His sister was safe at least. He didn’t wait to see whether the spell would last; he already knew it would. Just as well too, because the battle raged more fiercely now. The fighters were fired by pent-up fear and fury after days of waiting. How long they could press back and forth, hacking at one another, no one could tell. Marcel had never been part of a battle before, never seen one or judged its horrors, but it seemed to him that the defenders were getting the better of the fight.
Further along the wall, one of the siege towers had been set alight. The fire took a greedy hold on the wooden structure, working its way up quickly from the protective shields where flaming arrows had ignited the blaze. Trapped between the orange tongues licking from below and their comrades unable to force a way onto the battlements above, rebels began jumping from the structure. Finally, one of the beams gave way and the tower toppled back from the wall. Released from the need to fight, the defenders on that part of the battlements cheered victoriously. Cadell was going to win the day after all.
It was during this brief lull on just one part of the wall that Marcel spotted two men on horseback watching from the edge of the forest. He recognised Damon’s dark features immediately, but the other’s face was encased in a helmet far more elaborate and imposing than Nicola’s. It wasn’t meant to disguise the wearer, but to mark him out among others. The way Damon held his horse back slightly in deference confirmed Marcel’s suspicions. This was the wizard, come to see his mindless army at work.
If there had been any doubt that the helmeted figure was Ismar, it disappeared when the man raised his arms, holding his palms towards the wall. It was the movement of a sorcerer conjuring magic and all that stood in his way was Marcel. Nicola was right: he was Cadell’s Master of the Books, whether he liked it or not, and raising his own arms as Ismar had done, he felt the magic approaching the walls like a black cloud. Before he could bring his will to bear, he was punched viciously by an invisible fist and rammed backwards to end up in a painful heap against a stone wall. Had nothing changed since he’d tried to help Menidae on the night of the lightning storm?
He climbed to his feet, hands on hips, and flexed his aching torso this way and that to relieve the stiffness. An odd cry broke into his thoughts. He wondered what creature could make it — not a human being, surely. He searched along the battlements for the source of the sound and saw a blue-clad soldier topple to the ground, his face gushing blood from a terrible wound. But it was the way he fell that startled Marcel. He was falling slowly, as though he was surrounded by water, not thin air. Worse, much worse, Marcel saw that others on the battlements seemed just as lethargic. Everywhere he looked the blue uniforms of Cadell had slowed, not to statue-stillness nor even to half their normal speed, but it seemed they were wielding weapons that had somehow doubled in weight.
Not the rebels, though. They cut and slashed with the same savage fury, and against this onslaught the hampered bodies of Cadell’s men couldn’t defend themselves. Only Termagant seemed unaffected. She did what she could without leaving Nicola’s slow-moving side, but the balance of the struggle was quickly changing.
It was Ismar’s dark magic at work.
But an idea was gathering in Marcel’s mind, something Rhys had encouraged him to do once before. Although he wasn’t quite sure what it would achieve, he extended his arms again and exposed his will to the sky. ‘Birds, all of you, down from the clouds to help us.’
Would birds be enough? They didn’t carry weapons, and in ones and twos offered no threat. Sheer numbers was what he needed.
‘All creatures on the wing,’ he cried, ‘here to the walls, as fast as you can.’
He kept his arms raised until the first of them arrived, within seconds of his appeal — a flock of blackbirds that swooped overhead fluttering and flapping around the rebel soldiers, disrupting the swing of their weapons or pecking relentlessly at their helmets until the noise inside was enough to drive a man mad.
A pair of hawks arrived next, then the pigeons who had deserted the citadel at the first clash of steel. Magpies, crows, even sparrows answered the call, and in such numbers even tiny bodies could play a part.
The bats were next, blinded by the daylight, which only added to their frenzy as they clawed and scratched and screeched. Finally, and perhaps most effective of all, came the insects: bees, wasps, shiny-shelled beetles — they crawled under the armour of Ismar’s men and plunged their stingers into unguarded skin.
Despite the lurching, languid movements of the soldiers in blue, Cadell had a chance now, against an enemy distracted by an inhuman army. Marcel had only delayed the moment he dreaded though, not evaded it. He wished he’d brought the blue book with him from his room, but it was too late now and, in truth, what he needed lay not in the book but in his bones.
The birds and bats had created a cacophony of squawking and flapping that almost drowned out the clash of steel. That sound suddenly ceased and, looking up, Marcel found that Ismar had swept away his spell and driven the winged creatures from his harried soldiers. They were free to fight again, to use the advantage they held over Cadell’s lethargic fighters. The moment had come.
He felt Ismar’s darkness loom over the city, a hideous shadow that threatened Elster as well, threatened every inch of the Mortal Kingdoms. He feared it would crush him, but for the first time he didn’t fear what he must do to fight it. Something had changed since he last faced Ismar on these battlements. He was no longer afraid of what lay in his bones. He was sorcery, and, remembering the verse he had composed for himself, he embraced it completely.
‘I am a wizard,’ he cried over the clash of battle. He hadn’t chosen to be born with such powers, but once, long ago, and again last night, he had chosen to use them. He didn’t sweep a hand before his face because that would merely summon magic learned from books. What he did was simpler yet vastly more powerful: he unleashed the sorcery that resided in his heart, a good heart, a heart that would stand forever against Ismar and his kind, and with the unfettered strength of his will alone he forced back the darkness from the walls of Cadell.
Instantly, the blue-clad soldiers began to fight without the weight of Ismar’s magic slowing their movements. The battle swung into balance again.
At the edge of the forest, Ismar shifted on his horse and thrust his arm towards the sky with greater force. It wasn’t enough to give his spell sway over Cadell’s men. He turned in his saddle and swept both arms upwards. Marcel had no idea what he was up to until he heard the first frightened shout.
‘What’s that in the distance? It goes all the way into the clouds.’
There was no time for ordinary soldiers to watch the danger that approached, but Marcel could see into the watchtower where General Kendally stood wearing a worried frown. A column of swirling, twisting wind was racing towards them, wrenching trees from the ground as it came, farmhouse roofs too, and cutting a swathe through the unharvested fields. It was no wider than one of the towers of the palace in Elstenwyck yet it was certainly strong enough to tear the city gates from their hinges or even break open a gap in the walls.
Marcel reached out to it with his mind and, to his utter surprise, felt an intense anger. It was nothing more than an unruly column of air, which Ismar had somehow given the emotions of a wild beast, and in that thought Marcel found a way to stop it.
‘Calm yourself, you have no enemies here,’ he called to the ferocious wind, using the same magic that had conjured it.
The monster checked its pace but continued towards the city. It tore a path through the rebel camp, which lay abandoned now as every last man attacked the wall.
‘Hold up, don’t be in such a hurry to devour us all,’ Marcel spoke to the wind. He was sure it could hear him. Moments later when the whirlwind arrived at the battlements, it paused and seemed to lean its upper portion forward, like a head with invisible eyes, searching for his voice.
All around Marcel the soldiers fled, defenders and invaders alike, leaving him alone on that pa
rt of the wall. He had stood like this before Mortregis, but on that night the evil had radiated from the dragon itself. This time the dreadful forces had been conjured by another, and so they could be dispersed the same way.
‘You have been summoned for no good purpose. Go back into the clouds where you came from,’ he commanded the narrow column. ‘You are wind and air and clouds. Feed the earth with rain, as you are supposed to, shelter us from the sun, cool our skins with your breeze, but you have no part to play in our battles.’
The hunger for destruction that he had sensed earlier flickered and died. The swirling funnel above him straightened, as though it had suddenly awakened from a trance, and without another word from Marcel it rose up, breaking contact with the ground, then higher still until it was above the battlements, where finally it dissipated entirely into the air above their heads.
The frightened soldiers watched it go, and when it disappeared they charged back to their gruesome task. Marcel had won again and the fighting returned to an even balance.
CHAPTER 27
What Good is Magic?
ISMAR TRIED AGAIN AND again to send his spells across the walls and into Cadell. Marcel fought off every one, growing more and more tired with the effort and wondering how long he could hold out. Swords and arrows didn’t threaten him, but he sensed that the exhaustion slowly taking hold of his body was no ordinary weariness. It would drain the life from his body like blood from a gaping wound until his heart could bear no more. If it went on like this, it would kill him. How could he stop though, when the fighting was so finely poised? The slightest edge could tip one side towards victory and the other to defeat.
The sun rose steadily to its highest point above them, then began its descent into afternoon, and still they fought. Suddenly, Nicola was at Marcel’s side.
‘You have to come,’ she gasped, tugging at his arm.
Termagant prowled beside her, eyes everywhere, searching out dangers to her mistress. Marcel knew his sister was as safe as he could make her and whatever she wanted would have to wait.
‘I can’t, the battle —’
‘I don’t care about the battle,’ Nicola cried as she pulled him away more forcefully. ‘Finn’s been hurt. He’ll die if you don’t come.’
If it had been any other soldier, Marcel would have hardened his heart and forced his mind to continue the struggle with Ismar. But, ‘Finn,’ he muttered wearily and in that moment of hesitation Nicola seized her chance.
‘This way,’ she demanded, hurrying him along the battlements to where the young knight lay motionless on his back with an arrow protruding from his shoulder. ‘See, the arrow found a gap in his armour.’
Yes, and the acute angle meant the tip had speared in towards Finn’s heart. His helmet had already been removed but those compelling blue eyes were hidden behind his eyelids, as though he was sleeping gently. Marcel knelt beside him and watched for the rise and fall of his breath.
‘He’s not breathing.’ He looked up and immediately regretted those words.
‘You saved that traitor down in the tunnels, Marcel, and his wounds were worse than this. Get the arrow out, heal the skin, he’ll be all right then, I know he will.’
Marcel felt the exhaustion through every part of his body. All he wanted to do was sleep, but if he didn’t at least try, the pain in Nicola’s face would haunt his dreams until the day he died. He closed his eyes to concentrate and mustered what strength was left inside him.
An arrow buried in human flesh — he saw it through his eyelids and through the armour. It must come out. Touching the magic he had mastered in these last hours, he commanded the deadly shaft to leave Finn’s stricken body.
‘It’s working, the arrow is moving!’ cried Nicola in relief.
Her brother didn’t open his eyes. There was more to do. With his will stretched to breaking point, he saw the bloody puncture in Finn’s shoulder heal just as the sergeant’s three wounds had done. It was finished. He’d removed the arrow and sealed the skin, leaving only a scar the size of a gold piece on the shoulder. But Finn didn’t open his eyes and his lungs didn’t start taking in air.
‘What’s wrong?’ Nicola dropped to her knees and shook Finn, gently at first and then more vigorously. ‘Wake up, wake up. Marcel has worked his magic on you, open your eyes.’
‘He’s not asleep,’ Marcel said gently.
‘But your magic!’
Marcel tensed himself one more time and reached inside Finn’s body for the least spark of life. All he sensed was a faint glow like the path of a firefly in the evening dark. He followed it, aware that he was travelling into the uneasy border between the living and the dead, a blackness with a silence and a stillness he had never experienced.
He plunged into that blackness to a depth that worried him, for he couldn’t afford to lose touch with the living world behind him. His daring was rewarded though, when he could make out a figure trudging relentlessly away from him. He called out, a cry that none on the battlements around him would hear. ‘Finn, don’t leave, come back with me. Nicola is waiting for you.’
The figure stopped for a moment and looked over his shoulder. Such sadness. No one had ever taken this final walk into death more reluctantly.
Marcel willed him to turn around and begin the journey back to life, reaching out with an arm that existed only in spirit to take hold of the man his sister loved. The action cost him more than he’d counted on, for it seemed the more he exerted his remaining strength in this strange half-world, the more he was forced towards death himself. A sudden dread engulfed him: would he be able to return at all when he had expended so much of himself in the struggle against Ismar? Magic could drain the life from a wizard, Rhys had told him, and leave an empty shell for friends to bury.
No, he wouldn’t let go, he couldn’t, not even when Finn shook his head and pointed the way ahead for himself. The young knight seemed closer to death with each moment that passed, and while Marcel held fast his living body was drawn along with him.
It was Finn who broke the grip, using the last vestiges of his mortal existence, and, before Marcel could respond, set his face towards the misty darkness where he quickly faded from view. Marcel was alone, his own powers almost spent. With the last of them, he forced himself back among the living, where Nicola’s pleading face was the first thing he saw.
‘If he’d still been alive …’ he sighed.
‘No, Finn can’t be dead,’ Nicola wailed. ‘Bring him back, Marcel. Bring him back!’
‘No magic can do that now, not even Rhys Tironel’s.’
‘What good is your magic then, if it can’t save men like Finn?’ And she fell forward onto the lifeless body, her face hard against the steel of his armour and her hands clutching at his shoulders. Tears escaped, making rivers across the shiny metal. ‘What good is magic, Marcel?’ she demanded without lifting her head. ‘What use is it?’
How could he answer when he’d failed in the only thing that mattered to her? His only defence against despair was to know that it mattered for many others, as the fighting raging around him showed. Marcel staggered to his feet and tried to take stock. The battle seemed as finely balanced as ever, which meant his magic was still needed. If he faltered now, if he let Ismar’s sinister, prowling spells creep over the walls, Cadell would fall.
What was wrong with his legs? He fell against the stone wall to steady himself, aware of how little energy he had left. Death had threatened to take him during his futile grasp for Finn’s living spirit; perhaps it would succeed now if he dared expose his magic once again. He had to, though. That was why such power had been born into his bones, to face the madness of men like Ismar. If those gifts drained him of life, then that was his destiny, that was where the verse in his blue book must lead him. Pushing himself off the wall, he lifted his face towards the sky and sent his will into the void.
Ismar sensed his presence instantly and turned his own powers against him. The last words Marcel recalled before slipping
into oblivion came from a nameless soldier calling out nearby.
‘A horse! Look, the horse is returning,’ he shouted, but by then Marcel had fallen to the hard stone of the battlements beside his grieving sister, as lifeless, it seemed, as the body she wept over.
MARCEL AWOKE TO FIND Finn’s body gone. How long had he given way to exhaustion? Long enough for bearers to carry away the dead man and Nicola with him, no doubt, since she’d surely refuse to leave his side. The battle continued as fiercely as ever. It was still to be won or lost. Why hadn’t Ismar taken advantage of his collapse? Without Marcel’s magic, the enemy forces were free to gain the upper hand.
Marcel scrambled to his feet, finding his movements steadier than he expected. His unwilling rest had granted him a little energy, at least. Would it be enough to let him back into the battle?
Suddenly the light around him changed. The sky lost its blue, the forest beyond the walls its green, as though the entire world had been robbed of colour. The fizz and crackle of lightning played around the battlements and across the tree-tops in dancing flames too brilliant to look at. Magic had done this, he knew, but it wasn’t his own. He pressed himself back against the wall, afraid that Ismar was making a final surge to support his fighters.
That was when he heard the cry. Was there ever a sound so despondent, so utterly drained of life? Not that Marcel felt the slightest sympathy, for he recognised the voice that made that sound. Ismar was finished, the last of his powers leaving his evil frame with a defeated sigh.
He had struggled against Ismar since early morning, expecting defeat to claim him at any time, followed quickly by his own death. His hope had been to hold out until Cadell’s soldiers won the upper hand and then he would lie down to sleep among the other corpses. He hadn’t dared imagine that he would triumph over one so powerful.
Master of the Books Page 26
