by Melanie Card
You have to fight it.
Sangsal howled around him. He shook with effort, his body screaming in the agony to seize the magic and help the Master open the Gate, or stop him.
Fight it.
Yes. He had to fight it. He reached with his own magic for the power from Habil’s grimoire, but the ground heaved with a roar and a chunk of the fissure fell away. The Master staggered but caught his balance. Sangsal flooded out of the crack, filling the octagon. It pressed against the barrier.
The Master yelled the chant again. Magic rushed into the fissure, followed by another earth-heaving boom. More of the fissure fell away, taking with it the back half of the octagon. The spell keeping the sangsal within exploded in a blinding flash then vanished, and the sangsal rushed out.
Ward! Celia’s panic speared hot into his heart.
He seized the magic from Habil’s grimoire and yanked at it, but it continued to blast into the fissure.
“You’re too late,” the Master yelled.
“No.” It couldn’t be too late. He had to have the power to stop this.
“What are you going to do about it now, little necromancer?” the Master sneered.
The ground heaved again then abruptly stopped. Even the sangsal froze mid-writhe. Ward’s heart skipped a beat, and a gut-churning dread filled him. A sickly red glow sparked in the fissure’s heart, split into two, and grew brighter.
Ward, stop it.
“I can’t,” he said, his voice a whisper.
The thick miasma rose into twisted, hooked horns. The red glows vanished then reappeared. They blinked. Ward’s stomach bottomed out. Magic crackled around the horns and red eyes, accentuating sharp cheeks, a long snout, and teeth the length of Ward’s arm. A massive clawed hand grabbed the edge of the fissure, and the demon inside the abyss howled, the sound tearing through Ward’s soul.
The Gate to the Dark Son’s Abyss was open and the evil locked within released.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Celia froze, everything forgotten: Stasik strangling her with the soul chain, the burning need for air, everything but the monster rising from the Dark Son’s Abyss. The creature threw its massive snout back and howled with a roar that shook her to her very soul. Sangsal poured from its mouth, flooding the sky and blotting out the stars.
“You did it!” Stasik cried. “You opened the Gate.”
The Master snapped the spell book closed, shoved it back into his satchel, and turned a hard gaze on Stasik. “And you’re no longer required.” He yelled more of the harsh words and clutched the bloody pouch.
Stasik trembled against Celia. His grip on the soul chain weakened, and the magic eased a fraction from her throat. She drew in a ragged gasp and rammed her elbow into his ribs. The pressure on her neck vanished.
She twisted to grab whatever weapon he had on his belt, but the Master repeated the harsh words, and Stasik lurched out of her reach.
“But you need me. I can help you rule the Council of Blood,” Stasik said.
“I don’t want to rule the council.” The Master barked the words again, and Stasik staggered toward him.
Celia scrambled to Ward. His blood slicked the altars, filling the obsidian grooves, while sangsal whipped around him. He leveled black eyes on her, and she couldn’t tell if he was looking at her or through her.
“Ward.” She glanced back at the Master.
“Sacrifices must be made.” The Master grabbed Stasik and wrenched him forward.
“No.” Panic shot through Stasik’s voice, but he couldn’t seem to control his body. Whatever spell the Master was using with the pouch made it impossible for Stasik to run.
She jerked back to Ward. She had to get them out of there, but she didn’t want to release him if the sangsal had completely taken over—
Damn if it had. She’d deal with that when they’d gotten out of there.
“No. I have to finish this,” Ward gasped, as if he’d heard her thoughts. He blinked, and his eyes were normal.
“We’re leaving.”
Movement rushed at the edge of her vision. She glanced back. The Master tossed Stasik toward the monster. He screamed, and the creature slammed a massive clawed hand over him.
“This is not up for discussion.” She snatched one of the silver knives from Ward’s wrist and slashed the rope binding him to the altar.
He reached for the other blade. “I need—”
Stasik screamed again. The monster had him in the air. It snapped at him, its teeth digging into flesh. Blood sprayed, and Stasik went limp.
She turned back to Ward. He growled, clamped his free hand around her neck, and squeezed, his eyes black again.
“Stop.” She clawed at his hand, fighting to breathe. His arm trembled for a heartbeat, as if there’d been enough force behind her word for it to be a command, but then he blinked, his eyes still black, and his grip tightened.
“Ward,” she gasped.
He jerked her close and sneered, and she slammed her fist into his face. His head snapped back, and his grip loosened. She tore out of his grip and punched him again. His face smashed against the altar.
“I. Said. Stop.” She put all of her will into her words.
He sagged and glanced at her with a normal eye. “I have to close the Gate.”
“You have to leave.”
“No.” He grabbed the shackle with his free hand and snapped the thick ring securing it to the altar then yanked out the silver knife from his wrist. “If I don’t try, there’s no place to go. Maura told us what we needed to do.”
Yes, but Celia still didn’t like it, even if she’d begrudgingly accepted it.
The monster roared again. Ward threw his hands up, but not to her, beside her. Sangsal rushed around them, and he tossed the smoke at the Gate. The monster roared, and a second clawed hand clutched the edge of the fissure.
Ward yanked his hands around again, drawing more of the sangsal and tangling it around the monster. One of its claws slipped, scraping thick rents into the ground, and it dipped a fraction back into the fissure. It dug its other hand into the ground and wrenched against the sangsal.
The Master turned toward them.
“I need more time,” Ward said to Celia.
“You just worry about putting that thing back in the fissure. I’ve got this.”
Ward met her gaze. Love and determination filled his expression. They were a team, and she would keep him safe to do the impossible.
“If you can get Habil’s grimoires in the fissure, that would help too,” he said. “Evil is attracted to evil. Perhaps that demon will follow the damned books back into the Gate.”
“I’ll see what I can do.” She adjusted her grip on the silver knife and leapt at the Master. Being this aggressive wouldn’t be much of a surprise for him—he had been her employer before all this had started—but she’d have less of an advantage if she approached slowly. She could only hope by aiming to grab the satchel with the spell books, she’d catch him off guard.
The Master sidestepped her attack, grabbing for her arm to wrap it into a joint lock. She twisted to avoid getting caught and swept the knife up. The Master leaned back, just enough to not get cut, then rushed in with a quick jab to her face. She blocked and cut down. He batted her hand to the side. The blade slid an inch from his face, but he didn’t blink. He kicked at her knee, an attempt to knock her to the ground.
She snatched her leg up. His foot hit her shin, drawing sharp pain, but it didn’t knock her off balance. She brought her foot around in a wide crescent for his side. He shifted into the attack and caught her leg before she could get enough power behind the kick to hurt him.
He swept in close. “You don’t want to fight me.”
The monster roared, shaking the ground around them. Ward growled back, and sangsal whipped past them.
“I’m pretty sure I do.” She grabbed the satchel’s strap at the Master’s shoulder and tore the knife through the leather.
The Master shoved her as
ide. Her feet slipped out under her. She curled and rolled into a crouch as the Master seized the satchel before it hit the ground. His gaze dipped to the bag, and she leapt at it. He danced out of the way, but she caught the bottom of the satchel and sliced it open.
One of the books dropped out. Sangsal rushed around it, enveloping it in writhing black smoke. Celia leapt for it, but the Master kicked it out of reach. “Don’t touch it.”
She dove for it. The Master dropped the satchel and grabbed her and locked her arm behind her back. “I said don’t touch it. The sangsal is too concentrated. It will flow into you if you touch it now, and Ward needs your soul uninfected to finish this.”
She jerked against his grip, sending pain spiking through her shoulder. “You’ll say anything, won’t you?”
“To fulfill the Goddess’s will? Yes.”
“How is this the Goddess’s will?”
“Stasik had to be stopped.” He shoved her. She rolled to her feet and spun to face him.
“So you stopped Stasik by doing exactly what he planned?” He had to be crazy.
Gold flashed across his eyes. “The Gate can’t be left in its weakened condition. If I don’t destroy the warped spell holding back the sangsal, Ward won’t be able to close the Gate.”
“What in the Dark Son’s name are you talking about?”
“Destiny, Celia Carlyle. Destiny.” More gold flashed across his eyes. “I will do whatever it takes, kill whoever needs to be killed, tell whatever lies need to be told, to protect the Union.” Sangsal roared around them, swirling around the spell books. It clawed at her hair and clothes, cold and filled with shards of ice.
“You could have said something,” she said.
He snorted. “You honestly think you would have listened to me? If Ward had listened to me the last two times I said anything, it wouldn’t have come to this.”
He had a point, but she still couldn’t trust him. Everything he said could be a lie to stop her from throwing the spell books into the Abyss. “Prove it. Throw the spell books into the fissure.”
“Not yet.”
“What are you waiting for?”
More gold flashed across his eyes—Goddess damned Seers and their ability to see the future. His jaw clenched, and his body trembled. Someone yelled behind her. It wasn’t Ward. The tone was too deep. Pirates, with black eyes and sangsal whipping around them like angry snakes, raced up the rise yelling with weapons drawn.
The Master grabbed the spell book at his feet and yelled three words in the harsh, guttural language. Sangsal exploded from two of the pirates and rushed into the book.
“I’m waiting for them,” the Master said. He shuddered, and black veins billowed over his hands.
“Give me a book and teach me the words,” Celia said.
“No. Uninfected soul, remember.”
The two sangsal-free pirates continued to run forward. The closest one swung a war hammer at her head. She ducked, kicked out his knee, and sliced his throat.
“I’ve got the sangsal. You deal with the men,” the Master said. He yelled the words again, and more sangsal rushed into the book.
Another pirate attacked her, while a third raced toward the Master. More men rushed up the rise, as if the sangsal had possessed all the men Stasik and Lauro had brought to the island. She couldn’t defeat them all, and she wouldn’t be able to protect Ward while he saved everyone.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Ward strained against the sangsal. It tore at him outside and in. He’d managed to pull what little magic remained in the surrounding stones, grass, and trees and wrap it up with his own, pulsing magic. He’d woven it around a dozen sangsal threads and knotted it around the demon, but it wasn’t enough to drag the monster back into the Abyss.
More sangsal spewed from its mouth every time it roared. The force of evil, thick and powerful, crushed Ward. Ice froze his veins, making his teeth chatter. He fought to cling to himself, his essence, and his goal. The warmth from Celia and the soul chain flickered, a pinprick fading against the freezing onslaught.
He needed more strength, more magic, more something. He could barely make half the sangsal roaring in the vortex head toward the fissure, and he couldn’t budge the black miasma within him. He had to force all of it and the monster back inside.
The demon roared and swatted at Ward. He wrenched more sangsal bands around its arm. Its claws raked through the air in front of him.
Between this heartbeat and the next he might be holding his own, but it wouldn’t last. Panic swept through him, and his gaze leapt to Celia. She rushed toward dozens of pirates scrambling up the rise. The Master still had the grimoires. He yelled three words of summoning in Vys, and more sangsal swept from the pirates into the grimoire.
There wasn’t time to figure out if the Master was helping or just trying to gather more power. Ward had to focus on the mission: capture the sangsal, put it back into the Abyss, and closed the damned Gate.
To do that, he needed more power. Life magic was in everything. It lay in every tree and rock, every stream of moonlight, every flicker of torchlight. He’d felt it, seen it, used it before he’d even known the truth. It had always been a part of him, calling him to medicine, to doing the Goddess’s will on this side of the veil.
The sense of magic surrounded him. It lay beyond the rise in all directions—he just needed to call it to him. He drew in a cold breath. The pinprick of heat in his heart flickered on the verge of being consumed. He needed to work faster.
He pulled at the magic beyond the rise, drawing a trickle. It eased into him with agonizing slowness.
The demon writhed against its sangsal bonds. Ward jerked his attention back to it, and the trickle of magic vanished.
The demon heaved itself up, digging a clawed foot into the edge of the fissure. With a howl, it snapped Ward’s sangsal ropes.
Ice crackled over his chest. Celia screamed. A pirate yanked his blade back, dark and sparkling with the magic in Celia’s blood. He was losing, this battle, his life, and her.
He yelled for the life magic to come to him, calling with his mind and inner magic.
Another trickle. A flicker. It wasn’t enough.
Celia screamed again, through the soul chain and in his head.
Now. It needed to come now. Goddess, please.
He strained with everything he had, the very essence of his being. He was already dead, he knew he wasn’t supposed to survive this—no matter what Celia wanted. But everyone else could live. He couldn’t let this evil free. Goddess, Light Son, Dark Son, anyone who might be listening. Please.
Life and light exploded around and through him. It stole his breath and burned him with searing heat, devouring the ice of the sangsal. He could sense it all, the magic from the trees around the edge of the island, from the rocks and grass and bushes. It came from the insects, birds, and small animals. He pulled it from the pirates attacking Celia, and from Maura still in the temple’s basement. He reached as far as he could, sweeping into the lake, capturing magic from the waves, the fish, the moonlight, and even the mountains.
More magic, strong, bright, and bloody magic, raced along the path. For a moment time slowed and Ward’s essence spun into the sky. He could see it all. Celia fighting the pirates. The Master pulling sangsal from them into the grimoire. The vortex of wind and evil rushing around the demon. And the half dozen necromancer elders stumbling to a stop at the sight of it all.
Grandfather yelled something, and bloody magic leapt from the pirates Celia had killed and swept at the others. But it wasn’t enough. Ward had already absorbed what he could from the fallen and the living and everything else. If this was going to end, Ward had to end it.
With the life force of everything around him, he swept it through the sangsal vortex and wove a net around it. The net sputtered then burned yellow with his power. The sangsal within him writhed, shooting ice across his chest. He rammed it into the demon.
The monster howled. It clawed at Ward’s mag
ic, jerked its foot back on top of the fissure’s edge and swiped at Ward.
“Look out.” The Master tackled Ward out of the way. They tumbled to the ground, and Ward smashed his elbow on the hard marble. Pain sliced up his arm, and his grip on the sangsal vortex wavered.
The demon clawed the marble. The Master rolled to his feet and tossed the grimoire billowing with captured sangsal into the crevasse. The man had picked his side, and it was good, not evil. Sangsal exploded around the demon and whooshed back in the fissure.
Ward scrambled to his feet, tightened his magic around the vortex, and slammed it into the demon again. It swiped for the other grimoires in the satchel lying a few feet away.
“Toss the grimoires into the fissure,” Ward yelled. More ice shot across his chest. His knees buckled. “I don’t know how much longer I can hold on.”
“I’m trying,” the Master growled.
More ice. It stole all thought, and the vortex screamed around him. The demon swiped again. Ward wrenched his magic around the sangsal again and shoved the demon. It skidded a fraction down. “Try harder.”
A sangsal-infected pirate grabbed the satchel. The Master rushed at him, knocking him back with a series of fast kicks.
The demon howled. Sangsal poured from its mouth. Ward swept it up with the rest and slammed it into the demon again. The monster teetered.
With a yell, the Master kicked the pirate, still clutching the satchel, into the fissure. More sangsal exploded, shattering the edge of the fissure under the demon’s claws. Ward pounded the vortex into the demon again.
It teetered back. Another blow, and another. With an earth-shaking roar, it fell. Ward slammed the sangsal vortex in after it. Black mist exploded then whooshed into the Gate.
But the Gate didn’t close. The sangsal was gone from the octagon, but it still writhed within him.
A claw scraped the edge of the fissure. The demon was not yet defeated. So long as the Gate remained open, it would still be able to get out. Ward had to close the Gate, but he didn’t know how—
