Flames licked the night sky in the distance: the darkened gate tower had either gone unnoticed or the guards were more concerned with the growing fire beyond the rooftops on the south side of the city.
She had just about run past the gate tower when she caught movement in her periphery.
She stopped, raising her hand to cast.
Brennan slumped against the tower, clutching a hand to his side.
Was he hurt?
She bit her lip. He was fine. Of course he was fine. Wasn’t he?
But once she approached him, her hands checked from his head to his neck, his shoulders, through his parted leather overcoat over his chest and his back, until her fingertips found the wetness of blood in his side, seeping through his fingers. “You’re hurt.”
He chuckled softly and grazed his fingers against hers. “Maybe you should keep checking.”
“You can’t keep—”
“Stop.” He pushed her away. “It looks a lot worse than it is, and you’ll need your strength. Believe me, I’m already feeling better.”
His werewolf healing had already kicked in, then.
She frowned. “All right, but stay out of trouble.”
He shook his head, smiling crookedly. “If I’m following you, then I’m already way past staying out of trouble.” His gaze shifted toward Leigh, who stood alert, watching for enemies at the nearest crossroad. His brows drew together, and his mouth thinned to a fine line. “You need to go.”
She slid her hands out of his overcoat, away from his touch. “I know,” she said, “and what about you?”
“I’ll rendezvous with Nicolette and her group in the Coquelicot District by the southeastern gate.” He hesitated. “I’ll be fine.”
She lowered her gaze to his ribs, visualizing the hemorrhage there.
“I didn’t know you cared,” he whispered, a sharp edge riding his voice.
Of course she did. As deeply as he’d hurt her, she still cared. The boy she’d met as a child had been kind, and she still remembered him, even if Brennan didn’t. Her gaze wandered back up to his. Narrowed and gleaming. Cynical.
“We need to go,” Leigh warned.
“I’ll find you in the palace.” Brennan pulled her in and kissed her cheek.
She jolted.
He chuckled and, before she could smack him, departed.
She turned to the peaks of Trèstellan Palace. I’m coming, Olivia.
She strode past Leigh down the city street, keeping her eyes on the citadel beyond the canal enveloping the Azalée District and the palace. Those walls were meant to keep armies out, their arcanir-soaked earth and coated stone a barrier to most mages.
Most mages.
Their main obstacle would be General Evrard Gilles. The city outskirts, the citadel, and especially the palace teemed with Crag Company mercenaries.
“It’s a good thing war waits for heartfelt goodbyes,” Leigh grumbled from her right side.
She rolled her eyes.
The shouts in the distance grew nearer. No time to lose.
Maintaining their shield spells, they traversed the rich Alcea District and entered the Orchidée District—housing nobles not rich enough to purchase property in Azalée within the walls of the citadel. The voices drew closer, and she led Leigh from the cobblestone boulevard into a small thoroughfare between villas. They ducked shoulder to shoulder behind a row of hedges.
She raised her head. The citadel’s regal northern gate into Azalée was right there.
“Planning to visit your home away from home?” Leigh asked her in a hushed tone.
Couronne, her family’s long-unused villa in Azalée, was close by. “Why, Leigh, do you need a break for dinner?”
He cracked a grin. “A nap would be nice, too. And tea.”
“Why don’t you earn it first?”
A platoon of about forty mercenaries shuffled down the cobbles. The voices they’d been hearing.
Many. Too many. Were they sigiled? How many of them?
She stayed hidden as they passed, then slunk along the hedges to the edge of the thoroughfare and peered around the corner.
The platoon marched toward the citadel. To reinforce it, no doubt, which would make their plan even more difficult.
Not a chance. She channeled wind in one hand and fire in the other, dismissing her stoneskin spell, and stepped out of cover.
Setting the wind spinning upon the ground, she imbued it with fire. In a matter of seconds, it grew into a fiery whirlwind before her, four bodies wide and two tall.
Voices ahead—time to let it go. She sent it toward them, a cyclone consuming the avenue in a conflagration of screeching wails, dragging men into its spinning inferno.
It left only char in its wake.
She rubbed her hands together. The spell’s intensity raged in a blazing moment before she swept her hands apart to dissipate it.
The fire cooled. The wind died. The smoke cleared.
Embers glowed upon the blackened cobblestones. The mercenaries. They hadn’t been sigiled.
Wind drove down the avenue from behind, hurtling past her to gather up the ash and surge toward the towering gates of the citadel. A rustle made her snap toward the sound—Leigh emerging from the thoroughfare, his repulsion shield dismissed.
Eyebrows raised, he nodded his approval, lowered his gaze to the ash, and winced. “Bad way to go.”
“I was fresh out of old age.”
“Always out of stock.” Grinning, he studied the arcanir-coated gates ahead. “We’ll knock. Very hard.”
She and Leigh—an elementalist and a wild-mage enforcer—could penetrate any wall. She stared into the murky waters of the Arsen Canal. “The canal. Cover me.”
They crept from cover to cover toward the walls of the citadel. Archers lined the citadel’s battlements, but she and Leigh kept out of sight. Time dragged as they advanced toward the canal, the city’s skyline silhouetted against the growing fire to the south. The Black Rose distraction—good. Occasional shouts rose from amid the din. The sounds of revolt.
Cover became scarce as they neared the canal.
A call. The archers unleashed a wave of arrows.
Leigh’s repulsion shield was up, deflecting them all. Using his free hand, he magically pulled individual targets from the battlements to their deaths.
“Take your time,” he grunted.
The canal flowed several feet away from them, just close enough. She focused on it, channeling current control to magical excess, both sculpting a new path for the canal with her hands and willing its waters up and away toward the battlements.
Several archers gaped at the canal as it flowed up through the air to the wall, the rampart its new channel. A shadow, enormous and dark, cast wide below the tons of water. Men fled, screamed.
She flooded the top of the wall in a torrent, the blasting water sending screaming mercenaries flying from the battlements with incredible force to the ground below. It burst through the door of the gate tower and exploded from windows and doors, continuing on its path of destruction around the entire wall of the citadel.
She fed it, willing more and more of the canal’s water to the wall until it seeped from every crevice and poured through the battlements’ crenels. Stones and beams burst; water pounded to the ground and back into the canal.
She ceased channeling the spell. Her surroundings spun for a brief moment, and then—
Ah, I feel light as a feather.
Serenity brimmed beneath her skin—no, quivered. She sighed heavily, opening her eyes to see Leigh’s blurry, panicked face while he lightly patted her cheek. She winced as the blur cleared, and clenched her jaw at being slapped repeatedly.
“I’m fine!” she shouted at him, and he pursed his grinning lips. “You can stop hitting me!” She looked inward. Her anima reserve was dim. With about a tenth reserved for Brennan, she’d also expended about half of the rest. Controlling the canal had cost her much.
Holding her a foot off the ground,
Leigh seized her hand, and she felt the familiar pull of resonance, unsolicited but sorely needed.
Her anima begged for completion, and instinct made her pull him, too. Her blue pool of anima shone with a blinding endless white light, Leigh’s magic, a force that shook her anima, making it ripple as it pulsed, radiating outward through her entire body, its familiarity both comforting and invigorating. Every part of her vibrated with power, a hot energy that filled her up and compressed into a pressure that begged for release. Her skin tingled until the hand holding his sizzled.
Her eyes fluttered open, every part of her awakened and alive. Her gaze locked with his, star-white eyebrows drawn, dark eyes intense—pinned against the door to his office, bunching fingers in his heavy winter magister robes, You will be my undoing a soft caress against her ear, a shiver, opening her mouth to his, stifling a soft moan—
She pulled her hand away. Memories from years long past.
“What are you doing?” he groused, rolling his eyes. He let her go, and she fell the short distance to the ground with a gasp. “You needed resonance.”
Her face burned. Resonance, once so casual and utilitarian, had become a thing of beauty with Jon. Intimate.
Nevertheless, Leigh was right. She had regained nearly half of the anima that she had lost, and every bit would matter until the rite was done and Olivia was free. They were both mature enough to separate a biological response from intention.
“Thank you,” she conceded, despite the certain bruise forming on her bottom.
He replied with an irritated nod and watched the citadel while she rose to her feet.
Before she could address how they would pass the gates, he turned to the cobblestone avenue, his hands glowing with bright power. She knew that look, and prepared to observe art. Leigh Galvan never disappointed in that regard.
The stones ripped from the pavement, forming a magical arrangement of steps ascending from the bank of the canal to the battlements, only Leigh’s force magic control holding them in place.
Once the last stone was placed, Rielle headed toward Leigh’s creation, offering him a small appreciative smile before ascending the steps. He sighed, the annoyance between them dispelled, and followed her.
As soon as they set foot on the damp stone battlements, the cobblestones collapsed behind them in a clamoring heap, a chaotic monument splayed across the canal and onto the bank.
She glared at Leigh, and he shrugged.
“I’ll restore it all later.” He peered over the other side of the wall. “Let’s head into Azalée.”
“One stop.” She spun toward the gate tower. Opening the citadel gates could mean that the Black Rose and the paladins, if they came, could enter Azalée to support them.
“Why bother?” Leigh trailed after her while she approached the doorway into the gate tower, its door hanging off a single strained hinge.
“Why not?” She hurried down the nearby staircase to the level above the meurtrière between the inner and outer portcullis gates. It was soaked, with a body face down in the corner. The torrent of water had trapped the Crag mercenary on this level, even with water draining through the meurtrière.
She found the winches that controlled the drawbridge, outer portcullis, and inner portcullis, and proceeded to open them all.
“Come,” she said to Leigh. “We don’t have much time.”
Their entry into Azalée had been less than stealthy. It wouldn’t be long before Gilles brought the full force of the Crag upon them.
She exited with Leigh, the long road through Azalée and the causeway to Trèstellan Palace ahead of them.
Chapter 62
Thick smoke filled the air, stinging Brennan’s nostrils—the blaze had nearly spread through the entire district. The oil the Black Rose had procured had not only ensured that the fire would burn long but also incredibly hot.
By the time he made it here, his wound had nearly healed. The impoverished residential area lay in molten ruins, with the uproar of battle raging near the gates. He quickened his pace, running toward the center.
“Kill them!” a man yelled above the pandemonium.
“Let’s put the hurt to these bastards!” Nicolette shouted wildly.
The clangor of parried blades rang nearby, mixed with cries of the dying and roars of the victors, myriad hearts beating in racing, raucous cacophony. Tuning them out, he cleared an alley to see the chaos of fighting between the Crag and the assorted band of assassins, thieves, swashbucklers, blacksmiths, merchants, and other citizens armed with everything from pitchforks to meat cleavers to wooden beams with nails.
The Crag here amounted to a company of men. Although the resistance was about even at near a hundred fighters, Crag reinforcements closed in from the adjacent Chardon District. It was only a matter of time before more forces would arrive from farther districts.
The resistance would be crushed. And then the diversion would be over. The Crag would turn their eyes to the palace.
He rushed in and drove a flying kick into a Crag tabard, dodging a sword slash as he landed.
A mercenary threw a roundhouse kick. Brennan dropped and spun a low sweep kick, taking his opponent and two others to the ground. Barely a breath later, he grabbed two necks and crushed them before rolling to avoid an axe strike. He wove through a bedlam of warring bodies, knocking out knees, breaking arms, snapping necks. At least the curse had its uses.
Nicolette fought at the back of the militia. “Get that gate open, men!”
Several rebels exited the gate tower, coughing. The tower itself was on fire, the smoke no doubt too thick for them to open the drawbridge and the portcullises. Beyond the wall, thousands of voices roared in rally.
Paladins.
Someone had to let them in.
Someone like him.
He made for the smoke-filled gate tower. The howl of air cut by a blade had him moving, but not fast enough—
Searing pain sliced into his shoulder.
Grinding his teeth, he seized the back of the short sword and yanked it free from its flesh-and-bone anchor. He pulled it forward, bringing its bearer’s face directly into his punch. With a gratified hiss, he relished the crunch of bone and cartilage against his knuckles.
His teeth elongated.
Not now. Not fucking now.
He drew his lip over them, struggling to keep them hidden. The lengthening points of his nails dug into his flesh as he tried to keep pressure on his cleaved shoulder. His Wolf skulked at the edge of control.
Making his way to the gate tower, he focused on the bond. The precarious hold meant Rielle was weakening. Passed out, or—
The thundering steps of approaching reinforcements meant he needed to get that gate open.
He evaded his way through the battle to Nicolette.
“Brennan.” Her eyebrows rose as she dispatched a mercenary with ease while the rest of her assassins made quick work of others. Outside their usual stealthy element, they still seemed capable enough. But the Crag’s numbers countenanced the losses easily.
He nodded as he moved past to the gate tower, where two more men exited, one dragging the other.
“What are you doing?” She blocked a slash with her sword and sliced a throat with her dagger. The spray of blood laid a fresh coat on her already bloodied leather armor.
He surveyed the inside, waiting for one last man to emerge. “I’m opening that gate.”
She laughed, and her sword and dagger found flesh once more. “Nox give you strength!”
With a grin, he was inside the tower, heat and smoke stinging his eyes and nostrils. Through the gray haze, he searched for the stairs.
There. At the back.
He raced toward them, one boot sloshing. Blood had run all the way down from his shoulder to pool at his sole. The burn of healing heated the flesh, but not as hot or as fast as usual. He applied pressure with his palm while hustling to the staircase, and took the stairs two at a time.
Smoke filled his lungs before
he spotted the winches and rushed to them. While his head swam, he seized the first crank, finding it already partially drawn. The humans had made some progress.
Once the drawbridge was down, he moved to the outer portcullis winch, then the inner, his breath shallow and painful as the smoky gate tower spun around him.
But the gate was open.
He fell to his knees, then to his face. Fresh air and the clamor of charging paladins filtered in through the meurtrière. His strength flagged, draining from his body along with his blood.
Rielle peeked around a rose bush at the southeastern service entrance.
No one manned it. Good. She nodded to Leigh.
With many of Gilles’s sigiled men on the wall to repel the invasion of the city, she and Leigh managed to cross Azalée and enter the palace grounds quietly enough. They’d encountered and fought small pockets—with a swiftness that only unsigiled opponents could offer.
She ran to the door. No keys. Her hand against the metal, she heated it to molten while Leigh kept watch.
When it dripped down the door, she finally allowed herself to exhale.
Leigh took position at the side of the door as she wrapped herself in a flame cloak and gusted the door open. The bond faltered, and she stiffened.
Two arrows grazed her arm and shoulder but didn’t cut through the cloak. Leigh threw his repulsion shield before her, deflecting two more arrows.
Was Brennan all right?
A couple of Crag guards stood within the first-floor service hallway.
He had to be all right. He had to.
Calling the wind, she flourished her free hand and spun a cyclone down the hallway, swirling it larger and gathering both of the guards. She pulled her hand back and stepped out of the way.
The two went flying toward her and burst through the open door, screaming as they soared through the air and over the causeway, then plummeted into the Azalée District, their screams fading until they died.
Blade & Rose (Blade and Rose Book 1) Page 54
