Citadel of Fire (The Ronin Saga Book 2)

by Matthew Wolf

  She felt her stomach churn knowing that was the blood of her brothers, sisters, and even children. But her gaze was drawn to a bizarre glowing blue orb. It sat in the tyrant’s hand, crackling. Blue lightning veined across its radiant surface. “Traitors,” Sithel hissed, his tone slick. “Right beneath our noses like scurrying little rats.” Reaver Hutosh began to laugh sharply, but most were too filled with rage to find mirth in the Sithel’s taunting. He continued calmly, unperturbed. “That man you hold is guilty of betraying the Citadel. He is mine to do with as I will, for the sake of the Citadel’s protection.”

  “Do you even know who he is?” Reaver Dagon questioned. “Whom you held like a beast in a cage?”

  “An Arbiter,” Sithel answered, sounding bored, “which is just a man.” His men took another step forward, brandishing their blades. “Truly, he is no more than a relic, a dusty weapon that holds no use in our new world.” The way he said new put Meira’s hairs on end, goose bumps prickling along her arm.

  “What new world?” she questioned.

  “A world where only the strong survive,” he replied, lifting the ominous blue orb. Suddenly, the men in Meira’s possession, the captured Reavers, shrieked and fell to the ground. Blood ran from their eyes and ears, and an orange light was sucked from their bodies into the air until they fell, lifeless.

  Meira’s breath was lodged in her throat. It had all happened so fast… One man still gaped like a fish dying upon dry land. He reached out to her, desperately pleading. She released their now useless bonds and knelt at the man’s side to heal him. She touched his head. Pain lanced through her as the spark fizzled and her hand grew numb. She pulled away from him, realizing that whatever malady he suffered from could not be healed by her touch. With terror in the Reaver’s eyes, he gave his final breath.

  “You’re a demon, a monster,” she said slowly, rising with anger trembling through her limbs. Hand still numb, her power grew inside of her. She felt the others summon the spark as well, preparing to level Sithel and his dark men at her command.

  Sithel laughed, the sound echoing off the walls. “Demon? Hardly. I am the purification… Simply the fire that burns the dead wood, just like those captured fools. They were weak, and so they deserved death.” And he smiled, his worm-like lips twisting in what was a dark mockery of compassion. “Admit it, Meira, you were just too kind or perhaps too soft to give it to them.”

  “You’re mad,” she breathed. “You’ve murdered Reavers and Devari in cold blood and fractured the Citadel! You have broken us!” The fire roared to life in her hand and the other Reavers summoned water, stone, metal and more. Yet confusion crawled its way into Meira’s shell of confidence for Sithel merely smiled deeper.

  The man shrugged, orb bobbing in the darkness. “What you see as lives that are worth saving I see as broken pieces, men and women unfit to wear the mantle of protector. Each held pitiful amounts of the spark. As for the breaking… Well, oftentimes a broken sword needs to be shattered in order to be made anew.”

  “And that gives you the right to kill them? Slaughter them without mercy?”

  “They were not like you or me, Meira. Weakness is death, strength is life,” he chanted. “This I have come to know. The Citadel was weak, like I once was, but no more.” Zealous passion filled his voice, gaining strength as he spoke, “There once was a time when the world valued strength above all… but no longer. The cowards of this world, they fear power, they fear their own strength, and so they sit and do nothing.” Then he cursed almost beneath his breath, barely audible. “I did nothing.”

  I…? Meira wondered

  Sithel suddenly began to shake, his words punctuated by a voice trembling with fury and pain, his mad eyes roving in memory. “Beaten,” he cursed, “lashed by chain and whip and made to serve on hand and foot… Treated like a useless human refuse… like metal for the forge beaten until the last glowing spark of life flees the broken body… ” He growled, arm shaking.

  Meira and the other Reavers at her side watched, confused and shaken. With every word, the blue veins glowed brighter along his pale face, pulsing as if ready to burst.

  Until at last…

  “No,” Sithel said with a single, even breath. He looked back to Meira, gaze rising, fervor still roiling in his eyes, but his madness seemed under control. “Make no mistake, my dear Reaver, the Citadel will rise again, and strength will reign supreme.”

  “All your words are oiled in the mire of lies,” she replied biting off every word, though her voice sounded soft after the man’s ranting.

  “And yet, here you stand, a living symbol that I speak the truth. That weakness is death, and strength, life.”

  “What are you talking about?” she seethed.

  Sithel’s grin grew. “What was his name again? That man… a pitiful one-stripe Reaver?” Meira choked, tensing. “Ah yes, Morgan—that was his name, was it not?”

  Meira felt her blood freeze. “How?”

  “Ah, but I know much more than you can imagine, dear sister,” he answered with a haughty grin in the blue orb’s light. “But enough talk. If you will not return the Arbiter, then I will give you what you deserve. A traitor’s death.” He turned to his men. “Leave none alive,” he commanded and his men stalked forward.

  “Kill them,” she ordered her own people, and power roared to life in the halls. Balls of flame and orbs of frozen ice soared through the air, stone rumbled, lightning flashed, flesh sizzled, and men screamed and—

  It ended.

  As surely and as powerfully as it had begun, all forms of magic fizzled in the air, dying just as it reached Sithel’s dark men. And then it hit her—

  Meira cried out as the spark burned inside her, shriveling.

  “What is happening?” Chloe cried.

  Other Reavers shrieked too, grasping at the walls, at their hearts, as something ate at them from the inside, gnawing away their insides. Feeding on their spark.

  Pain and horror filled Meira. What is this? She looked up and saw the orb. It glowed fiercely, as if alive. An orange essence was pulled into the air as the spark was sucked from her skin. The others reached out, trying to grab their life force as it was drawn towards the glowing blue stone. The orb is the cause, she realized. It was feasting upon their power. If she could only stop it! She gripped her spark, reaching for the dwindling bud of light. It was racing away, but she held on tenaciously, as if gasping for a last breath. No! I cannot let him win! Dredging every last bit of spark she had in her, Meira attacked. Threads formed on her fingertips. She shot them out, forming spears of fire. They reached Sithel’s grinning face, and then, just like the other threads, vaporized into nothing. With that, Meira fell. Light and pain and suffering consumed her from the inside out. She realized she was screaming, as if crude daggers were carving out her heart, slowly and painstakingly. Thoughts stuttered beneath the devouring pain.

  Distantly, she saw Ezrah, lying upon the cold stone. Blood ran from his head and upon the blackened stone in the fading light.

  There is no hope, she thought.

  All is lost…

  * * *

  “Think!” Meira shouted.

  But it was so hard…

  Visions flashed, screams from her, from all of them, still rising in the air. Gasping, Meira saw the knee-high boots of Sithel march calmly towards her. She clawed at the stone, trying to crawl away as pain racked her limbs. He grabbed her chin, forcing her eyes up as her pain began to cloud and dim her vision. Her last image would be his greasy smile. Please, not that. He held a dagger, running it closer to her neck. But she couldn’t move, pain sapped her limbs of strength.

  Because you are weak… Sithel’s words echoed in her head. No. Sithel was wrong, again. Strength is not everything, and it is not always so easily seen.

  She felt something grab her ankle, frail yet strong.

  But it was a fleck beneath the monstrous pain.

  Darkness encroached upon her vision, and she reached out with the last tendril o
f her power, something she hadn’t known had been there. Eyeing the ceiling, she pulled with all her might.

  Stone thundered and fell, crashing down upon them.

  Sithel roared in anger. Something gripped Meira’s arm and she was being pulled away, shards of stone exploding around her and dust clouding her vision. When, at last, the thundering stopped and the clouds of dust settled, Meira saw her act had created a barricade of stone, one she hoped Sithel had been caught in, but knew better. Such evil does not die so easily. She looked upon her savior.

  He was a young man with gray-green eyes and brown hair, which was tousled as if he had been running nonstop. In his other hand was a brilliant and mesmerizing sword that glowed white. He wore the tattered cloak of the Devari with crossed swords, but somehow he did not seem like a Devari.

  Just behind him were two men—one clearly a Devari in look and stature, with a hideously scarred face, and the other a shorter, stouter man with fiery copper-colored eyes, nearly the same age as her unexpected guardian.

  “What is this?” Dagon moaned, rubbing his head and gaining his feet.

  “This young man… he saved me,” she said, disbelieving.

  Dagon opened his mouth then cut short.

  As the ringing in Meira’s ears ended, she heard the thunder of armor and of footfalls.

  The young man pulled her to her feet. “It is time to run,” he declared. She watched in awe as he threaded something with his other hand. Her mouth parted as the air distorted, as if from heat, but it was not the element of fire.

  And she knew.

  Wind…

  It sifted beneath the Arbiter, and the man rose, as if held by invisible hands. The air suddenly solidified, and Ezrah lay upon a golden glowing stretcher.

  Several other Reavers had gained their footing and gasped, wide-eyed.

  “Abomination…” Hutosh breathed.

  “So much for not being able to use your power,” the fiery Devari said.

  “That was the last of what I have,” her guardian declared, slumping as if exhausted. “Can you take him?” His two friends nodded, both Devari grabbed the stretcher and ran. “Can you run?” the mysterious young man questioned, grabbing her arm.

  What are you? She thought, but her mouth worked soundlessly. Meira eyed the hand upon her arm as if it were a claw. Wind… The footsteps grew louder. Shaking herself out of a daze, Meira suppressed her fear and nodded then, together, they ran. Moving through the halls, they slowed as more fires and shouts of men sounded ahead.

  “They’re everywhere,” Hutosh said, hand upon his bleeding forehead. “Where in the seven hells do we go?”

  “This way,” she ordered, turning down another series of dark halls when they hit a sudden wall of stone. A dead end. “This… this is not supposed to be here,” she voiced, panicked. Confusion and despair rose as her hands groped the solid wall.

  “It’s a trap,” said Chloe, voice shaking with rising dread.

  “Calm down,” Finn instructed sharply, “Your fear does us no good here. Simply look for a door or a latch—there must be something.” Despite his steady voice, his hands groped the walls frantically. Others, Chloe included, joined him.

  A hand grabbed Meira, pulling her aside, and she found herself looking into the scarred Devari’s face. His blue eyes shone in the dim light as he spoke, “I’m assuming you had a plan to get the Arbiter out of here. What exactly was it?”

  “I have a cart waiting for us,” she explained, “But we need to get to the Eastern Courtyards.”

  “And which way are they?”

  “Straight above us.”

  Just then, fires appeared from behind, bobbing in the darkness—hundreds of them. It must have been an army.

  “Do we stand and fight?” Reaver Dimitri asked.

  “There’s too many,” she declared. “We must run.”

  “Yet there is no way out,” Reaver Tugard said softly. “We’re trapped.”

  “There is always a way out,” Meira replied fervently and strode forth, joining Finn in his search. Her legs wobbled beneath her as she put a hand to the nearby wall, feeling the stone beyond. The footsteps and bobbing lights were getting closer by the second. She could almost hear their breathing and feel their heat upon her neck. Steel rang, and the Reavers pulled at their powers, but it was a dismal sight—the orb had weakened them greatly.

  Meira moved closer towards the charging army, hand running along the wall.

  “Meira!” Finn called fearfully.

  Abruptly, she felt an emptiness. A hollow. Here. She summoned the spark, and felt a bit of power had strangely returned to her, but it was still like working a shriveled, atrophied muscle. Finn was suddenly at her side, grabbing her arm and feeding her his power. She smiled and stone erupted, falling and revealing a hallway beyond. At the same time, the air whistled, and something raced towards Meira. She threw up a stone fragment, just in time. Steel and wood splintered against it, and an arrow fell to her feet. More arrows streaked like hail as shouts rose. Nearby, Reavers erected pitiful shields of stone or steel, but it was not enough.

  “Quickly! Into the hall!” Meira yelled to her fellowship as they leapt over the rubble and through the opening. The fires of the dark army were nearly upon them. Meira turned, but paused.

  She saw Chloe lying upon the ground, eyes glazed, an arrow in her chest.

  Weakness is death, Sithel’s words played in her mind. Chloe’s one-striped robes seemed to mock Meira as they became soaked with spreading blood.

  Distantly, she thought she heard Sithel’s maniacal laughter.

  Hatred filling her, Meira whispered a silent prayer and ran.

  Sacrifices

  JUST LIKE THAT, THE BLACK HALLS ended.

  Gray squinted into the blazing sun.

  His eyes adjusted to the bright light, and he saw a grass field surrounded by tall black gates. One of the dozen courtyards that surrounds the keep, Kirin informed him. Trees dappled the grounds, with meandering stone paths flanked by unlit lampposts, benches, and even a nearby small pond. It all seemed so strange and unreal after the hours of endless dark halls, like walking out of a nightmare and into a dream. Still, relief flooded through his tired body.

  “I didn’t think we’d ever get out of there,” Zane breathed at his side.

  “Don’t count your blessings yet,” Victasys replied. “We’re not quite out.”

  “Wait, where’s Chloe?” a bearded Reaver asked suddenly.

  The powerful woman responded. “Dead.” She sounded shaken. Meira, they had called her. “Come. The cart and Eastern Gate are this way.”

  Gray took the wide, white marble stairs two at a time, then froze.

  In the very center of the courtyard, a man knelt calmly, sitting upon his heels.

  Had he been there before?

  Gray felt Victasys tense at his side, as did the other Reavers.

  As they descended the last stairs, the man’s eyes snapped open.

  Immediately, Gray reached for Morrowil as the man took them in, fist tightening around the blade’s smooth handle. Not a hint of surprise registered on the sitting man’s face made entirely of hard angles, as if he had been a piece of steel hammered by a blacksmith, but then left jagged and forgotten. Gray swallowed. Even his cold blue eyes made Victasys’ seem warm.

  “I guess I spoke too soon,” Zane said.

  Slowly, the man rose and spoke, the deep voice echoing over the courtyard. “I am here for you, Victasys. There is no more running. It is time to face your punishment.”

  Before the figure, a sword was stuck into the ground, pinpoints of light blazing off its shining steel. But he didn’t reach for it. His cloak danced in front of him from a gust of wind, showing two crossed swords, but slightly different. The swords were larger and a brighter white. It seemed all too familiar. And he realized why. It was just like Kail’s. The man bore the leader of the Devari’s cloak.

  Jian, Gray knew.

  “And what crimes does the tainted Citadel
accuse me of, brother?” Victasys replied.

  “Do not call me that,” Jian snapped. “You’re not my brother, for you have broken the Code of the Devari. You’re now a Forgotten.” Gray saw Victasys stiffen, as if slapped. Forgotten? Gray questioned. Apparently it was a harsh accusation as the scarred man’s body began to shake with anger. He did not think anything could perturb Victasys so much. Jian continued, “Though I would hear it from your own mouth before I end your sacrilege. Tell me, are you not to blame for the death of a Reaver in the Market Square?”

  Zane yelled abruptly, “You’re wrong! It was not his fault! Victasys killed that Reaver in self-defense and to protect me!” Calmly, Victasys gripped Zane’s arm, shaking his head. And the fiery man quieted, if reluctantly.

  Victasys remained silent, and Gray felt the tension build.

  “Speak,” Gray whispered. “Tell him it wasn’t your fault, but say something!”

  “I cannot,” said the scarred Devari. “The man has already concluded my guilt. In the end, some men will simply not listen to reason.” He sounded resigned, and yet there was a note of fear. His blues eyes wavered.

  “Your silence has attested to the truth. You have betrayed us,” Jian said in a deathly cold tone. “Your hands are stained with blood, but I will see them cleansed.”

  The tall, black haired Reaver, Dagon, spoke in a low, confident tone, “Together we can take him.”

  Gray nodded, gripping Morrowil tighter.

  “We attack as one,” Reaver Meira declared.

  “No,” Victasys said softly, but it cut the air like a knife. “We cannot beat him. Not even together, not as we stand.” Handing Ezrah’s stretcher to a nearby Reaver, he looked to Gray. “Take him and go. All of you.”

  Meira’s eyes tightened, but she nodded, striding forward. “Come, guardian,” she called.

  Gray unsheathed Morrowil with a ring. “No, I’m not going anywhere.”

  “This is my fight, Gray,” Victasys said, then nodded to Ezrah. “And you know yours. It is time we both follow our fates.”

  “Damn the fates!” he shouted, rage welling inside him. Yet worst of all, he knew Victasys was right. He felt his rage turn to sorrow, looking at the man as if seeing him for the last time. “I cannot leave you… We will not leave you… You are one of us now.”