Hambone tried to get up and Tyvian kicked him in the groin hard enough to turn Hambone’s face green. Then he went over to Mort and drew out his broadsword. This was slow and turned his back on Hambone—a dangerous choice. But Tyvian did it on purpose. He wanted Hambone’s life to be in his own hands, not the hands of the bloody ring.
He turned to see Hambone on his feet, his sword drawn. “You killed Mort! You . . . you . . .” Hambone struggled for the words.
Tyvian held the borrowed blade down to his right side and pointed at the floor. “He made his choice. Now make yours.”
Hambone lunged. Tyvian’s beat was savage, knocking the broadsword out of Hambone’s hand and across the floor. His backswing slashed the man across the throat—a precise, quick, killing strike. Hambone fell back against the opposite wall from his companion, and slid down in the exact same way.
“Painless, as you said.” Tyvian looked into Hambone’s dying eyes. “The best I could do. You understand, I’m sure.”
Turning away, he checked on Artus. Still alive, if broken in a half-dozen different ways. He wrestled the gag out of Artus’s mouth. As soon as it was out, the boy started moaning. “Where’s . . . Michelle? Where . . . is . . . she . . .”
“Gods, boy, you do know other words, don’t you?” Tyvian took the straps that had been used to dangle Artus over the mob and threw them over his shoulders, hoisting the young man on his back. He then threw Hann’s big cloak over both of them. With any luck, he’d just look like a hunchback in livery. “Now be quiet!”
Back into the mayhem of the Citadel they went. All he needed now was a wall to jump off . . .
Lyrelle leaned over the puddle of water, doing her best to scry the future. The result was too murky to be useful, and her hands were too ruined to force the issue. That sense of overwhelming blindness that she’d felt ever since her capture would not leave her. All she could see with any clarity was the present: Tyvian was alive. Michelle Orly was saved. Sahand was shown to be an ass in front of his entire army.
There was nothing more to be done. Slowly, leaning on the wall for support, she made her way back to Sahand’s anygate. As she came around the corner, she knew what she would see. She knew who she would see.
Xahlven stood blocking the way. “This doesn’t bear the markings of a well-arranged plot, Mother. Playing things by ear, are we?”
“Given the bruises on your face, I could say the same thing to you,” Lyrelle said. “Here to finish the job, are you?”
“It’s almost done. I needn’t concern myself with it.” Xahlven produced Spidrahk’s Coffer from beneath his robes. Lyrelle recognized it immediately. “I came to show you that you have failed, once and for all.”
“That depends, ultimately, on what you think it is I intended to achieve.”
“Don’t be coy—not now, when it is all over.” Xahlven shook his head. “You wanted to save your new world—the one you created, with Sahand as your spoiler. The world you sold this to the Oracle to guarantee. But it’s failing, Mother—it is crumbling to dust all around you. And now”—he stroked the edge of the iron box gently—“this will be the final stake in its heart.”
Lyrelle looked at the ancient artifact long and hard, remembering everything she had risked in stealing it from Xahlven’s father. Remembering how she had manipulated Sahand into becoming the terror that would lead the West to what it now was. She looked back on a long, impossibly complicated life—kings crowned and nations crushed, a world on the end of the string—and saw it for what it was:
Over.
Her work was finished. She had done her best. She deserved rest.
She smiled at Xahlven. “My poor son. I wish I could have done better by you. You could have been . . . so . . . so talented.”
Hatred blazed in Xahlven’s eyes, so bright it seemed to glow. He grabbed her by her tattered gown and threw her to the floor. Lyrelle felt her hip break again, the pain bright and intense. She slipped into unconsciousness as Xahlven, his face drawn and pale, backed away.
Rest.
Chapter 44
One Last Duel
Hool bashed the lock off the door with the guard’s head. Beyond was a staircase, going deep into the bowels of the Citadel. In the distance, the alarm bells rang.
Damon, wearing Delloran livery, looked down the dark tunnel. “Are you sure about this?”
Hool yanked him by the arm and pulled him down the stairs. “Hurry up, stupid—this entire place is about to go crazy.”
Damon squinted in the torchlight. “How do you know?”
“Because Tyvian is involved—stop asking so many questions. Follow me.” Hool led him down, through winding passages and moldering tunnels, always following her nose toward the water.
Damon held the torch high, trying to decipher some kind of ancient writing on the wall. “I’m so glad you decided to bring me along. I wasn’t sure you would, you know, considering . . .”
“Shhhh!” Hool hissed. “This is not a time for feelings! This is a time for doing things! We will talk later.”
“Right. Of course.”
Hool pulled them into a defensive alcove as a troop of soldiers ran by. They were all going up, not down. Just as Tyvian had predicted.
“Where are they going?” Damon whispered.
“Tyvian,” Hool said.
“And where are we going?”
“To destroy Sahand, just like I said before.”
Damon looked down the passage they were heading through, empty save for stagnant pools of water and mossy walls. “I still don’t see how this is going to work without . . . you know, both of us dying.”
She ignored him and drew the Fist of Veroth, its head already swirling with Fey energy.
Damon took a full step back. “Now, Hool—I’m aware this is a ridiculous statement, given where we are, but, well . . . let’s not be rash.”
Hool glared at him. “You are right, Damon Pirenne. There is more to life than revenge. You are right, too—being with you is more important than killing Sahand. But revenge is also important. My Brana and my Api deserve it. And if you love me, you will help me.”
Damon paused, but not for long. Then he bowed. “At your service, my lady.”
Hool displayed all her teeth in a wolfish grin. “Let’s go knock down a castle.” She kicked open the last door to reveal the artificial harbor in the bowels of the Citadel. There were a few guards here, but only a handful—Damon and Hool dispatched them quickly and sent the survivors running for help.
The Fist of Veroth resting heavy in her hands, Hool strode to one of the big, fat supports that held up the huge domed roof—and, according to Tyvian’s boring lecture on architecture, the entire castle above it. She drew back, the head of her enchanted mace flaring to life.
And she struck.
Myreon limped slowly into the necromancer’s quarters beneath the cell and paused long enough to treat her leg wound with a bloodpatch elixir she had spotted on the way up—at least now she wouldn’t bleed to death.
Not that it mattered much—Xahlven had the Seeking Dark. He could be heading back to Saldor at this exact moment, and she could never stop him in time, never make it down the stairs like this.
So, instead, she jumped out the necromancer’s narrow window. She timed the slowing spell just right, landing with a rough thump instead of a meaty splat on the top of a turret beneath. She got inside and clambered down the stairs into one of the keep’s great halls, its vast table laden with an elaborate feast.
And soldiers everywhere.
She ducked back into the stairwell. Alarm bells were ringing—she could hear them clearly now. Then, the floor beneath her shook, causing dust to be knocked loose from between the stones on the ceiling. What was going on?
A soldier stepped into the stairwell, coming face to face with her. Myreon’s knee came up instantly, catching him in the groin. He groaned and sagged back against the wall. She had her fist balled, ready to punch him in the throat, when he managed to g
asp, “Gods, Myreon! What the hell?”
She froze. Indeed, the whole world seemed to freeze. Was that . . . it . . . it couldn’t be.
But those eyes. There was only one family with those eyes.
“Tyvian!?”
Tyvian smiled through his bushy beard. “Guilty as charged.”
Myreon grabbed him and pulled him close and hugged him as tightly as she could. Tears welled in her eyes. “What the . . . what the Krothing hell . . . you . . . you son of a bitch! I thought you were dead!”
Tyvian hugged her back. “Yes, well, sorry about that. It was . . . complicated.”
Artus’s muffled voice came from underneath Tyvian’s huge, furry cloak. “I told you so!”
Myreon blinked. “Artus? What the hell are you all doing here?”
Tyvian waved his hands. “Let’s all assume, for the moment, that our stories are far, far too long to exchange at this precise moment and just accept that we are all here because terrible things are about to happen and we’re trying to prevent them. Fair?”
Myreon couldn’t seem to stop smiling. “Fair.”
“Then let’s go.”
They stepped back into the hall.
It was filled with soldiers, surrounding them immediately. At one end of the hall, standing atop the huge table that ran its length, was Banric Sahand. “Well, well, well—if it isn’t Myreon Alafarr. What a pleasant bonus. Now, where were we?”
Tyvian loosened the straps on his Artus-pack and lowered him to the ground. Artus, who seemed to have regained consciousness, folded himself up neatly, as though he really were just a large pack. Tyvian left Hann’s cloak over him. He leapt up on the table to face Sahand down about a hundred feet of polished hardwood and plates full of roasted meat. “I really would like my sword back, please.”
Tyvian felt his skin tingle as Myreon worked a series of wards over him. The feeling made him buoyant. Despite being surrounded by scores of hardened enemies, he felt for once like he had things under control.
Sahand drew out Chance. He dropped it on the table and kicked it toward Tyvian, knocking over candles and goblets and place settings as he did. “Take it,” he said. He looked at his men. “Kill that man.”
Tyvian threw his broadsword at the first man who came at him with a pike and began to sprint toward Chance. Spears and polearms were thrust at him, but the quarters were too tight to swing them. Tyvian dodged left and right, ducked and weaved. The weapons rebounded off Myreon’s wards and guards, even as Myreon herself started throwing fireballs and lodebolts. A chandelier exploded with the Shattering, sending iron shrapnel hurtling out in all directions and deafening everyone in the room.
Tyvian reached forward.
His hand clasped the hilt of his old sword.
It felt like coming home.
Then Sahand kicked him in the face so hard Tyvian practically did a backflip.
Sahand had a sword of his own—a longsword that glittered with bladecrystal and was inscribed with Dweomeric runes Tyvian was familiar with. They let the blade hold a Fey enchantment without melting it—very expensive. But then, he was the Mad Prince.
The sword blazed down at him with a speed belying the weight of the weapon. Tyvian rolled off the table, plates flying, and Sahand left a thick divot where Tyvian’s ribcage had been.
Soldiers tried to close in and Tyvian swung Chance in a wide arc, keeping them at bay. Sahand lunged at him, jumping off the table. Tyvian side-stepped and stuck the Mad Prince in the armpit between his armor—a quick touch, not deep. Enough to draw blood. Enough to enrage.
Sahand swung his sword in graceful arcs, driving Tyvian back as he tried to parry or dodge. The sword had the blessed side effect of keeping the soldiers from interfering—nobody wanted to get their arm chopped off—and besides, the rest of the hall was degenerating into a legion of Sahand’s troops against the blazing sorcery of an angry Myreon Alafarr. At the moment, it seemed a stalemate—soldiers were hunkered down in cover, behind heavy furniture or in doorways. They would be trying to work their way around to ambush her from behind.
Tyvian was too busy to tell her that, though. He only hoped she knew.
Sahand bound Tyvian’s blade with the crossguard of his sword and threw an elbow at Tyvian’s face. Tyvian ducked, abandoning Chance to Sahand and, drawing his dagger, slashed Sahand’s hamstring. The Mad Prince howled, stumbling forward.
Tyvian kicked Chance back into his hand and tried to run Sahand through from behind . . . only to have his attack knocked aside by the broadsword of none other than Captain Rodall. His teeth gleamed. “I know you—I never forget a deserter, Duchess.”
Tyvian disengaged his blade and backed away from the Captain. He didn’t have much idea of how good the man was with a sword, but he couldn’t afford too many mistakes just now.
Sahand was drinking something he had taken from his belt and standing up. “Rodall—bind him up!”
The mercenary captain smiled and attacked, making short, tight cuts that Tyvian was able to parry, but not effectively riposte. Rodall’s necklace of human ears jiggled as he fought. “You like them, eh? Soon you’ll be joining them!”
Tyvian tried for a feint, but Rodall didn’t take it. He ducked inside Tyvian’s guard and wrapped him in a bear hug. The wiry mercenary captain was much stronger than he looked, and Tyvian gasped at the force of his grip. “I have him, my prince!” Rodall crowed. “I have him!”
Sahand nodded. “Good. Hold still.”
Then he thrust his sword through Rodall and Tyvian both.
The blade took Tyvian just below the ribcage, passing through his stomach, but the blade wasn’t quite long enough to pierce out Tyvian’s other side. His reflex was to push himself away from Rodall—a good instinct, as Sahand ripped the blade sideways, cutting Rodall practically in half.
Tyvian fell backward, blood pouring out of his stomach. He was back about where he started, at the end of the room near where Myreon had made her stand and where he had laid Artus under the fur cloak. But this time Myreon was nowhere to be seen.
No time to worry about that now.
Chance was still in one hand, and Tyvian held it out. Sahand knocked it savagely aside and knelt on Tyvian’s wound, letting his knee grind into it. Tyvian practically passed out from the pain.
Sahand planted the tip of his sword on Tyvian’s breastbone and grabbed hold of the crossguard, ready to drive it down through his heart and pin him to the floor. “Never have another man do what you ought to do yourself.”
“I agree,” a voice said, and Artus threw off the cloak and leapt up behind Sahand, driving a dagger to the hilt into the Mad Prince’s armpit. Sahand paled and fell sideways.
Tyvian’s eyes bulged. “Artus! You . . . you’re walking!”
Artus spat on Sahand and then smiled at Tyvian. “Yeah—where’d you get that cloak, anyway?”
“Behind you!”
Delloran soldiers came at Artus, but the Young Prince pulled a sword from a corpse and started fighting, leaving Tyvian a moment to recover.
Tyvian tried rolling onto all fours. He was losing a lot of blood—too much blood. The ring was weakening. What had Artus just said . . .
The cloak.
He reached out to grab it.
But Sahand’s hand was there first. Though badly injured, he was still bigger and stronger than Tyvian, and he threw a punch into Tyvian’s jaw that made his eyeballs rattle. “Die, smuggler! Why the hell won’t you die?”
Tyvian tried to keep the ceiling from spinning. “Same . . . to you . . . you Krothing arse . . .”
Sahand pulled the cloak over him. “You . . . you can’t win. I’ve got . . . thousands of soldiers . . . they’ll . . . they’ll be here soon . . .”
And then the entire castle shook, as though struck by a catapult stone the size of a dray wagon. Even Sahand looked worried. “What in all the hells is that?”
“That . . . is what . . . I . . . was diverting . . . you from.”
There was another blo
w. And another.
Then the floor began to collapse.
Chapter 45
When the Walls Come Tumbling Down
The battle pushed Myreon out of the great hall and into a separate gallery. Not suicidal—even at Sahand’s command—the Dellorans were taking potshots at her with crossbows while taking cover behind seemingly innumerable pillars. These attacks she could ward off with bow wards easily enough, but advancing was slow and she was weakening. She wanted to help Tyvian, she wanted to save Artus, but there was still Xahlven to worry about.
Using as much of her remaining energy as she could manage, she created a simulacrum of herself to use as a decoy and sent it on her own suicidal charge at the Dellorans surrounding her.
It worked. As they swiveled their attention to follow the fake Myreon’s progress, she limped out a side entrance, sunblasting the only soldier there.
Then it was a maddening, staggering climb through the endless halls and stairways of the Citadel, trying to make it back to the door to which Xahlven had linked his anygate. She channeled all of her power into a few feyleaps; she hastened her pace with the use of the Astral and the Dweomer. Images of the destruction of Ayventry haunted her, the sound of the city dying screamed in her ears. She had to make it.
She had to.
Somehow, she did. Xahlven was waiting for her on the footbridge, the anygate just behind him. Spidrahk’s Coffer rested in his hand. “Come to see me off?”
Myreon didn’t talk, she just attacked. She threw everything she had into one massive bolt of fire, hoping to burn the mad archmage to bones. Instead, Xahlven simply evaporated as though he had never been there at all. Because he hadn’t.
It had been a simulacrum. Left here only to taunt her.
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