by Melanie Card
Celia glanced back at Ward. Her blood rushed as well with a mix of fear and excitement. Yells sounded around them. Footsteps pounded on dirt, rock, and loam.
Ward grabbed Celia’s arm. “We have to go back.”
“We’re not going back,” she said. “I don’t care what ridiculous necromancer honor you have.”
“No. Back is the only way clear of pirates.”
She held his gaze for a heartbeat, her eyes icy. He could feel her weighing the truth to his words.
“You have to believe me. I can see their auras.”
“Your mystic blindness—?”
“Not the time for this discussion,” Nazarius said, rushing back the way they’d come. “He’s right. I count at least five ahead of us.”
“Trust me,” Ward said. “There’s more than five.”
“Fine,” Celia growled.
Ward scrambled after Nazarius. They rushed around an outcropping into a small recess, hidden by rocks and roots. Nazarius pulled Ward down, and he slammed his shin into a rock. Celia leapt close and clamped a hand over Ward’s mouth, muting his surprised yelp.
Auras flickered at the edge of his vision. Someone yelled, but it sounded farther away. Celia’s breath tickled the side of his neck. He shifted, and Celia tensed, holding him even closer. Goddess, the heat of her body, the thrill racing through their soul chain. He wanted her closer, wanted to show her how much she meant to him. She was his everything. He couldn’t live without her. Even if she hadn’t been responsible for his unlife, he wouldn’t be able to live without her. Which wasn’t true. Or at least it hadn’t been a day ago.
Another yell. Even farther away.
Celia eased away, leaving him cold and shivering at her absence. She glanced out of the alcove. “We might be able to make it back to the boat from the other side of the octagon place.”
“You want to go back that far?” Nazarius asked.
“We’re practically there already,” she said.
Nazarius sighed. “We’ll have to go the long way around the island to the boat.”
“Better that than getting killed,” Celia said.
Ward drew up beside her, returning to the radius of her warmth, of her confidence, of her essence. Beyond lay the ridge they’d followed to the octagon and the fissure. They really had doubled back farther than he’d expected.
“Do you see any auras?” she asked.
Ward concentrated. A hint of glimmers from the trees and rocks, and a sliver of moonlight. “Looks clear.”
“All right.” Celia slipped from the alcove without making a sound, even with the forest debris covering the ground.
Ward and Nazarius followed. They slunk up the rise to the ridge, and Celia paused at the tree line where they’d first hidden. The octagon and surrounding rock were still magically muted. Mist drifted over the marble area and curled around the girl’s body. No sign of anyone.
“All clear,” Ward whispered.
They rushed up the small slope. The mist swirled around their legs. So, too, did the black thread, still present, still radiating evil. It pulled Ward’s gaze to the girl’s body, slumped in the middle of the octagon, wrists chained to the marble slabs on either side of her.
She was dead because of him, because he’d failed to save her.
“Ward,” Celia hissed. Her words tugged at him, pulling at his heart, dragging his attention and all thoughts to her. He was moving before the idea had fully formed in his mind.
Nazarius and Celia were almost at the edge of the octagon, which still pulsed ever so slightly with magic, even though the Innecroestri’s spell was done.
“Don’t cross the octagon,” Ward said. “Go around.”
“Why?” But Nazarius stopped before crossing the obsidian line. “The spell is done, isn’t it?”
It was, but it felt like there was another spell on the octagon. Ward knelt. Carved along the obsidian line in the marble were runes. They glowed with pale, fluttering power and gave the sense that they were holding the evil within the octagon at bay—or as much as it could, since evil still wept across the line in a thin, black miasma. “This octagon isn’t just for focusing spells. It is a spell. It’s keeping whatever is seeping from the fissure, the Gate to the Dark Son’s Abyss, inside.”
Nazarius knelt beside Ward. “For a Gate to the greatest mythical evil known to the Principalities, it doesn’t look like much.”
And it wasn’t much. It was just a fissure less than a hand’s breath wide. Yet the evil emanating from it, and the call to shove magic into it and rip it open, flooded Ward. All he needed was to cross the octagon, do what he’d told the others not to do, and he could call on whatever lay within it.
A curl of black smoke billowed from the crack, and Celia jerked Ward back. He’d moved to step across the octagon without even realizing it.
“Come on.” She led them to a staircase carved into the cliff face leading to the lake. They climbed down, and while they were still on the opposite side of the island from their boat, they’d at least gotten away from the pirates.
The clouds broke farther apart, revealing the sliver of a new moon. Even with just a slice in the night sky, the magic shimmering from it was bright, streamers of light that illuminated the way—or at least Ward’s way.
They picked a path over a narrow rocky shoreline, pressed close to the cliff face. A few feet down, the narrow shore turned into uneven bank. Pines crowded the edge, some leaning precariously close to the water. Celia’s pulse picked up, and worry slid through the soul chain. They were more exposed here. That increased the chance someone might catch a glimpse of them, so they needed to move faster and yet still remain cautious.
Nazarius eased farther inland, sword and dagger held ready, and Ward concentrated on catching glimpses of magic. Something snapped behind them, and light glimmered through the trees.
“They’re coming,” he hissed.
“Cover?” Nazarius asked.
“Can’t see any,” Celia said.
Nazarius drew close. “Make a run for it? How far are we from the boat?”
Another snap, and more aura light flickered. This time closer and from the direction they’d been going. “They’re in front of us as well,” Ward said.
“Back to the lake? Hide in the water?” Celia asked, her voice low.
A flash of aura raced through the trees.
“Too late.” Ward wrenched Celia to face the oncoming danger. “They’ve seen us.”
Chapter Eleven
Auras flashed between the foliage surrounding Ward. Shit. No place to go.
Celia tensed, the movement rippling her aura, and a pirate crashed through the trees, his sword raised to strike.
Nazarius rushed to meet him and caught the pirate before he could swing. Celia parried another man’s jab, but he lunged again, pressing his attack and forcing her back, while Ward scrambled away from a wild swing from a bald pirate with a bushy blond beard.
The blade whooshed before him, the tip nicking the front of his shirt. He jumped back again and hit a tree trunk. The man snarled and raised his blade, but his expression flashed to shock, and blood swelled across the front of his shirt. With a gurgled scream, he sagged to the ground, revealing Nazarius standing behind him with a bloody sword. Magic dripped from the blade.
Ward’s stomach growled as more light burst through the thick pines. Half a dozen to the left and three to the right.
Shit. “There are nine more,” Ward said.
“Nine?” Celia nicked the sword arm of the pirate in front of her and caught the thigh of the man beside him in one fluid motion.
“We can’t stay,” Nazarius gasped. His breath heaved from the exertion of the fight.
Two more pirates broke through the trees to the left, the other four fast approaching, and the three on the right barged into the fray. There were too many with more on the way. They weren’t going to last.
Blood magic rippled around Ward from those Celia and Nazarius had injured. So tempt
ing, if he just—
Just used the magic available as magic—not sustenance—they might be able to get out of this. He might be dead, but he was still a necromancer.
He focused on the power, imagining he was pulling it into himself. No. It was no longer his imagination. It was real. The yellow net of his magic swept through the blood magic, pulling it into him and swirling it into a writhing red ball.
Someone screamed. Blade clanged against blade.
Another pirate fell. The magic from his soul rushed toward Ward and slammed into the red ball. It shuddered, straining within his mental grasp. Ward contracted the ball tighter and tighter. He needed to make this count. Hit as many of them as he could. It was the only way to guarantee their escape.
Celia barked something. An order. It snapped across the soul chain. His muscles trembled. He had to hold on. The auras of the last four pirates were coming close. Just a little closer.
Now!
He released the magic, exploding it into the pirates and shoving their souls from their bodies with a reverse wake. The power roared through the clearing. It vibrated through him, shaking the magic in the trees and rocks, even surging through the moonlight, making it writhe and jerk. With a collective gasp, the pirates dropped.
Nazarius wrenched around to face Ward, his eyes wide. “What did you do?”
“Doesn’t matter.” Celia grabbed Ward’s arm. “We need to get out of here.”
She dragged Ward across the clearing to the densest branches and better cover. Nazarius raced after them, but the massive pirate from the ritual surged from the trees beside them and grabbed Ward’s arm. With a yank, he was off his feet and crashing into a tree trunk, his ears ringing and his knees wobbly.
Nazarius jabbed at the pirate’s side. The blade slid into his gut. The pirate roared, lunged at Nazarius with the sword still in his body, seized the Tracker, and tossed him into the woods. He crashed through branches that obscured his aura, and Ward couldn’t tell if he was all right.
The pirate wrenched Nazarius’s sword from his side and rammed it to the hilt into the ground. A spider’s web of black veins pulsed over his face.
Ward scramble to gather more magic to force the pirate’s soul from his body.
Celia lunged in, but the pirate parried, the force of his strike ripping the blade from her hand, and he seized Celia’s shirt.
Panic shot through the soul chain. Ward seized at all the magic around him and blasted raw power at the pirate. The man sagged. Celia tore free, but he didn’t collapse. The black veins pulsed stronger, radiating a vortex that consumed Ward’s magic. The man sneered then charged at Ward and clasped a thick hand around Ward’s neck. He hoisted Ward off his feet and slammed him into a tree trunk.
Lightning shot through Ward’s chest. Ribs cracked then healed. The pirate thrust Ward against the trunk again. His ribs cracked again. Goddess, he couldn’t breathe. Rage and fear seared through the soul chain.
Celia grabbed a sword, raised it, but then froze. Her fear increased. She trembled, as if she couldn’t move, then fury bled through the fear.
“Now, now,” a resonant voice said. A red aura burned through the trees, and the Innecroestri stepped between the branches. “I just finished making him. You can’t come here and kill him. Although that can’t be said for you and your pet.”
Nazarius swallowed back a groan and rolled to his hands and knees. His whole body hurt. The pain was strongest at the back of his head and the right side of his chest. That pirate had tossed him like he’d been a doll. He’d slammed through the trees and…
Goddess, he must have passed out.
He staggered to his feet, clutching the nearest trunk to keep his balance. He had no idea which way the clearing lay, and there were no sounds of fighting. How long had he been unconscious? This was not good. The Seer had said to keep an eye on Ward. Nazarius had no idea if this was the darkness that awaited the young necromancer, but standing at the Gate of the Dark Son’s Abyss couldn’t be good.
A voice said something to his left. The sound held a rich resonance, just like the Innecroestri’s voice had during the chant.
Nazarius reached for his sword at his hip, but it wasn’t there. Neither was his long dagger. A hint of moonlight caught his attention. His dagger lay a few feet away, but he couldn’t see his sword. He grabbed the dagger. The movement sent slicing pain through his chest. He must have broken a rib.
As soon as he’d registered that fact, heat flared in his pocket. He pressed his palm to it, drawing in a shallow breath. The locket Ward had given him—the one he shouldn’t have accepted—was working its strange magic and healing him. From how it had worked in Dulthyne, he was willing to bet it would keep him alive.
The resonant voice said something else. Nazarius slunk toward it, easing through the thick pine branches. Light flickered, the uneven undulation of a flame exposed to a breath of wind.
He slowed and crouched. Beyond lay the clearing he’d been thrown out of. Ward and Celia stood in the center surrounded by pirates, one holding a torch—the source of the light.
On the far side stood the Innecroestri. He wasn’t a big man, shorter than Celia and a good head and shoulders shorter than Ward. Nothing about his physical appearance said dangerous. Thinning gray hair hung about his shoulders in wisps and framed a narrow face lined with wrinkles. Even his eyes, a milky brown, suggested poor eyesight, not something to be feared. But danger radiated from him. A palpable blackness that made Nazarius’s skin crawl.
Beside him, the pirate with the black veins crisscrossing his flesh shifted. His lips curled back in a snarl. If it hadn’t been clear before, it was clear now. That man was no longer human. Whatever the Innecroestri had summoned from the fissure, it had changed the pirate. He, too, was dangerous, but in a more overt way.
“A pet who isn’t just a pet,” the Innecroestri said.
Ward shrugged, a liquid movement Nazarius would have thought impossible of the necromancer a fortnight ago. “It’s complicated.”
“I have no doubt. Come, this is a conversation that should be continued inside, with wine.” The Innecroestri turned and headed out of the clearing.
“Yes, Lord Stasik.” The big pirate growled but stepped into line behind the Innecroestri, Stasik, while the other pirates drew in closer to Ward and Celia.
Celia slid Ward a quick glance. It was a check to confirm Ward was all right and to warn him from doing anything stupid. If Nazarius hadn’t known them as well as he did, he probably would have missed the action. Ward’s jaw clenched in response, and they followed Stasik away.
Nazarius crept through the trees behind them, keeping their torchlight in sight but staying back far enough to remain hidden. Stasik led Ward and Celia around an outcropping to an open area with a temple built half into the hillside. It sat, large and ominous, with flickering torchlight dancing across complex obsidian carvings on its surface. The smoky rock swirled over the granite structure, one minute a vine with flowers, the next a pattern of lines and circles. The temple rose three stories high, with thick balconies ringing each landing. Obsidian obelisks stood guard at a wide entrance, along with two more pirates. Stasik led Ward and Celia inside.
This was as far as Nazarius could go. At least until he got a better idea of the lay of the land. He crouched behind the cover of the underbrush and scanned the area. There were a lot of men guarding the area, as if Stasik was expecting unwelcome company. This wasn’t the behavior of a man who believed he was in charge of the situation—more like someone who expected the situation to change at any minute. The question was, what did Stasik fear was about to happen?
Chapter Twelve
Ward followed Stasik through a wide antechamber with a prominent central staircase leading both up and down. The walls were adorned with the obsidian carvings common in Ancient architecture. Celia stayed close to his side. He could feel her sizing up their situation and sense her caution seeping through the soul chain. They skirted another large chamber to a narrow ha
ll lined with doorways. Bands of witch-stone swirled through the granite and obsidian, sometimes vines, sometimes abstract lines. The place reminded him of Celia’s secret cavern back in Brawenal City, except more ornate. Both places had been made by the Ancients, a people who’d left monuments scattered across the Union of Principalities but had left no other mark explaining who they’d been or why they’d disappeared.
The cavern, however, had been plain, almost void of ornamentation with witch-stone slabs to light the chambers, and containing simple cots, benches, and shelves.
This place was detailed in a dizzying array of carvings. But then, this was Vekalmeer. Even if it wasn’t known if the Ancients worshiped the Goddess and Her two Sons—the Light Son and the Dark Son—the danger of this place would have been obvious. The work that had gone into carving the granite and obsidian and inlaying the witch-stone had to have been enormous. A project that would have taken years, perhaps even generations, to complete.
And it took all of Ward’s concentration to ignore the too-sharp details, the chill from the fissure, the heat from the torches, the magic in the souls of the pirates around him, and even the scrape of his boots on the smooth stone floor.
Stasik entered a chamber filled with cushions and rugs. A low wooden table sat in the center with a crystal decanter filled with a pale yellow liquid, along with six matching glasses on it.
“Sit,” Stasik said. It wasn’t an invitation. His tone was hard, commanding. He glanced at the large pirate who’d been the recipient of whatever ritual had been done at the fissure. “Thanos, see to your command.”
The pirate, Thanos, grunted and left with two of the other pirates. Two more, however, stayed behind, guarding the door.
Stasik eased onto a cushion. Ward and Celia sat opposite him. A week ago, Ward had sat in a similar parlor filled with cushions and low lighting. Except that room had also been filled with vesperitti and their human dinners. Ward wasn’t certain if this situation was scarier or not.
Stasik raised a thin eyebrow and crossed his arms. He didn’t radiate the kind of danger the Innecroestri Macerio had in his parlor. Perhaps it was his fatherly appearance or his slight stature. But when Ward looked, really looked, hints of blackness and blood swirled through Stasik’s aura, and a sense of coiled, patient menace lay within him. It reminded him a little of Celia’s assassin nature, the sense of unemotional ice that she emanated—except now, joined to her with the soul chain, he knew that was an act. He was pretty sure the same couldn’t be said of Stasik.
