by Steve Rzasa
Silent as the grave, they all are. Well they should be. I glare at each one in turn. Satara gives a slight nod. “You would do well to remember that imbecile’s example—and not repeat it. Eh, Calder?”
The set of his jaw tells me he’s spoiling to return the blow, but he stands still, arms by his side. Calder glares at me but doesn’t dare strike.
He’s never dueled me with lightning before. A handful have. They’re dead.
“Caution is why we brought the new warships,” Satara says. “They have reinforced hulls, and weaponry to handle an assortment of foul creatures.”
“Good. Very good. And those spikes?”
Satara teases me with another smile. She gestures to the gleaming spikes protruding from the bows of the nearest warships. “Grappling harpoons meant for reeling in corsairs.”
Yet, I can think of a far better use for them.
“We chase Cord, then,” Rostov grunts.
“No. He’s gone too far north and east, and we have no location to which we can follow.”
“What of the bind to your valkiro?” Calder asks.
I spear him with a look, but he doesn’t quail. Good. He can learn. “It is not specific to locale. Jix did not know where he was. There was fighting, and fire. That’s all I know. Strike that: I do know where Cord will go next.”
“That’s where you’re leading us,” Satara says.
“Yes.”
“Where?”
They won’t like this. “Jasna Góra.”
The wind sisters scowl and spit on the deck, simultaneously. Rostov makes a warding gesture with three fingers raised on his left hand. Satara puts her hand to her mouth, eyes wide, and Calder sighs deeply.
Taran alone does not register alarm. His face, pale blue as the rest in the moonlight, is passionless. He snaps his left fingers once, twice, for a tongue of flame. He makes it dance in his palm. Then he flings it out, over my head, and immolates a moth fluttering there. Charred wings disintegrate onto my cloak.
I brush them off. “You had all best focus and prepare. You know what awaits.”
Satara nods. “Soulmages.”
“Well, strike me with a bolt.” Calder crosses his arms. “We’re all going to die.”
THE TWENTY-SIXTH CHAPTER
~
THEY ARE WAITING FOR US when we arrive at Jasna Góra. Thirty of them. Eight priests bedecked in dazzling white robes and crimson vestments, and twenty-two acolytes in plain brown garb.
Taking control of the air space around the great library is a simpleton’s task. The local duke is weak. He has only a pair of cutters patrolling the valley, and we send them scurrying with a pair of fusillades from Inexorable’s cannons. Spearmen flee their posts on the road approaching the citadel with fireballs flung by Rostov hammering down upon them, leaving miniature bonfires burning black holes in the green fields.
I have Inexorable moored to the walls of Jasna Góra. No boarding ramp is extended our way. How rude. Instead we extend our own planks the short distance from the hull to the stone blocks, so we cross the open space under the shadow of Inexorable’s sails. Cobra and Encampment I leave hovering overhead, their light tan hulls sharp in relief against the approaching storm clouds that crowd together in formations of charcoal gray. Their cannons are trained on the spires and domes of the library. As for the armored ships, they are leashed in a tight circle around Jasna Góra’s plain, watching all approaches for signs of Bowen Cord and his cursed Sleet.
We stand before the assembled soulmages, with Satara by my right and Calder to my left. The other summoners spread out in arc, facing our adversaries. The air crackles with our combined magic. It soothes my nerves, and whispers sweet promises of power in my mind.
My lieutenant and two dozen armored soldiers guard our flanks in tight rows, their fusils at the ready. I don’t foresee needing them. I also do not believe in being outgunned if it comes to a more savage fight.
“You have no business here.” The priest in front is young, perhaps my age, yet could still be the father of many of the acolytes. He has a mop of brown hair and is tall, reedy in stature. Yet his tone brooks no argument. “These are the lands of the Grand Duchy of Slaskie, and Jasna Góra is a sanctuary to all beings. Northamber has no authority.”
“Northamber’s reach extends to wherever His Majesty deems.” I point at this priest. Lighting dances the length of my metal arm, setting sparks off the tip of my finger. “You have harbored a fugitive from our justice, a thief and a murderer who conspires with dark powers.”
The priest scowls. “You have nerve telling me of dark powers, when the vile blackness around you is thicker than these storm clouds.”
No pushover, this one. I can see fear in the faces of many standing behind him, especially the young acolytes. But this priest barks without timidity. I respect that.
Not that it will save him from my wrath.
Calder leans in and spits at the priest’s feet. “Give us Bowen Cord, kneeler, and we’ll only kill you instead of torturing your women and children before we burn you alive.”
The priest smiles, but it isn’t a friendly expression. It’s lips spread to reveal fangs, a wolf’s sneer before it savages his prey. “I am Father Evan Tyrz, and I serve the Most High.” His eyes glow a brilliant white, which makes the white of his robes dingy by comparison. “You will not defile His place of sanctuary and knowledge.”
Calder, you imbecile. I grab his shoulder and jerk him backward, off his footing. He stumbles and snarls at me. I ignore him. “Be reasonable, soulmage. If Cord is here, reveal him. If he is not thus, tell us whence he’s gone. We want only the Bloodheart.”
“No,” he says.
“No is not an acceptable answer.”
“No is the only right answer.” He lifts his right hand, palm flat toward me. Magic surges over me. It pulses, an unseen force that is somehow…wrong. Twisted from the magic I use and know. It does not stand ready for command. It means to conquer me.
Such is the might of a soulmage. Calder was right to fear.
There is still a chance for our success. I glance at Satara.
The largest stone block from the edge of Jasna Góra’s wall jerks free, dribbling shards as it hovers in the gap where it once stood fast and hurtles through the air with the ease of a tossed pine cone. It is dead on to this upstart Father Evan.
He holds up his right hand, without taking that glowing white gaze off me, and the rock halts without hesitation. He squeezes his fingers into a fist, the tendons tightening as a ship’s lines pull under sail, and the rock that is as big around as a barrel crumbles into dust and pebbles.
Calder makes a quiet choking sound behind me.
“You have chosen a path of folly, Strathern,” Father Evan says grimly, “The Most High does not suffer fools.”
I hold out my arms, palms up, and let the lightning dance upon them. The bolts crackle and writhe from shoulders to fingertips. The power builds, excitement of the highest order. It pulls at its leash, demanding release. “This is the path we freely chose.”
“So be it.”
The air explodes with magic.
Calder and I lash lighting across the priests and acolytes, sending white and yellow bolts arcing in their midst. Thunder booms off stone walls. Taran and Rostov dodge the bursts of magic that slam at us from the soulmages’ hands, undulating pulses of blue-white light, and lob comets of fire across the ramparts.
The twin sisters Fantine and Etheria soar into the sky, carried on columns of churning air. With shrieks matched only by a banshee’s fury, they rip across the soulmages with twisters of wind that whip all our robes and cloaks. Satara, meanwhile, keeps up a steady barrage of stones, ripping blocks from the wall and bricks from the side of the library with equal aplomb.
But soulmages are not feared without reason. They shield each other from our blows, deflecting lightning, smothering fire, standing firm against wind and pulverizing rock. They advance on us, slowly, haltingly, but advancing nonetheless.
The others spread apart from me. They know this drill. We have used our formation to great effect before, to the doom of whole armies. Never against this many soulmages.
My lieutenant shouts for orders, his musket ready at his shoulder.
Asking, at a time like this? “Shoot, you idiots!”
Gunfire crackles behind me. A musket ball whines far too close by my head, sounding like a massive angry hornet in my ear. But they would do better to shoot point-blank at iron armor. None of their shots penetrate the line of the soulmages’ defenses.
My anger grows. Dark clouds churn over us. I can feel our magic gathering, pulling together into a cluster of blackness and strength. I turn over my rage, let it feed off the magic and be fed upon.
I unleash a new wave of lightning with a cry that sears my throat as badly as the magic sears my body.
The bolts crash upon the soulmages as a wave pounds the beach. What my siblings would say to compare the two, I can only imagine. As it is, Father Evan shouts orders at his priests, and their eyes glow ever brighter.
Calder adds his lightning to the fusillade, and together we press forward. The boy is reckless, yes, and excessive when it comes to use of force in situations where it can be avoided. In a battle such as this, however, his fury is my greatest asset. None of the others possess an inner darkness strong enough to give us the power to succeed.
With a cry of desperation, the acolytes break ranks. They storm us with swords and halberds. The soulmages’ blasts of magic catch us unawares for this new onslaught.
I pull my blade free of its scabbard and clash with the nearest youth. My lieutenant shouts a command, and the thunder of the soldiers’ boots on stone joins the rumble from the heavens above.
The rampart around me becomes a furious melee of metal and gunsmoke, fire and lightning. I parry the inexpert blows of the young acolyte attacking me, his face dusted with soot and streaked with tears. Yet he hacks at me with that sword with such devotion, one must admire his faith.
I admire it even as I block, sidestep, and thrust my sword’s blade deep into his chest.
A volley of musket fire cuts down two more acolytes. Father Evan howls. Outstretched hands send half a dozen of my soldiers screaming over the ramparts, tumbling like dead leaves in autumn. Their armor makes a distant clatter on the road far below.
Waves of fire and lightning swirl about us. Satara yells, and I dodge the swipe of a halberd as I pivot for a look. She pulls a longsword blade from her left shoulder, and brings a wall of dirt careening up the side of the fortress walls. It hammers aside the acolyte who stabbed her. He’s slammed into the nearest wall of the library, his cry muffled into a choking gasp. The torrent of dirt turns into mud as rain pours down on us, a deluge that cuts my visibility in half.
In seconds he’s buried under muck thrice as tall as a man.
Satara sags to the ground. I’m at her side. Blood pours from the deep gash in her left shoulder. Her skin is paler than ever, and her breathing comes in sharp gasps. “Couldn’t believe…I was sloppy enough to let him … in that close.” She favors me with a shaky version of that sharp smile of hers.
The desire to hold her close and exterminate her pain is overwhelming, but forbidden. Instead I hold my right index finger an inch above the wound, and look her dead in the eyes. They are a stunning, smoldering brown. “This will hurt, but the bleeding has to stop.”
She bites her lip, and for a moment there’s intense vulnerability. A little girl lost among noise and chaos. Then her mask reappears, the sultry Satara who has done battle by my side more than a dozen times. She nods. “I will not scream.”
Very well. I stab at the wound with lightning. Brilliant light sparks between my finger and her shoulder. Flesh sizzles, and burns. The stench makes me gag but I stomp down on that reflex.
Satara grimaces, grunts, but does not scream. Her eyes are squeezed shut. Tears drip from the corners, mingling with raindrops.
It’s over.
Calder’s seen us. He sneers in my direction as he blasts at a priest with his lightning, sending the old man spinning away with the bolt whipping about his body.
Say something, boy. I dare you.
Satara moves off from me, draws her sword, and joins the fray without a look in my direction or a word spoken in thanks.
Smoke and rain mingle in a sodden, foggy mess. There are screams and explosions and the sizzle of fire in water, but I can barely see the next man in front of me.
Father Evan.
I shower him with lightning from my metal arm, sword still clutched in my other. He uses his perverted form of magic to counter each bolt, deflect each ray of light. Our bodies are weirdly lit. An otherworldly glow suffuses everything until we are pale shadows of ourselves.
We’re pressed a mere three feet apart, close enough to shake hands yet separated by barricades of magic so thick the strongest armor of man is but silk to this. The air ripples with our combined power.
“You didn’t have to take the hard way!” I have to shout over the crackle and thrum, the report of gunfire and the roar of rain. “You should have given us Bowen!”
“I’ll not betray a friend to evil!” Father Evan’s voice is firm. He betrays no sign of exhaustion, or pain, or fear.
What a bother. Those are the worst men to face.
I feel the throbbing pain at my shoulder grow, where the focusing crystal rests inset in my metal arm. It’s gathering power, slowly, even as the priest and I hammer at each other with our magic. Light pours forth from the crystal, adding to the glow washing all color from our surroundings.
Hurry. Faster!
Father Evan’s power presses me back. My boots skid on the stone, losing traction, slipping in a puddle.
Etheria swoops in from the right, unleashing a funnel of air at Father Evan. He doesn’t break his concentration from me, but uses his left hand to redirect the wind, channel it at her. Etheria goes spinning like a child’s top over one of the domed roofs, shouting obscenities.
“Sire!” My lieutenant has blood on his face, a gash in his armor and his cutlass drawn. A musket lies at his feet, snapped cleanly in two.
“Signal them!” I thunder.
He yanks a pistol from his waist sash, one hidden behind his cloak. Aims it skyward. It’s a clunky contraption with a muzzle thrice as big as a wheellock’s.
Father Evan’s expression betrays puzzlement.
I sneer at him, though it’s half-hearted. I have no stomach for what’s in store for this place. It is, after all, a thing of beauty.
My lieutenant fires. The shot blazes red sparks like a rising star, streaking up beyond the tallest spire of Jasna Góra. It sparkles and spreads out in the rain.
And above us, Encampment and Rattler open fire.
The first cannonballs punch holes in a gilded dome, shattering it completely. The next salvo ignites fires.
Father Evan cries out.
His defenses flicker.
With a savage roar I let loose the magic that has been building in my focusing crystal this entire time. The lightning blast is as big around as my arm, and lets out a tremendous BOOM that staggers me. It catches Father Evan clean in the chest, no magic protecting him. He’s thrown into rubble and shadow.
More cannonballs impact the rampart around us, blasting apart the battle formations. Acolytes shout in terror and pain. The priests’ voices are lower, focused calls for salvation. But they fear, too. I hear the tremors.
In moments the fight is over. The acolytes lay dead at our feet. The priests too. The cannon fire ceases from our warships. Only the sounds of rain falling and fires hissing accompany the now fallen darkness of night.
I do a head count. Fifteen soldiers dead. Satara is down on one knee, panting, while Calder questions her. Rostov helps Taran as the latter limps along, right leg twisted and bloodied. Fantine soars in for a landing on a roar of wind, bearing Etheria’s body in her arms. Her neck is bent sharply, eyes staring wide past her sister at nothing. D
ead?
Fantine collapses to her knees and sobs. Her cries echo on the stone, filling the night.
I cover Etheria’s face with the hood of her cloak. May her magic join with us all.
There’s no bringing her back from death. No summoner can do that. Not even a soulmage.
It is a rule, you see.
THE TWENTY-SEVENTH CHAPTER
~
Bowen
Vesna and I reconcile.
We sit together in the darkness of my cabin, only the glow of the single candle in its nook to illuminate our faces. She draws me in for a kiss.
At the back of my mind, the Bloodheart awaits. I still see Luc walking out of fire, unharmed. I still see him using magic to defeat that foul creature that attacked Gridley and the rest of us.
Those images don’t fade. They’re persistent as the afterglow from a flash of lightning.
Lightning. Strathern.
He’s hunting me. Us.
I pull from Vesna’s embrace. Sit on the edge of the bunk and stare at the timbers of Sleet. I run my hand across the wood. It has a steadying influence.
“Are you well, Bowen?” Vesna rests her chin on my shoulder. “You need rest.”
I shake my head. “Have to walk the deck. I need the sky to clear my head.”
“Don’t be long, then.” She kisses my neck, a light brush of her lips.
No, I won’t be.
Gridley waits outside my cabin door. He looks up, ears perked.
“Good boy.” I pet him, cradling his face in both hands. “Walk with me?”
He’s up in a flash of fur, leading the way up the ladder. Gridley has a limp to him now, but he’s strong and resilient. Vesna’s healing herbs have done the trick, as I knew they would. Within days Gridley will regain his full strength, of that I have no doubt.
He’s a brave one.
Ariya is at the ship’s wheels. She nods my way when I mount the deck. Silver-rimmed eyes glitter in the light of the light of the moon. The latter looms far above, bright white and waxing gibbous.
