Citadel of Fire (The Ronin Saga Book 2)

by Matthew Wolf

  “The name is Darius,” the young lad said firmly. “Gray’s grandfather, I presume?”

  “A worthy guess,” Ezrah answered.

  “Then you… you’re an Arbiter?” Ayva asked.

  He smiled. “In title only for the moment, I’m afraid.”

  Still, the girl’s eyes widened as if he’d just proclaimed himself a living god. “An Arbiter… in the flesh… my spirits…” she mumbled, as if to herself, then looked around and realized she had spoken aloud and blushed.

  “Hannah,” said a girl at Zane’s side.

  “Welcome, Hannah. I’m glad you’re safe at last. Zane once told me there were only two people in this world he trusts. I can see now in your eyes that he placed his trust wisely.”

  Hannah, though fierce in spirit like her brother, also looked embarrassed by his kind words, her cheeks coloring, and Zane spoke in her stead. “Thank you for rescuing my sister, Arbiter. It seems I owe you again.”

  The young man was clever. Perhaps he had to be to survive so long in the harsh Underbelly of Farbs and keep his sister’s innocence intact. “Ah, so you figured that out, did you?” he asked.

  “Who else would send a lone little boy into a den of evil?” Zane questioned brazenly. “While I don’t necessarily approve of how you did it, I do approve of the results.”

  “Is that so? Well, your approval is appreciated,” he said, then saw that Zane stood close to Gray’s side. He had seen the two training over the last two days, and now he felt the bond between the young men. A bond forged by fate. Yet he could see it was genuine and real as any friendship. Ezrah felt his eyes crinkle, happy for that, and spoke. “I see you learned a valuable lesson since last I saw you.”

  Zane noticed his gaze and his implication. “Even a closed heart can find a sliver of space I suppose,” he answered, clearing his throat gruffly.

  Gray raised a curious brow and Zane grumbled.

  Ezrah turned to a young boy at Zane’s side, hiding behind Ayva. Something pulsed. He sensed it in the little boy’s pocket. “You must be the one who discovered my statue, and the champion of this group.” The little boy glowed beneath his praise, a grin splitting his face. “What is your name?”

  “Lucky,” he breathed.

  “Might I see my statue, Lucky?”

  Lucky nodded, handed the statue of the little man over, and found his voice. “I took care of him, I swear. I made sure Dared never got hurt, not even once.”

  “Dared, is it?” he asked warmly.

  The boy nodded, but then looked nervous. “I know he’s yours, but it just seemed wrong not to name him after all he did for me…”

  “Dared is a fine name,” Ezrah declared. “And quite accurate too. He’s not much of a talker, is he?” Lucky chuckled and, calmly, Ezrah’s hand played over the statue, feeling an intricate web set over the little man. As he’d suspected, someone had laid a spell of magic upon it. Whoever it was, they were powerful. Too powerful… Again, his suspicions flared. He knew that the culprit who laid the spell was likely the very same one who held the second half of the prophecy, the rest of his torn page.

  With threads of metal, leaf, flesh, sun, and moon, he wove a complex tapestry, slowly unraveling the spell until it dissipated into the air at last. He pretended to wipe it free of dust on his robes then handed it back to Lucky. “There we are. Just needed a bit of cleaning, that’s all.”

  “Dared—I mean the statue… I can keep it?” Lucky asked, eyes widening to the size of Farbian coins.

  Ezrah rubbed his jaw. “Well, seeing as it did you more good than it ever did me, I see no reason why not. Consider it a reward for the brave young hero. But treat Dared well, promise? He may be a Ronin, but even heroes need someone to watch out for them.”

  Lucky beamed, nodding vehemently, and stepped back, fondling his treasure as if it were pure gold.

  At last, Ezrah’s eyes settled on the mysterious dark figure in the room, standing out like a black spider in a white web. She bore herself like a weapon—while she’d obviously been stripped of sword and bow by the Devari guards at his door, she was still a weapon like an unsheathed blade or a coiled desrah snake. Her armor was dark plate, with one tall spiked pauldron, the whole of it clearly forged by a master. Aside from the fierce armor, the woman’s eyes were rimmed in charcoal, giving them a deathly glower from within her dark cowl. She stood with hands upon her hips, eyeing him mysteriously.

  “My name is Faye,” the woman said before he could speak. “And forgive my rudeness, grandfather of Gray, but if we’re done with introductions, there’s a war that’s about to crash down upon your pretty little heads, and I’ve come to warn you about it.”

  Ezrah ignored her, looking to Gray. It seemed only to spur the fire in the woman who was used to commanding. He raised a brow.

  “It’s true,” Gray said. “Or at least I think it is.”

  “And who is she to you?”

  Faye’s gaze narrowed dangerously.

  “No one,” Gray said at last, “but she is important to Darkeye. She believes the battle is about to happen.”

  “Battle?” Faye scoffed. “It will be a massacre. The army is coming.”

  “What army?” Ayva asked disdainfully but with a note of fear, the others in the room tensing.

  “The army that has been brewing beneath your very noses,” Faye answered. “An army of dark Reavers, a legion of Darkeye’s minions, creatures included, and lastly and most importantly… Darkwalkers, Sithel at its head with his blue stone of magic in his grip. It is an army ready to siege this world and throw it back into the dark abyss of the Lieon.”

  Though already set in night, the candles in the room fluttered, as if unable to hold back the darkness of the woman’s words. Each member of the room seemed fearful. Ezrah’s gaze panned to each in turn. All eyes settled on him.

  Suddenly a knock sounded, as planned.

  “Who is that?” Darius asked.

  Gray’s gaze didn’t leave him though.

  Twisting threads of steel and leaf, Ezrah opened the door.

  A flood of Reavers, Devari, and guards entered, filling the room and spilling out into the hallway and down the stairs—their presence felt all the way into the courtyard outside. Reaver Ethelwin and Reaver Dagon filed in at their head. Meira was not far behind with Finn at her side, the two so close they were practically holding hands. He smirked, heartened by the sight. Perhaps it was the threat of looming death that showed those two the path to their true feelings. With death comes life… he thought. Reaver Dimitri stood amid the crowds with hard eyes, the one who’d lost his brother—he was the one Ezrah had sent to inform all others, for all men needed a purpose. Yet there were many who’d lost friends, brothers, sisters, wives, husbands, and more at the hand of Sithel thus far. As such, vengeance was undoubtedly at the forefront of many minds. But in that moment, all stood quiet and waiting, the air of The Tranquil House filled with growing anticipation.

  The others in the room gawked—Gray and his friends crowded closer to him in awe.

  “So many…” Ayva breathed.

  Zane’s eyes merely boiled with determination. “It’s time.”

  Closest to him, Gray spoke in a low whisper. “You knew the whole time…” he said, shaking his head. “You knew about the coming army, about Faye, Lucky, all of it, didn’t you? How?”

  “Fate is a funny thing, my boy,” he answered. “It’s never true until it happens.”

  Reaver Meira spoke loud and clear for all to hear. “What are your orders, my Arbiter?” She looked for the first time at peace, yet equally eager. She clasped Finn’s hand tightly. “We are ready.”

  Ezrah spoke, threading flesh into his voice, his words echoing off the walls and into every ear. “It’s time to make the Citadel whole.”

  Fate and Will

  GRAY LISTENED TO EZRAH’S WORDS.

  It’s time…

  He hid a shiver, feeling the weight in the room. It was as if he were standing in the Hall of Winds, w
ithin the city of Morrow, just like the stories… in the moment before the final battle, during the famous last meeting of the great generals of the Lieon. The meeting that decided the fate of the lands.

  The moment of Kail’s betrayal.

  He shivered again.

  All moved to leave, and Darius nudged him. “C’mon, Gray, let’s get out of here. I could use a drink before the action goes down, and I saw a pint in the kitchen with our name on it. If I remember correctly, you still owe me one from the Shining City.” The Shining City? The rogue did have a memory like a steel trap. An incorrect steel trap in this case, but it was still a distant recollection.

  “Gray,” Ezrah called as he reached the door with Darius, the man’s voice deep and firm as iron.

  Gray paused in his tracks, turning.

  “Linger for a moment if you would, my boy.”

  Darius squeezed his arm with a look of sympathy. “Good luck,” he whispered.

  Smiling in thanks, Gray watched as the last of the Reavers and Devari glided past him, leaving the shadowed room. The door shut with finality, and he found himself under the gaze of his grandfather. The man’s stance was full of power, wearing his rank like a stole upon his shoulders. An Arbiter—one of the most powerful men in all the world. With his fall of gray hair, now streaked with white, he looked ancient yet somehow ageless. His wise face was lit by the flickering firelight. Against his pristine, white robes, his gray-green eyes shone with clarity. Gray found it hard to believe that only days ago the man had been on the cusp of death. Now his grandfather looked as if he’d never been hurt, nor ever could be.

  Ezrah spoke, “Last we talked, you were missing something, but it has returned I see…”

  With a smile Gray raised a hand, embracing the nexus. He pulled at threads in the air, fingers of wind gripping a nearby pitcher. Narrowing his eyes, he lifted the steel vessel. Water sloshed into two empty glasses and he floated one to Ezrah who took it with a raised brow, looking impressed and amused. The soft threads of wind pulled back into his hand, tickling as they formed a churning white ball that hovered just above his palm. Abruptly, he made a fist and the air vanished. “But it’s still hard to hold without the power of need…”

  “That is a thing of time and practice, Gray,” Ezrah replied. Suddenly, the room chilled as water was sucked from the pitcher in a thick stream. The man split the stream into a dozen, then a hundred different strands of water. In a delicate balancing act, he wove those into a knotted sphere the size of Gray’s head—his finger twirling softly. Then the water crystalized inch by inch, turning to ice. Dropping his hand, the ice fell. Before it shattered upon the floor, Ezrah’s eyes flashed, and there was a blaze of fire. The ice dissolved to vapor, then it was gone, as if never there. “If my power was an ocean, that was but a drop of my true strength,” he confessed. “And yet I started just as you did, my boy, if slower and less talented.”

  “Less talented?” he said, still astounded, rubbing his chilled arms.

  Ezrah’s eyes glazed in memory. “Indeed,” he said, amused. “Highmaster Suroth once said I was the least powerful Reaver in all history.”

  Gray scrubbed the back of his head. “Was the man blind?”

  “Actually, he was right,” he admitted. “At the time, at least.”

  “Then how…?”

  “As I said before, my boy, strength comes from within,” he replied. “Besides, a thousand years to perfect one’s skills does surprising wonders. With patience and belief, Gray, your power will grow.”

  A thousand years… Gray’s mind boggled at the notion. Sometimes he forgot people lived so long in Farhaven. Life is based off the strength of one’s spark, Faye had said once while traveling. Then if Ezrah is one of the most powerful wielders of the spark, how old is he really?

  “Gray,” Ezrah intoned, breaking his thoughts. The man beckoned him closer. “There was a reason I asked you to stay. I see there’s still a darkness that lingers behind your eyes… What bothers you?”

  “What is going to happen?” he asked.

  “You suspect I know the future?” Ezrah voiced with a small laugh. “My boy, I would be a very unlucky man if I knew all ends.”

  “But…” he began, shaking his head then looking out the window to see Reavers and Devari gathering in the center of the courtyard that was submerged in darkness. An orange glow from the torches and a full moon illuminated the men and women. Gray knew dawn was coming. “What if…”

  “If?” Ezrah asked, joining him at his side to look at the preparations. Faye stood in the moon’s glimmering light, looking like a mercenary of death, a separate shadow from the rest. “Life is not about ifs, my boy. If is only the past and future. What we have is now.”

  As always, he felt the wisdom in his grandfather’s words but still… “It’s just, I haven’t even had the chance to tell you about everything. So much has happened since last I saw you.”

  “Is that so?” Ezrah touched his temple with a finger and a flood of memories flashed through him—everything. At last his vision raced to this moment, to where he stood. Gray gasped, pulling away. “I see,” said the man, his words bearing the weight of sudden understanding and empathy for all that had happened. “You’ve had a long journey indeed, my boy.”

  It was true. So much had happened…

  First came the memories of Daerval.

  Living his quiet life beside Mura, then the attack of the Vergs, followed shortly by his desperate flee through the Lost Woods… His encounter with Vera, then Ayva and Darius within Lakewood… Then the Ronin… seeing the legends taking form, alive and not dead after thousands of years, and not the true evil. Shortly after, fleeing from the Kage… The sanctuary of the Shining City and its people, convincing the king to aid them, and then fleeing on his own… Ayva and Darius joining him… Then, at last, the battle at Death’s Gate.

  Next came Farhaven.

  The long desert journey full of magical Nodes, where they had met Faye… si’tu’ah and training with the woman… the Darkwalkers… the Algasi… seeing Farbs upon the hilltop, a gleaming gem… The taverns and Maris’ Luck… Zane’s arrival. The battle within the keep… and finally Victasys… It all lingered, like a candle’s flame after one closed their eyes. So much… he thought again. As if he’d lived a lifetime since he’d entered Farhaven. He felt like a different man, especially after his training with Zane. He felt stronger, more secure in what he wanted. The flow was coming more naturally to him now, and Kirin… His former self was quiet now, but he knew that was one thread left dangling that would need to be cut or find its place before the end.

  “That magic, I’ve felt that before haven’t I?” he asked.

  Ezrah smiled. “A long time ago.”

  “You look worried,” he said reading the concern on the man’s wizened face.

  “I’ve seen your journey. I fear the things you’ve seen.”

  “Darkwalkers,” he voiced aloud. “What are they?”

  “Darkwalkers have been around since the beginning of time, though few have ever seen them,” Ezrah said. “Only recently have they shown themselves and in such numbers. They appear like a dark swarm upon the land and devour all they touch. Some believe they are the reflection of a dying world of magic. Others that something is… stirring them, awakening them from their dark slumber.”

  Gray read what Ezrah wasn’t saying… Something? Or someone?

  Ezrah continued, “Darkwalkers hold no definite form, appearing in all shapes and sizes. Sometimes on two legs like a man, four like a dog or horse, or eight or more legs like a giant insect. Fire, stone, metal, flesh, leaf, ice, moon, and sun are all useless against them. But Darkwalkers and Algasi?” Ezrah voiced, his gaze distant, as if seeing a game of Elements but not knowing the next move. “The prophecy mentions both of them, but I do not know how it unfolds. It is dark to me. But somehow I know your friends have a role to play.”

  Gray felt their presence, just beyond the wall, waiting for him.

  Ezrah
nodded. “Just as you have a role to play in this coming fight, they also have a purpose.” His grandfather’s eyes softened. “Your life is one of great dualities, simply because you have greatness in you. Moreover, your power, while truly yours now as I sense, will never be so simply held.”

  “Like Kail,” Gray said, “just as he fell victim to the power and his darkness. Was that his fate?”

  “Perhaps,” Ezrah said. “The Wanderer faced great adversity time and again, and in the end, perhaps he did fail, or perhaps he was meant to fail.”

  “Meant to fail?”

  “Perhaps in failing the wanderer actually succeeded, aligning events as they were always meant to be.”

  “How so?” he asked.

  “You arrived, did you not?”

  Gray shook his head. “Fate,” he cursed. Ayva, Darius, and now Zane, he thought. He cared for them dearly, but was it his own choice to befriend them, or was it simply destined? “Is that all I am, a product of fate? A simple cog in the wheel of time?” he questioned angrily.

  Ezrah smiled and it banished the darkness in Gray’s heart, the stubborn fear rising. “Have you learned nothing of prophecy, dear boy? Fate or prophecy may be written, but we always have a choice, just as you had a choice at the Gates. What you do will define you and strengthen you, giving you the ability to fight greater odds and meet tougher choices… but never believe that our troubles or challenges will fall off once we simply ‘know who we are’ or ‘make one right choice’.” Ezrah paused, throwing on a long, elegant coat over his white robes. “When I look at you, I will not lie, I see the potential for the terrible darkness you fear—it is the mantle all those with power must bear—but I see a brilliant light too, just as powerful if not more. Which one you choose is up to you.”