The Last Steward

by Janelle Garrett

  They crumbled. The entire western wall dissolved, the men on top disappearing into dust. Ungold grinned and nodded his head. “Well done!”

  The cavalry charged as the enemy’s forces seemed to lose their courage. Without the walls at their backs, they faltered, and the Westlandian line surged forward, pushing them back. Ungold kicked his horse to join the fray.

  Heart racing, Branson gave his horse its head. The beast needed no second urging. It ate up the ground in long, powerful strides, catching the General’s horse and overtaking him. Branson didn’t try to stop the blood lust overtaking the fear, adrenaline coursing through his veins. Gathering a smaller portion of the Deep, he raised his hand and released. It shafted into a line of enemy soldiers, cutting straight through their bodies as blood sprayed in all directions.

  Pol was right. Destruction was easy as long as you knew the enchantment.

  To the south a horn called, and the King’s standard rippled in the breeze as they came from the forest. He would be leading them, and the fear disappeared completely.

  This was right. This was good. Bloodshed was necessary for peace.

  The horse lurched, and Branson was flying through the air. He slammed into the ground, breath leaving his body in a violent rush. Pain lanced through his ribs, and gasping, he pushed up from the grass. All around were shouting men, blood, and shining armor and weapons. Horses pawed the air, kicking as their riders urged them into the enemy. Dust from the broken walls coated the air, mingling with the mist of blood.

  Chaos. Was this what battle was? Unending madness?

  Branson finally pulled air into his lungs. An enemy soldier with a poleblade caught sight of him on the ground, lowering the weapon and charging with a snarl. Branson raised his hand and released. The Deep tore through the soldier, leaving a hole the size of a longblade through the man’s chest. He collapsed as Branson jumped to his feet.

  The Deep was fading. His head pounded with fury, chest cramping as it tried to adjust to his burning ribs and lungs. Another soldier raced for him, blade coated with another man’s blood. He was only feet away, swinging the blade for Branson’s head.

  He threw his arm up and released. The Deep sizzled as it left him, ramming into the soldier but not cutting through him. The man fell and didn’t get back up. Maybe he was dead, maybe he wasn’t.

  Branson swayed on his feet, squinting. Blackness clawed at his mind, but he fought with every bit of strength to hang onto consciousness. The Deep was a bare trickle, now.

  Then it rippled and changed. Roaring to life, it tore through his mind and lifted him off his feet. He fell with a shout, the blackness overtaking his vision. Only a small speck of light remained.

  Chaos in his mind. Chaos all around. The smell of blood. The sound of death. The Deep reared and plunged, going completely mad with rage. Suddenly it stopped, calm and swirling into a tornado of fierce control. Someone was using it, far in the distance, with such power that the fear Branson had for battle was replaced with absolute terror. Who could control it like that? As if the whole of the waters obeyed, not just a small part.

  The swirling stopped, now docile and compliant.

  The shouts of battle receded. He opened his eyes and raised his head. They had pushed the enemy back. They ran, chasing a retreating foe and swarming into the barracks. The line was theirs.

  Pol hadn’t even used the Deep. He was standing in the field to the south, his cavalry at his side, banner blowing in the gentle wind. The knife on the flag, wrapped in a vine was the last thing Branson saw as he succumbed to the darkness.

  ***

  “—hero.”

  “No, a fool.”

  “Do you think he will recover?”

  “Give him time.”

  The voices pulled at Branson as he slowly returned to awareness. He was laying on something soft, armor still clinging to his body, the scent of blood in his nostrils. A horrible pounding in his skull made him wince. Sharp cries and moans echoed around him. He opened his eyes, shifting his head to look around the room.

  The injured and dying were piled into beds in a makeshift hospital. They must be in the barracks. He tried to push up, but his ribs protested angrily. Someone moved to come stand next to him.

  “Easy, accessor. You aren’t in the best shape.” A soldier, face streaked with dirt and blood, grinned as he laid a hand on Branson’s shoulder. “Come, but slowly. The King wants you.”

  Branson squinted, then ran his fingers over his eyes. The light made the pain in his head that much worse. The screams of agony all around didn’t help, either. “Where is the King?”

  “With the General. Follow me.” The soldier helped Branson sit up, then climb slowly to his feet. He could stand, but barely. It felt as if he had been run over by a carriage.

  With faltering steps, he followed the soldier from the hospital room and down a dank corridor. It opened into the courtyard of the barracks, where servants rushed about carrying supplies. Across the way was another door, and as they pushed inside, Branson paused to catch his breath. A hallway stretched on to where it opened into a large chamber. Voices echoed, and it seemed that he could hear the deep, ponderous voice of the General.

  The soldier took his arm, and they proceeded down the hallway and into the chamber. His head was going to explode if he wasn’t careful. And why hadn’t he stopped long enough to remove this cursed armor?

  The King was seated at a large table along with the General and several other officers. Pol’s eyes darted to him, and he grinned, waving at Branson. “Here he is! The man of the hour.”

  Branson’s chest expanded with pride. He straightened his shoulders and pushed forward, trying to ignore the pain in his side and head. “I only did as ordered, my King.”

  Pol laughed, shaking his head. “You’ve always been my secret weapon. Come. Sit and join us. You can rest when you are dead.”

  “Like I’ve been saying, we don’t have much time for rest.” General Ungold barely glanced at Branson. “The Jattalians will have the Hovering City within the day. We must march as quickly as possible and remind them that they are handing the throne to you and no one else.”

  Pol shook his head. “You will have to go on without me.”

  Branson frowned. What did that mean? The officers stood frozen, clearly confused. Finally, one asked, “Where are you going?”

  The King shrugged. “Branson and I will be making a short diversion to take care of some other matters. But don’t worry. We will meet you in the Hovering City.” He stood, cracking his knuckles and neck. “If all goes well, within the week I will be ruling from one coast to the other.”

  Something lurched inside of Branson. Pride? Hope? Both? Whatever it was, it overshadowed the pain and confusion from the earlier battle. Their victory was almost assured, and he had played a part. Surely Graissa would see it eventually and love him for the man he had become.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Brate Hightower

  Brate rubbed a hand across his face. Just the simple movement helped anchor him. Was this really happening?

  “Get ahold of yourself, Malok!” Ezra said, leaving Myra’s side to go stare Malok in the face. “You are going mad.”

  Malok laughed, shaking his head. “I am seeing with more clarity than any of you!” He wiped at his eyes. “Don’t you see? Doesn’t anyone understand?” And he laughed again, shoulders shaking. “I’ve Seen it. The future. The horror, the wonder, the—”

  Ezra slapped Malok across the face.

  Brate stepped forward, about to protest, but stopped. Malok raised a hand to his cheek, staring at Ezra with new eyes. The laughter was gone, replaced with anger.

  “What? You didn’t See that coming, did you?” Ezra’s face burned red.

  “Stop!” Myra said, grabbing Ezra’s arm.

  “The warlock has a temper,” one of the men grunted. “Imagine that.”

  “The warlock isn’t special anymore!” Malok bit out, eyes flaming. “Accessors being rare is now ov
er. The common man can use it, if taught.”

  Confusion tore at Brate’s mind. What was he talking about?

  “How do you know?” Myra asked, still gripping Ezra tight.

  Malok sighed, shoulders slumping. “The way I know everything. Isa tore down the wall keeping the Deep enclosed. Once, it was only available to those who could find it trickling, similar to water through a wall. But now? It’s open. It’s... accessible.”

  “You mean to tell me they can use it?” Ezra waved a hand at the men who had come with him.

  “Yes. If taught.”

  The pieces started falling into place in Brate’s mind. Not only had they taken down the web, but somehow Isa must have torn through reality. But what did that mean? Could the common man also access the Rift?

  The thought was too terrible to comprehend. What should they do? Go back to the Scrape Lands and figure out how to close the Rift as quickly as possible? Or go to Polbine Voltaire and stop him from taking over the rest of the Lands?

  “Whatever the case, Pol must be stopped!” Ezra’s face still burned red, eyes flashing. “Whether you close the Rift or not will depend on whether you can stop him. What if he gets to the Scrape Lands first and burns the Libraries to the ground? All that knowledge, gone.”

  Malok grunted and turned away, pacing to the edge of the glade. No one said a word.

  Myra bit her lip and looked at Brate. But her eyes said it all. The fear shining through was palpable.

  There was only one choice. “We go kill the King, then.” Brate squared his shoulders. Ezra gave a curt nod, facial muscles relaxing.

  Malok stopped his pacing and ran his fingers over his temples. “But how?”

  ***

  Anyia Shallowgold

  Anyia clenched her jaw as the Sisters bustled about in a panic, much like a flock of hens when a fox is nearby. Sure, part of her understood. The Deep’s unexplained behavior was unsettling. But they needed to keep calm.

  “We need to decide what to do!” Mother Aryol’s face, perpetually red, was now glowing amber. Her Recorder desperately tried to keep her from falling out of her chair as the Mother flailed her arms. Yes. Much like a bird. Anyia shoved down the desire to burst into laughter. This was no amusing charade. She needed to keep poised, otherwise the whole room might erupt into squawking chaos.

  “We will hear from Brate soon. Right?” The White Mother was cool and serene, thank the Star. Undoubtedly there was something going on beneath the surface, but for now, Anyia was grateful it didn’t show.

  “This never would have happened if we hadn’t revoked our vows!” another Sister called. What in the Liar’s teeth was she talking about? This had nothing to do with the vows. Anyia kept her face smooth, with much difficulty. As a Sister, she could have given a sharp retort. Now? As Benefactress that would be viewed as below her.

  Justice Ma’allard stood to her feet. “Might I say something, Benefactress?” The others quieted at her words.

  “By all means,” Anyia said with a wave of her hand. Star, let it be reasonable.

  Justice’s eyes sparked. “The Deep is now calm. Whatever happened, it’s over. This panic is not becoming of the Sisterhood.” Her eyes roved the assembly, and relief filled Anyia. Finally, a voice of logic. “If—“

  Something tore through the air, and a black tunnel appeared directly in front of Anyia. She nearly fell backward out of her chair as the assembled Sisters gasped. Brate stepped out, a grim look on his face.

  Anyia’s heart nearly burst from her chest as she righted herself. The tunnel behind him spiraled into a void of dark nothingness. At the end, a faint light glinted. What in the sphere was this?

  His eyes found her, and they softened. He didn’t give any other sign of his affection. It was for the best, of course. Her heart raced for other reasons besides surprise.

  “What is this?” Mother Bray said, face stern and hands clenched at her sides. She cast a quick eye to the tunnel.

  Brate stepped down, but the void stayed open. He ran a hand through his hair. “I have a long story to tell. But I only have a few minutes to tell it.” His gaze swept the assembly. “And when I’m done, you’re not going to like what needs doing.”

  ***

  Clyfe Fleetfoot

  The walls of the Hovering City glistened like a mirage. Clyfe grinned, wiping sweat off his brow. The Jattalian battleships were just off the coast, headed straight for the city. In the distance, the Greigan fleet were on a collision course with them. What the Eastlandians didn’t know was that longships had been launched long since, cutting up the coastline behind their fleet. Let them be distracted with the bigger ships, and the army headed for the walls. He longed to be rowing with his brothers, but soon, oh so soon, he would be standing in the Car’abel’s halls, hunting for their blood.

  “The men are ready,” Commander Lightray said, nodding at Clyfe. “Should I give the order to attack?”

  Clyfe looked back out to the Passage. The Greigan fleet was far enough away to be useless against the battle here on shore. “Yes.”

  The commander tore off to pass the word. Clyfe’s heart rate spiked as he tossed away his blade to grab a longjump. Eighteen feet long, it could launch a man on top of a wall in seconds if done correctly. Whoever was first over the wall would be the first to taste glory.

  The first wave of warriors tore for the walls. As expected, a volley of arrows rained to meet them. Clyfe grinned as the men collapsed under their shields, the arrows nearly ineffective as they bounced off or imbedded in wood. This wouldn’t even be a fight if they still had the Hooded.

  No matter. They didn’t need him.

  ***

  Priva Car’abel

  Arinbjorn was roaring with rage as Priva entered the throne room. Warriors dashed about as he gave commands, and Priva dodged a flailing arm only to run smack into someone else. Liar, why was war always chaos? It didn’t need to be.

  “Priva!” Jasper shouted as he caught sight of him. “Where the brick have you been?”

  So they didn’t know about the Finders yet. Good. “Why does that matter?”

  “Line the walls with archers!” Arinbjorn snarled, and another soldier dashed off. “Where in all things holy are the Bladewielders?”

  “At my command,” Priva answered calmly. “Where do you want us?”

  Arinbjorn paused, braided hair tossing about his head as he paced. “The walls,” he finally decided.

  An explosion tossed Priva to the ground, ears ringing. He tasted dust on his tongue. Not again. Had one of his siblings gone against orders? But no. He didn’t sense the Deep at work.

  Pushing himself to his feet, he swayed, dizzy. That was altogether something different.

  “What was that?” Jasper asked, eyes wide.

  Arinbjorn glanced out the window over the throne. “Smoke.” He looked at Priva. “Someone is here.”

  “With what? Another Hooded?” It made no sense. Besides, he hadn’t felt it!

  “Whatever it is—”

  Another roar and Priva stumbled, knocking into a General who swore loud and angry. It was coming from below them, as if under the mountain itself. Had the Jattalians discovered some sort of weapon that could do such a thing? They must have. It was the only thing that made sense.

  Shouts were followed by a soldier rushing into the throne room. “The Jattalians are in the courtyard!”

  “What? How?” Jasper said, voice quivering. He backed away toward the throne as if he could somehow escape. Priva sighed, rolling his eyes and drawing his blade. How strange, to go from wanting to overthrow his father one minute to defending him the next. Damned Jattalians couldn’t leave him alone to do what needed doing.

  He dashed out of the throne room, racing through the corridors. As he stepped into the courtyard, he paused.

  Jattalians flooded inside from a breach in the wall facing the ocean. Something had knocked through, tearing a hole ten men across into the stone. Several grapples had been flung up, and the enemy poured
through. Bladewielders came from the front entrance, but the Jattalians had been there first. They kept them bottled at the gate.

  Ahead, the guards engaged to keep the palace protected. But even as he watched, the last one collapsed in a spurt of blood and several Jattalians raced straight for Priva.

  Damnation.

  He called for the Deep, and everything came into focus. Their twitching eyes, their heartbeats, their stench of sweat and blood. Priva cracked his neck and then sprang forward, waving an arm and throwing the Deep across their path. A wall of power slashed their legs from under them, and the first wave fell with cries of confusion and pain. Their legs cracked, bones ripping apart and splitting their skin. He heard each fiber tear.

  The wall kept coming as the others jumped over their fallen comrades. Priva gathered the Deep and pushed, the power slamming into the next line. Their torsos exploded, guts tossed from their bodies. Priva sagged as his strength dwindled. Too much of this and he would collapse.

  He flung a tendril toward the grapples, slicing through the ropes. The satisfying scream of the soldiers on the ladders made his weakening strength worth it. Not many more would be coming anytime soon. Which only left what was in the courtyard.

  Wonderful. Him against thirty. Maybe forty.

  He didn’t have time to worry. He let go of the Deep and tossed into the fray as his Bladewielder brothers took up a cry. The Jattalians at the front gate turned to engage him.

  ***

  Clyfe Fleetfoot

  The grappled ladders fell. Something sliced through every single one. Clyfe gripped the longjump tight. The other longjumpers waited, tense, as he wiped his forehead. If they sprang up too soon they would lose the element of surprise. But if they waited too long, the assault at the gates would draw more palace guards.

  The southern walls were holding. The archers would tire soon if reinforcements didn’t arrive.

  “Fleetfoot?” Commander Lightray asked. “If we wait too long—”

  Another explosion tore through the cliff. The longship brothers were doing their job.

  “Now!” Clyfe shouted, breaking into a run. The others followed. As the palace towered above on the rocks, Clyfe took a firm hold of the longjump. He’d have to time it perfectly.