Salvation (Scars of the Sundering Book 3)

by Hans Cummings

  “I agree.” Gisella climbed into her hammock above Pancras’s and lay on her stomach facing the minotaur. “I’m glad I didn’t have to fulfill my duties as a slayer and kill you… Renegade.”

  “I’m glad, too.”

  ***

  Kale screamed as his sister was sucked upward by the tornado and disappeared into the sky. He charged forward, spread his wings, and leapt, only to be snatched down by the steel grip of Theros Steelhand.

  “Stay down!”

  “Deli!”

  The minotaur pulled Kale off the crenellation. “You can’t interfere.” He held Kale by the shoulders and knelt before him. “The rest of the high wizards will be watching. They’ll ensure the fight remains fair and honorable.”

  Kale wriggled and squirmed in the minotaur’s grip, but Theros held him fast. “I can’t let my sister die.”

  “Look!” Kali pointed toward the sky. A tiny figure tumbled and fell as the tornado dissipated just short of a group of buildings near the eastern city wall. Kale’s heart pounded in his chest as his sister plunged toward the unyielding ground.

  Suddenly, the sky around Delilah darkened and grew hazy until Kale could no longer make out his sister’s form. The effect concentrated around her, and the clouds receded, lightened, and then disappeared.

  “Tinian’s lance, would you look at that!” The archduke leaned forward on the battlement. A building-sized humanoid shape formed from the condensed clouds and water in the gully below the falling drak. It gathered her in its arms and deposited her on the ground in a clearing behind Archmage Vilkan.

  Kale could only stare, his mouth agape. That moldy old book taught her that?

  ***

  Delilah dismissed the creature of water she’d summoned from the rain clouds. Adapting Gil-Li’s conjuration while she fell was easier than she expected, once she remembered screaming in abject terror wasn’t part of the spell. The drak sorceress leaned on her staff while willing her knees and legs to support her weight.

  Breathing still hurt, and her muscles felt like goo. To her dismay, the archmage turned and walked toward her. Vapors of coruscating colors swirled around his head and arm, gathering near the tip of the wand in his outstretched hand.

  The drak gripped her staff and took a deep breath. Just as she gathered more power to unleash on the archmage, a beam of crimson light lanced toward her. Delilah threw herself to the side, but was too late. The beam caught her across the flank, slicing her open from the hip up and around to her shoulder. She felt a snap when she hit the ground, and her vision faded from the fiery pain coursing through her body.

  She dared to examine the wound and noted gleaming white bone. A fountain of blood spurted rhythmically in time to her heart beat. The drak fought to keep her breathing steady and shut her eyes. She grimaced and angled her staff to point at the advancing archmage.

  Arcane power flowed into her, fueled by the magic in her blood. She not only tasted, but also felt it. Drawing upon it required no effort. The eyes of her staff glowed with furious red light.

  Time to end this, Manless.

  Pain in her muscles and bones turned to pleasure. Her scales tingled, like one who experienced the touch of a new lover. She felt her bones knit and wounds close. A dozen possibilities raced through Delilah’s mind. With the power of her blood at her disposal, there was no limit to what she could accomplish. She felt it pooling beneath her ravaged body.

  “No.”

  Delilah released the energy, allowing it to dissipate. Grunting with effort, she used her staff to climb to her feet. Her wounds tore open, and she felt a fresh gush of blood pour from her side and run down her leg. The drak kept her arm tight to her body to keep soft tissues from bulging forth from her wound.

  “Not like this. Dapane phlogone!”

  A stream of fire shot from her staff. She guided it toward the archmage whose reflexes were more than a match for the injured drak. He sidestepped her stream of fire and ducked her clumsy attempt to sweep it across his head.

  Delilah ceased channeling the fire and fell forward. She clutched her staff tight to avoid falling toward the crowd. The blood roaring in her ears muted all other sounds, and the edges of her vision darkened.

  Archmage Vilkan stood close enough that she recognized his smirk. “You’re finished, Drak.” He lunged forward and backhanded her, sending the drak sprawling. She felt blood gush from freshly re-opened wounds. “All your power is spent. For what?”

  The human pressed his boot against her neck. Delilah wrapped a hand around his ankle and dug in, piercing his leather boot with her claws. She dragged her staff along the ground with her other hand, in a futile effort to bring it to bear. He pressed harder, cutting off her air. Her head twisted as he ground his heel in.

  “Akee…” Delilah coughed and gagged. She felt flesh beneath her claws and squeezed with the last ounce of her strength. The archmage eased up on her neck as the drak’s claws gouged the tender flesh of the human’s ankle.

  “Akeeda geiosis.” Her voice was a hoarse whisper, but sufficient to summon the power she needed. The ground rumbled.

  With a spray of bloody dirt, a spike of rock burst from the ground between them. It pushed Delilah in one direction and Vilkan in the next. The human kept his footing and dodged another erupting behind him.

  A third spike threw him forward. He managed to avoid landing on his face, but as he teetered on the brink of falling, a fourth erupted beneath him, pushing him upward as it plunged into his gut and exited his spine.

  It climbed higher and higher, impaling the archmage on a spike of stone as tall as a house. Delilah watched him writhe and scream. A smile crept to her face as darkness took her.

  “Got you, you bastard.”

  ***

  “Deli!” Kale pulled away from Theros and jumped off the battlement as desperate hands grabbed at him. He spread his wings and caught a draft, propelling himself upward as spikes of stone erupted from the ground in the distance. One of the spikes impaled the archmage but hid his sister from view.

  The drak angled his descent and flapped his wings to slow his plummet. Kale still had not mastered flight, and even extended gliding tested his endurance. He passed over Archmage Vilkan. A single glance was enough to confirm the human was quite dead.

  He spotted his sister lying in a pool of her own blood. Kale banked again and tucked in his wings to descend beside her. He landed hard enough that he knew he’d regret it in the morning and skidded to a stop next to Delilah.

  “Don’t be dead, Deli. Don’t be dead.” He lifted her head and cradled it in his lap. Her eyes fluttered open.

  “Hey.”

  “You won! You beat him, Deli.”

  Delilah coughed, flecks of blood spattering her lips. “I think I’m dying.”

  “No, no, no. You can’t, Deli. You’re archmage now.” Kale felt tears roll down his cheeks. He took pains not to look at his sister’s wounds, but the quick glances he stole were enough to tell him she was eviscerated and bleeding out.

  “… favor?”

  Kale leaned in to better hear his sister’s weakening voice. “Deli?”

  “Go away… get help.”

  “I’m not leaving you, Deli. You stay with me…”

  Delilah pushed away Kale’s head with a bloody hand. “Get. Help. Stupid.”

  The drak fell backward. It was all he could do to not drop his sister’s head. He stood and backed away. When he turned to race to Muncifer, he observed several others running toward him. Men and women in robes. He jumped up, shouted, and waved.

  A few of the humans broke away from the main group to examine the archmage. His body was high above them, still impaled on the blood-streaked spike of rock. One of them picked up the archmage’s wand. The others pushed Kale to the side and surrounded Delilah. He heard them chanting and felt arcane energy crackle through the air.

  Delilah and the mages who surrounded her vanished in a burst of light. Kale shouted in alarm and yanked at the robes of the perso
n nearest to him. An older woman wearing mossy robes, her face drawn and her hair woven in silver braids, glanced down at him.

  “What happened? Where did they go?” Kale pointed to the spot where his sister had lain only a moment earlier. All that remained was a pool of blood.

  “Teleport circle. They took her to a healer.” The woman knelt to meet Kale’s eyes. “Was Apprentice Delilah your mate?”

  Kale drew back his lips in disgust. “My sister.”

  “I’m Master Agata. I’m rather shocked she was victorious. Your sister is supremely talented.” The human regarded the earthen spike while the other mages discussed how best to retrieve Archmage Vilkan’s body.

  “Deli was only an apprentice because he said so.” Kale pointed at the corpse. “She’s been fighting with her magic for years in Drak-Anor. We weren’t hatched yesterday, you know.”

  Master Agata pursed her lips. “Yes, well… I will admit I cannot tell a drak’s age by looking. And, until now, I was unaware some of you possessed wings.”

  The drak pointed to the sigil on his chest. “We’re dragon-kin.”

  “Of course.” The woman stood, placing her hand on Kale’s shoulder. “I will take you to her.”

  Kale spared no second glances as he passed the former archmage’s corpse. Master Agata led him to Muncifer. They passed through the city gates and made their way through bustling streets toward the Arcane University. The drak caught snippets of people chatting about the duel. Most heard of it, but few were afforded the opportunity to watch, so the stories were wildly exaggerated and inaccurate. Apparently, Delilah herself changed into a city-sized mountain giant and impaled Archmage Vilkan with a spear fashioned from a stalactite.

  Kali met the pair as they approached the university gates. Archduke Fyodar and Theros Steelhand accompanied her. She enveloped her mate in a hug but then scowled at him. “Don’t do that again.”

  The human wizard bowed to the archduke. “Your Grace. To what does the Arcane University owe your presence?”

  “Don’t be coy, Agata. I came to check on your new archmage.”

  “I’m sure our healers are doing everything they can, but for now, you’ll have to wait. Her brother has the right of first visitation, I think. Hmm?”

  Theros pointed to a building just inside the gates. “We can wait in the Enchanter’s Focus, Your Grace. I believe they’ve recently tapped some fresh kegs of mead.”

  The archduke and minotaur headed for the tavern. Only after Kale explained to Master Agata that Kali was his mate, did the wizard allow the female drak to accompany him.

  When they arrived at the university’s infirmary, they were stopped by guards. The two hulking men crossed their halberds, barring the door. “No one is permitted.”

  “Nonsense.” Master Agata gestured to Kale. “He is her brother.”

  “The high wizards have ordered it.”

  The woman’s lips drew a thin line across her face. “I see. Very well.” She sat in a nearby chair.

  Kali threw up her hands. “That’s it? We just wait now?”

  Master Agata glanced at the female drak. “Yes.”

  “It’s okay, Kali. They’re trying to heal her.” Kale pulled his mate away from the door. “We should let them work.”

  He helped his mate into a chair that he pulled next to Master Agata and stood near her. The chairs were not made for draks, and although large enough to accommodate a tail, the chairs could not accommodate his wings as well. He withstood the discomfort while he waited for his sister, noting his ankles and feet ached from his rough landing.

  Kale sat against the wall and rubbed his feet. Just as he found a comfortable position, the door opened. A masked, brown-robed wizard emerged, closing the door behind him. The high wizard eyed the trio and gestured to Master Agata. The woman stood and bowed.

  “The drak’s… the archmage’s wounds are quite severe, but they are mending. When the others leave, she will need rest, but she should be able to sustain a brief visit.” The wizard regarded Kale and Kali. “Kinfolk?”

  Kale stood. “I’m her brother.” He approached Kali and took her hand. “Kali is my mate.”

  “It should not be long. Master Agata, a word.”

  The woman nodded to Kale and Kali before exiting with the brown-robed wizard. Kale rested his head on his mate’s shoulder. She placed her hand on his cheek. The striped-drak stroked his mate’s rust-orange arm. He lost himself in their supple feel, the rhythm of her breathing, and the slight odor of brimstone that clung to his own scales ever since he learned to breathe fire.

  He could not determine how much time passed before the other wizards left Delilah’s room, bowing their heads to him as they passed. After helping his mate down from her chair, Kale and Kali entered Delilah’s room. Sitting upright in bed, covered in white linen bandages, her eyes closed, and her breathing slow and steady, she did not appear to be in pain. Her staff lay in bed alongside her, the skull that topped it keeping watch like a sentry.

  Kale reached for his sister’s hand. Her eyes snapped open. They focused on Kale, and she smiled. “I’m not an apprentice anymore.”

  ***

  Every inch of Delilah’s battered, bruised body throbbed. When visitors asked how she felt, “I hurt” was the only response that adequately summarized her situation. Even her scales and claws ached.

  Changing bandages unleashed new waves of pain. Healers closed the largest gashes with their arcane powers and applied potions and ointments to encourage Delilah’s body to repair itself. At least breathing doesn’t hurt anymore.

  She threw off her covers and swung her legs over the side of the bed. The drak picked up her staff and used it as a crutch as she slid. Once her feet hit the floor, she was surprised her legs supported her weight. A sense of pride in her accomplishment filled her chest, until she took a step.

  The room spun around her as if she were a wagon wheel. Her staff clattered to the floor as she clutched at the bed to prevent herself from falling. The blankets, a poor handhold, slid off the bed, covering her in a heap as she collapsed.

  “Damn it.”

  Delilah heard the door open and the sounds of boots running into the room.

  “The archmage? Where’s the archmage?” The shrill panic in their voices exacerbated her headache.

  “Under here.” Delilah thrust up her hand through the blankets. “I’m under here…” She restrained herself from calling the guards insulting names.

  Rough hands grabbed her and helped her onto the bed. Once she was sitting upright, they stared at the floor and shuffled their feet.

  “You can go now.” Delilah shooed them away. “And bring me some food or something.”

  They shuffled out of the room, closing the door behind them. Delilah sighed and reached for her staff. The guards neglected to pick it up; it was out of reach halfway across the room on the floor.

  “Idiot longshanks.” She scooted up to rest against the headboard. The room in which she convalesced, an interior chamber, contained no windows, and only two enchanted sconces on the wall provided light. The only other furniture, a chest of drawers, stood in one corner. A silver bowl and pitcher, filled with water Delilah presumed, sat atop it.

  She slapped the sheets. “Well, Deli-girl. You run this place now. You probably should make some decrees or something. Maybe stop talking to yourself while you’re at it.”

  The door opened, and a tawny-skinned elf wearing silver-trimmed green robes entered. He tousled his dark, mossy hair before bowing. “May I offer my congratulations, Archmage Delilah? Of course, if that is still what you’re calling yourself.”

  “Master Valyrian.” Delilah bowed her head to the elf. He acted as her tutor during her first weeks at the Arcane University, bringing her up to speed on certain basic techniques she lacked, having been self-taught for decades.

  “What do you mean? Other archmages don’t use their names?” She reached up to scratch her head, but a thick bandage wrapped around her forehead stymied her effor
ts. Great, it’s probably snagged on my horns. I’ll bet they threw away those nice silk ribbons, too.

  “It is a personal choice.” The elf wizard steepled his fingers. “Some feel taking a new name as archmage helps them maintain professional detachment when dealing with their subordinates, many of whom may have helped them achieve their new position.”

  “Well, no one helped me, so I’ll just stick with my drak name. I was hatched Delilah, and so I’ll stay Delilah.” The drak pointed at her staff on the floor. “Would you mind?”

  “A fine name, to be sure.” Master Valyrian handed the staff to Delilah. She secured it alongside her on the bed. “I would not be too adamant that you had no help, however.” He placed his hand on his chest and bowed.

  “I guess some of you were nice and tried to teach me things.” Delilah scrunched up her face and considered her hasty words. “All right, I had a little help.”

  “That’s not what I mean.” The elf smiled and shook his head. He closed the door and reached into his robes, revealing a red mask.

  Delilah stared at him while her mind processed the revelation. “You’re the Red Wizard?”

  “Indeed.” Master Valyrian turned the mask over in his hands. “We can choose to reveal ourselves to the archmage. However, many do not. They enjoy the anonymity the mask gives them. Some archmages have a difficult time compartmentalizing the words of a high wizard from the actions of their peers.”

  “So, basically, I should pretend like you didn’t just show me that?” Delilah rubbed her snout. Oh, good. Secrets already.

  “I thought you should know that, while Vilkan’s opinions were not his alone, they were a minority opinion. I should think any reasonable changes you wish to enact will not meet with much resistance.” The elf hid the mask under his robes as the guards returned with a tray of fruit, cured meats, and wine. Delilah tore into the food with gusto.

  Having little to do while she recovered from her injuries but think, Delilah already had several ideas for changes she planned to institute as soon as she was able. Disinterested in micromanaging either the guild or the Arcane University, she recognized duties that distracted her from studying the runed circle under Kale’s home would breed resentment.