Citadel of Fire (The Ronin Saga Book 2)

by Matthew Wolf

  The Matriarch’s footsteps rattled the ground, stepping forward.

  She was almost a different creature entirely—though still white, her huge wings were black, like huge furry feelers, and her eyes were swirling white orbs the size of Gray’s head. Horns the girth of a man extended from her forehead. Though translucent, they glowed, filled with magic of the spark. No, he remembered, not the spark, but the flow. That was the reason they could not be killed by a Darkwalker’s touch alone.

  Without warning, the Matriarch roared, a cry that was reedy yet deep, making even the hardened Devari flinch. Abruptly, Darius broke from them, moving forward.

  Ayva snagged his arm. “What are you doing?!”

  “We’re old friends,” he replied with a smile.

  Gray watched dumbfounded as the rogue ambled forward to stand like a child beneath the Matriarch, and he reached out a hand. The beast eyed him with her swirling white eyes, blinking. She looked ready to take off his head in one simple snap from her elongated snout with its rows of glistening sharp teeth. Then, astonishingly, she leaned forward and nuzzled Darius’ outstretched hand. A throaty gurgle emanated from deep within her throat.

  “It’s purring…” Zane remarked in disbelief.

  Darius stroked her huge deer-like head, rubbing the long snout.

  Just as abruptly, the Matriarch cawed, and its giant black wings beat gusts of wind, kicking up flurries of sand as it rose into the sky, towards the burning sun. Its brood of phoxes flapped their small wings, trailing after. Moments later, they were specks on the horizon. Darius returned back at their side, wiping his hands upon his jacket cavalierly. “Well then, that was fun.”

  Ayva strode forward. Darius lifted his chin as if expecting a compliment when she punched his arm.

  “What was that for?”

  “Why else do you think?” she huffed. “You could have gotten yourself killed! What in the seven hells of remwar were you thinking?”

  Darius’ grimace became a smile. “You were worried about me, weren’t you?”

  Ayva snorted, looking away.

  “Aw’, c’mon,” he said. “She really was more bark than bite, kind of like you, or so I thought,” he added rubbing his arm.

  Gray didn’t quite believe that. He had seen the way she had torn into the large Darkwalker, ripping it to shreds like a ragdoll. “How?” he asked. “How did you know it—I mean she—was going to listen to you?”

  “I didn’t,” he answered, shrugging. “I simply hoped. After I heard that the Darkwalkers couldn’t be defeated by anything but the phoxes, I knew what I had to do. I remembered that when we first found Faye, she was searching for the Matriarch in a Node—that’s where magical beings reside, she said. So naturally, I just had to find a Node and hope the Matriarch was there. After that, I just had to bond with the beast. She took a strange liking to me.”

  “I’m not sure why,” Zane said.

  Darius grumbled.

  “I’m just so glad you’re all right. Even if that was utterly foolish, it was also incredibly brave,” Ayva said.

  Gray took in the scene. With the fog gone, the world was suddenly bright, but then he saw the aftermath. Many lay wounded, Reavers tending to them, but some lay unmoving—Reavers and Devari, but not nearly as many as he’d expected. Gray said a silent prayer for them, knowing their lives could never be replaced.

  “Speaking of which, where is Faye?” Darius asked, fondling the broken piece of a crown that Karil had given him in his idle hand. “Without her endless hints, I would never have remembered the counter to Darkwalkers.”

  Gone, Gray knew.

  But before he could answer, there was a moan of agony, splitting the air and drawing all eyes. He looked over the battlefield to see Finn and several bloodied Reavers staggering forth. Finn’s red robes were in tatters. He fell to his knees before the crowd of Reavers and Devari. In his arms, he cradled a body, bloodied and limp. He unfurled her, and Gray recognized the fall of brown hair and sharp features, even lifeless as they appeared.

  “Meira…” Gray whispered.

  Reavers rushed towards Finn’s side.

  “Heal her!” Finn pleaded of Ezrah, “You cannot let her die!” His grandfather said nothing, closing his eyes and putting his hand to her bloodied head.

  Zane grabbed a nearby Reaver. “What happened to her?”

  “Sithel,” the woman cursed, clutching her bloody arm as another Reaver healed her. “Meira conquered the voidstone, ending the vile Guran and the others. But just when I thought we had won, Sithel tricked her somehow. There was an explosion, and the next thing I knew there were dozens dead…” She shook her head, eyes clenched. “When I looked around, Sithel was gone, and Meira was… ”

  “I’m so sorry, Finn,” Ezrah said, eyes filled with sorrow. “There is nothing I can do… She’s gone.”

  And Finn buried his head into Meira’s body and sobbed, cries wracking his body.

  Several Devari sunk to their knees and stabbed bloodied swords into the wet sand in anguish. All the remaining nearby Reavers bowed their heads, sorrow plastered to their tired faces.

  “She was the best of us,” said a Reaver with a thick moustache and deep accent. “She—” his voice cracked “—Meira deserved more.”

  At Gray’s side, even Ayva and Darius looked heartbroken. Zane’s anger was palpable, heat emanated from the fiery man. Only Ezrah seemed distant, face heavily lined in mystery, but there was a deeper sadness in his grandfather’s eyes, as if he was holding a profound secret.

  Gray gazed up to the bright sky. Sadness filled him to his core. Meira had helped him and saved Ezrah at the risk of her own life, much like Victasys. Now she was dead too. It all seemed so pointless.

  He knelt beside Finn, putting a hand upon the man’s shoulder. Finn looked to him, eyes brimming with tears, still holding Meira’s body. Her corpse, his mind corrected cruelly.

  “And Sithel?” Jian asked, joining them suddenly. “What of the betrayer of the Citadel, and the cause of all this madness?” His men fanned out behind him—hundreds of Sword-Forged Devari, bloodied and battered, with expressions as grim as death, and Gray noticed their numbers were thinner than he remembered.

  “Gone,” Finn whispered without looking up.

  “Then the voidstone is gone as well,” Dagon proclaimed, striding forth. He, surprisingly, looked unharmed but drained. A company of Reavers flanked the four-stripe Reaver.

  Ethelwin was not far, but she had blood upon her face and a long gash down one cheek. Those two seemed to have made an uneasy truce. “No voidstone, Sithel lives, and Darkeye is missing, and in all likelihood still alive as well. It seems we have lost.”

  “No,” Ezrah said, the word rising like a bird on a current of hot air. Men and women stood taller, leaning against blades or gripping others to stand straight as the Arbiter spoke. “Sithel is beaten, and, as for the voidstone, it is not the same threat it once was. We’ve proven its powers can be overturned.” A flame sparked to life in his hand before he clenched his fist, winking it out. “True, it is a shame to lose such a powerful relic, but we have succeeded. The Citadel is once again ours, its darkness banished, and Farbs is safe at last. It has not been without cost or sacrifice, but we have won.”

  Gray felt hope return to all those nearby.

  Quietly, he rose and moved away, into the sand beyond. A frost-bug buzzed in the air before him despite the strange time of day, humming enchantingly. He felt a presence and knew who it was. The man stood at his side, a boon of comfort. “Do you really believe it’s over?” he asked his grandfather softly.

  “For now,” Ezrah answered.

  Looking over his shoulder, he saw Ezrah’s lined face staring into the distant dunes—seeing what could not be seen. Gray shook his head. “It seems so strange, fighting so hard but nothing turning out the way I ever imagined,” he said. Behind him, Jian moved carefully through the field of battle with his legion of Devari not far away. He picked his way through dead thieves and strang
e beasts, clearly looking for wounded men.

  “Sometimes life’s bounty is in the unexpected,” Ezrah answered. Suddenly, the frost-bug landed upon the Arbiter’s robed sleeve, glowing its beautiful cerulean hue.

  Gray remembered first seeing them when he traversed the desert to reach Farbs with Ayva and Darius. It seemed like so long ago, their journey to discover who he once was and how he’d lost his memories. Now he knew.

  “As for Jian, he is an honorable man, but be careful of him,” Ezrah advised. “Even those with righteous intentions can lead us astray. I believe he and his Devari will be a point of contention since the Ronin were the once-generals of his kind.”

  “But the Ronin are dead,” Zane said abruptly.

  Gray turned to see Ayva and Darius at the fiery man’s side.

  Darius held his leaf-blade in hand, his eyes swirling with power and duty, far unlike the scoundrel he remembered. Those eyes seemed different but familiar. The sword in his hand too.

  Ayva, on the other hand, wore her faded white shirt and fitted breeches, but with all the chaos upon the sands, it had turned the shirt a dusty gold just like her vest. Otherwise, her eyes shone harder and wiser. No surprise, he thought, with all that they’d been through. She wore a shrewd expression now. Her brows pinched and she spoke hesitantly. “I’ve been thinking about that… a lot, actually…” She looked to Ezrah and asked, “The Ronin aren’t dead, are they?”

  Silence held all four, even Zane looked to each of them in understanding when a sudden breeze picked up a flurry of sand, assaulting them, and Ayva pulled up her black shawl, covering her face—all but her eyes. Her bright blue gaze shone fiercely, the only thing visible just like Omni, and Ezrah replied with a mischievous smile, “I believe you just answered that yourself, my dear.”

  Gray felt a chill run through him.

  It all made sense.

  Hannah approached. “What’s going on here?”

  “Ah, perfect timing,” Ezrah announced. “We were just discussing your journey.”

  “Our journey?” Gray asked, confused.

  “Of course,” his grandfather answered.

  “What are you talking about?” Zane questioned, twisting his blade in hand. “My place is here, in Farbs.”

  “Is it?” the Arbiter folded his arms into his billowing sleeves and spoke, “Magic is fading from this world, slowly but surely. The Great Kingdoms are in danger and far from united. Order has not yet been restored to Farhaven. Not to mention I fear there is a greater evil here, something that stirred Reavers to darkness and even pulled the strings of Sithel.”

  Darius scratched his jaw and spoke up curiously. “For argument’s sake, where exactly would one begin to fix all that?”

  “Follow the Algasi, of course,” said the Arbiter.

  “Vaster,” Ayva whispered.

  “The Kingdom of Sun,” Ezrah said. “Besides, my boy, it’s just begun. You know who you are, so it only stands to reason that the others would like to discover their fates, don’t you think?”

  “Others?” Gray asked.

  “You mean us, don’t you?” Ayva questioned.

  The Arbiter looked to each in turn. “You all, and the rest.”

  Darius cleared his throat. “The rest?”

  “The other Ronin,” Ezrah replied.

  Hannah swallowed, fearfully. “What is he talking about, Zane?”

  “I…” The fiery man shook his head.

  “Where are they?” Gray asked, heart pounding.

  Ezrah gave an amused laugh and turned, walking away. But over his shoulder he spoke, the words barely reaching them. “Waiting,” he answered, “for you.” A strange excitement brewed inside Gray as he watched the lone frost-bug fly, dancing in the warm air, then flit off, as if to find its brothers.

  The Face of True Evil

  SITHEL STOOD IN A GLOOM-FILLED ROOM without furnishings or windows. The stone walls crawled with the darkness, as if a black river flowed upwards to a dark void above, the shadows ending as wispy, lacy fingers, alive and moving. He dared not look down and find the same. Huddling closer in his white robes, now soaked red from the bloodshed, he took an even breath.

  He waited impatiently for the dark figure to arrive. Despite his fear, anger and frustration raged like a storm inside him, barely contained.

  They had failed, miserably. He cursed.

  His legions crushed, and Darkeye missing. Where was that miserable thief? he thought again. He’d vanished in the middle of the chaos to fight some fool woman. In the end, Sithel had barely escaped with his own life. He was not prone to delusions. They had failed, but he knew the cause beyond those foul, white beasts.

  That boy and his companions.

  Somehow they had rallied against the misguided Jian.

  But Sithel smirked inwardly, for he had taken his share of lives, those pathetic Reavers who believed themselves infallible with their precious spark. Meira, he thought with a dark hunger, remembering her last breaths and the fear in her eyes. Besides, it was not over. Sithel waited now because he would get what he was promised. The Citadel was his, and he would not let it go so easily. For he still had what the shadowed figure wanted.

  In one hand, he cradled the voidstone. The azure, crackling light was a comfort against the strange shadows, stone cold and yet warm in his curled palm as always. But this time, he kept it hidden. It was time for a new lord to reign supreme in this world.

  It was Sithel’s time.

  Abruptly, a gap in the huge black wall opened and a shadowed figure stepped forth. A strange, brilliant light surrounded his frame, as if a sun was hidden behind his back. At the shadow figure’s side, in the darkness, was a strange, black creature. A Darkwalker? Sithel questioned. Strange… Yet despite the gloom, he saw the hint of translucent horns, and white fur upon its breast. Part phox and part Darkwalker, the creature was an abomination. It couldn’t be… he thought. Her? No. She was evil, but not like this. Upon seeing the figure, as always, Sithel began to sweat in dread. But he rose higher out of his ever-stooped posture and addressed the figure. “Master,” he said in greeting.

  “Greetings, Sithel,” the figure uttered in that loud, unearthly rumble that made his bones ache.

  Sithel hesitated, but his master did not seem upset. Though he couldn’t see his face in that dark cowl, he seemed pleased of all things. He had expected his master to reign down his anger, only to fall short with the aid of the voidstone. Whatever his master was, he had to at least be human, and all humans who wielded magic used the pitiful spark. And in that, his master would fail. He reached for the voidstone, but hesitated. “Master,” he posed, licking his lips, “You… are not mad?”

  “Mad? Why would I be?”

  Anger surged again inside Sithel, limbs shaking with wrath, but he hid it well. “Your—” he corrected himself, “Our plans have failed, master. My armies are all laid to waste. Only a handful of Dark Reavers even survived. It’s clear, is it not? We have lost.” But I haven’t lost. Not yet. The voidstone grew warmer and colder behind his back, ready to be used.

  “Lost?” the figure questioned, perplexed. “No, dear Sithel. We’ve done exactly as planned. You, my pet, served me perfectly.”

  Confusion spiraled inside of Sithel. “What are you talking about?”

  The dark figure took a step forward, growing in size and girth, filling the room with every deliberate stride. “You have shown me amazing truths at little cost. I know now that the boy has companions. I have seen them. I know their faces and even their names. I’ve seen what will rally these people together. Sacrifice, compassion,” the figure said and laughed. “Now I know what I must use to break them. Most importantly, you have proven to all that there is a darkness, but it is not me.”

  Sithel shook his head, his plan momentarily forgotten in light of his confusion. “But at what cost? Thousands of our men have died and…”

  “Useless pawns,” the figure rasped. “True strength is far beyond their reach, or even your imagination,
my pet. The final prophesized war is rising, and this time, there will only be one victor. Sadly, you will not live to see it.”

  Suddenly, dark feelers reached from the ground, circling around Sithel’s limbs and lifting him into the air. Fear rooted him, but not for long. A limb shot for his arm, but he sneered and grabbed the voidstone, lunging it forward. The black limb was seared by the blue aura. “You underestimated me,” Sithel seethed. “You forget, never give the object of power to one who you intend to kill.”

  “Power?” the figure asked, amused. “I gave you an object of power, but you were always weak.”

  The darkness continued to writhe in pain, shadows hissing beneath the voidstone’s blue glow. Sithel’s dark sneer slowly wilted. He could always see the orange aura around his victims in the moment before it fled and their terror filled them.

  Their spark.

  But as the voidstone glowed, Sithel didn’t see an orange glow around the figure. Instead it was gold, like a bursting sun, pervading the room with divine light. It nearly blinded him. It couldn’t be… This man, he wasn’t just powerful. He was a god. Shards of pain ran through him as he stared into the light, but he couldn’t turn away. He cried out, blood running from his eyes, limbs shaking uncontrollably, and tears streaming down his face in terror. “You…” he sputtered. “What in the seven hells are you?”

  The figure raised his glowing gold hand slowly. Sithel felt the dark tentacles raise him higher in the air, curling painfully tighter around his wrists, legs, and one strangling his neck. “When I found you in Covai, Sithel, you were just another pile of useless flesh, lost like so many. I offered you something beyond your wretched life. I offered you more. That is what I prey upon, all those who wish for more out of their pathetic lives. I gave you that, but in the end you have proven there is nothing great inside you after all. You have served your usefulness, my pawn. It is time for you to die as the insect you were all along.”