cloudless sky, striking the woman in the center of her chest.

  The same casting she had used on my brother.

  I watched the woman fall.

  Mira’s blade disintegrated into the air like ash. I ripped yet another scrap of cloth to serve as a bandage around my neck.

  I should feel something.

  The woman was just lying there, sputtering on her last shaky breath, coughing up blood.

  Her ribs were rising and falling, but she couldn’t even speak. She was dying.

  She had killed Derrick. She had been Blayne’s right hand. She was responsible for the deaths of hundreds, and thousands to come. I had dreamt about this moment for months, watching her in the palace, suffering in the dungeons, wanting to be the one to lock hands around her neck.

  I wanted to feel elation or justice, something to make this moment different, something to make the act momentous.

  Her eyelids fluttered shut as her chest stopped moving.

  My brother’s murderer was dead. I had killed for the first time with intention, and what did I have to show for it?

  Shards like a vine of thorns closed in around my throat. It made no sense. I didn’t understand why I was so numb, why I felt nothing when someone so vile was dead.

  I wondered if I had lost too much to care, or if the glory of revenge belied the truth that nothing could take back what we had lost. This was but a small stitch in a wound that wouldn’t heal.

  And then my boot caught on one of the villagers’ outstretched arms.

  I had forgotten. Mira had stolen from them, too.

  I knelt down, swallowing past bile and guilt as I pushed the limb to the side.

  Heat rose in my chest and there was a roaring in my ears.

  So you do feel something.

  I could have stopped her. They had only been following the Crown’s orders.

  But you thought she was him.

  I had been so overwhelmed with the possibility of Darren, that I had been too afraid to lift a finger in my defense. I had let the woman slaughter a small village because I thought Darren had come after me.

  Thirty lives gone in the blink of an eye.

  Thirty more to my conscience. A number I could never amend.

  You can’t hesitate again.

  I bit down on the inside of my cheek, tasting warm, coppery blood. My fear had caught up to me, two weeks on the run. I needed to acknowledge the truth before it cost more unnecessary lives.

  This wasn’t my story anymore; it was theirs.

  I made my way, limping past the bodies, using a fallen polearm to nudge their limbs aside. A part of me wanted to light a funeral pyre, but I didn’t have the time, and it would draw attention I couldn’t afford.

  I’m sorry. I took a long breath and exhaled slowly, taking in their faces one last time. It wasn’t the apology they deserved, but it was the only one I had.

  I wouldn’t make the same mistake twice.

  * * *

  The next two days were worse than before. My wrist wasn’t fractured—just severely bruised, thank the gods—but between it, the festering wound on my leg without proper treatment, and the hunger pangs, I was making slower progress than I should.

  The fifth morning, a raging fever broke out and I couldn’t even make it astride my horse. That same day, I reached the bandit camp from my year before serving the Ferren’s Keep regiment. For a moment, there was hope—supplies, food, people.

  But the place was deserted. Not so much as a crumb remained behind. A part of me had hoped Nyx would deploy her men to the settlement. It was remote, and if the king had dispersed patrols and the Crown’s Army to the borders, it would make sense.

  But no one was there.

  I tried not to think what that meant for the rebels.

  I had been so sure they would be here. In our talks, Nyx had promised to keep my brother and Ella safe at all costs. I’d thought for sure she would have sent them away the moment their spy sent word of what had gone down in the capital. Or at least when they heard the news that Blayne was dead and the Crown’s Army was still marching on Caltoth and hunting the rebels.

  I would have taken the main road had I not been so sure I would find them here.

  It had cost me two days to reach this place.

  And now? I was upheaving what little I managed down, writhing on a straw mattress late into the night. All for nothing. And I was too weak to ride. I couldn’t even walk.

  I just had to cling to the hope they would return.

  Two more days passed and I could feel every bone protruding from my ribs. I was delirious and couldn’t hobble more than a few yards outside my cabin to relieve myself.

  Trying to make the trek to the keep was impossible now.

  I’d made it this far, and this was how it would end. I would never know what happened to everyone else. I’d die from starvation or fever, whatever won out first. I’d been fighting the former as best I could by boiling the rawhide straps of the horse’s tether in a leftover pot until it was tender enough to chew, but it wasn’t enough.

  Eventually, I set the mare free, before the temptation became worse… I’d die either way, and I couldn’t stomach the thought of slaughtering a horse. Foolish, perhaps, but it was one act I refused to commit.

  Hours passed as the hunger grew. I fantasized about conjuring a hearty venison stew, but the principles of magic wouldn’t keep the casting forever. A
fter my stamina dropped, the pangs would be back. Worse so, perhaps, because my stomach had adjusted to its fill.

  It was better to hold onto magic to keep the stove warm during the course of the night, to boil the little well water I could manage. At least the effect of those two castings was true.

  Another night and I couldn’t distinguish the walls from the ceiling, let alone the floor. I was struck by tremor after tremor. Sweat drowned every one of my pores, drenching my clothes and sticking to my flesh like a second skin. The festering wound at my thigh was molten fire. It seared late into the night.

  I couldn’t stand. I couldn’t sleep. It was like my time in the dungeons all over again, only this time infinitely worse.

  Blayne was dead. Darren was king.

  The villain marching on Caltoth was the broken boy from the cliffs.

  Because of me. I had abandoned Darren when he needed me most. I’d assumed his brother would live… And why wouldn’t he? The palace had the best healers in the land.

  Surviving had been more important. I’d needed to save my family and warn the rebels. But now…

  It wasn’t Blayne’s army at the border. It was Darren’s.

  The new king was committing acts he could never take back, and when the truth came to light—if it ever did—it would be his orders that tore the country apart. His words that sent innocent men and women to their death.

  Darren had watched the only person he loved pass away, alone. I’d left him to darkness and despair and a country on the brink of war.

  “I’m afraid of what my love for you will make me.”

  Now we knew.

  Would it have made a difference if I had stayed? Or would the Black Mage have been the first to condemn the king killer like the rest of them?

  Why had Darren wanted me alive? To rot away in a cell? Or something worse?

  The realization cut into my chest, twisting like a knife.

  Someone had to stop him.

  It couldn’t be me. Not anymore.

  It wouldn’t be much longer until… the end.

  But someone else needed to rise.

  To save Jerar.

  To save the boy from himself.

  Before he destroyed the world.