The warm golden light that had for a moment surrounded Kimi and for months nurtured Haidrea now burned as bright as the sun, illuminating all of Wynter’s mind. As the light reached its peak intensity, the grinding knife stopped attacking Lydria’s wrist. The deepest parts of Wynter’s mind became clear as the shadows and crevasses into which Ellaster crept blinked out, one by one under the relentlessness of her brilliance.
Ellaster had no place to hide as Lydria continued to pour the light into Wynter. She fought light with darkness, screamed out for her husband’s power, but Wynter’s mind was awash in healing light and he had no strength to give her. Screaming obscenities and vowing revenge, the lingering smudge of darkness that had moved to the corners of Lydria’s vision faded and then went away completely with a faint pop, like a frog diving into a pond.
Despite Ellaster’s defeat, Lydria kept pouring light into Wynter until she felt his body go slack and fall underneath her. Only then did she retract her finger nails and release her grip on his head.
Lydria wanted to fall to her knees, but the floor still held her feet fast above the ankle. She looked at Wynter lying on the floor, and then to her left hand which was still attached but bleeding profusely. She healed the jagged gash and reached toward Wynter to heal the gouges her nails had made, followed by the knife wound in his shoulder. When she was finished she saw Wynter the man, looking peaceful, his expression relaxed, his muscles loose, and she couldn’t help but think he looked as if he were enjoying his first restful sleep in years.
Lydria freed herself from the ice and then knelt next to Wynter and looked at his burned face and arms, wondering if she could ease the pain he suffered at the hands of Haustis. She reached out her hand and moved the sweaty, matted black hair from his face, noticing the blue collar, and the threat it represented.
Sitting on her heels, Lydria reached for the black blade of Eifynar. She held the knife by the handle and pointed the blade toward Wynter, considering whether to show mercy and spare him a life of misery and pain.
The blade hummed in her hand, and the black blade seemed to fade around the edge, presenting a shimmering, fog-like edge. Without quite understanding how or why, she lowered the knife to Wynter’s neck and as the blade touched the blue stone, the collar shifted and swirled, moving back and forth as if trying to remove the knife from its surface. Lydria placed the entire flat of the blade against Wynter’s throat and the collar pulsed and raised itself form his skin, becoming a real necklace of shining blue gems. She inserted the point of the Farn’Nethyn blade under this new collar and gently twisted the knife as if prying a board loose. The blade hummed and with a whiff of burnt flesh, the knife came lose and the collar turned to mist, leaving a small black stone lying next to the sleeping Wynter.
Lydria reached down and picked up the stone and returned her gaze to the disfigured form of Wynter. There was a pale band of unblemished skin around his neck, where the collar had been; it was not scarred or disfigured but lay bare as a perpetual reminder of his defeat.
Looking at his burns and his collar of fresh, pink skin, Lydria touched the scarf she wore around her own neck and thought of her father and Josen. Of Haustis. Of the boy in the lake. She took off her scarf and carefully wrapped it around Wynter’s neck, hiding his healthy skin. “We all carry pain,” she whispered to the sleeping man, looking at his burns. “You will wear yours.”
She pocketed Wynter’s stone and bound him, reinforcing his bonds with magic. Wynter was subdued but there was still a war that needed to be stopped.
FIFTY
Haidrea and Keldon met Lydria as she was descending the stairs. Both were sweaty, and their chests heaved with exertion, but still they were running toward her - Keldon armed with a short sword, and Haidrea with nothing more than a large knife.
“Lydria.” It was all Haidrea could manage before crushing her friend with a hug. She pulled away with moist eyes, smiling like a new bride. “Have you killed him, then?” After being hugged by Keldon, Lydria looked at her friends and could only tell them the truth.
“I could not. But, his threat is diminished.” She held the stone she had picked up from Wynter’s side and added it to her own and the three of them watched as the small stone was absorbed by Lydria’s. The sphere reformed, and fine lines glowed briefly, outlining thirteen segments.
The three made their way to the throne room where the dead man Haidrea had been with when Lydria rushed up the stairs was laid out on the floor, away from the stained ice. Lydria turned to Haidrea, not knowing what to say. Her friend surprised her by turning her lips up into a smile.
“The Lord Nethyal died trying to kill Wynter. He has been working with Malai and I since shortly after we arrived in Solwyn.” Keldon saluted the prone figure by placing his right balled fist over his heart. “He said he originally sought out the power of Wynter, but it took him only a few suns to realize the madness in him and the folly of controlling such power. Lord Nethyal had considered killing Wynter several times, while he was weak, but said that he sensed an unseen force that protected the king. As time passed, Lord Nethyal watched the good that came of the king’s power; the people who were helped and freed from misery and given a chance to live as free people. So, he maintained his position, believing he would have the opportunity to kill him should he follow through on his mad plans of war. As he watched Wynter’s power grow, he became aware that magic had never been used to kill a human. The act of killing a person with magic, he believed, would all but do the same to even Wynter. So, Lord Nethyal helped Wynter and waited – he waited for allies, he waited for war, and he waited for the right moment to weaken Wynter so much that someone else might be able to finally kill him. He told me once that he hoped the spirits would receive him well when he died.”
Keldon raised a hand to his nose and sniffed before turning away, giving Lydria and Haidrea a moment to speak between themselves.
“My brother has been welcomed by the spirits.” Haidrea’s eyes glistened with tears and she turned to her friend. “When I came here, my one intent was to kill my brother. It was an awful burden, and one I am happy to be without. Yet, I wish I would have known, so I could have fought by his side.”
Lydria hugged her friend and turned to the entrance where Keldon stood over the body of the beast he had killed, his massive sword still buried in the creature’s neck. He reached to retrieve his weapon and a tendril of blue mist lit the room, curling up the blade and wrapping itself around the crosspiece. The three watched as the wire-wrapped crosspiece and hilt slowly changed from cold steel to warm blue stone.
As the mist subsided, they looked at the dead creature and around its neck, brilliant against the dark emerald scales of its body, they saw a ring of human skin where the collar had been. “This creature then is one of the Fourteen.” Keldon’s face dropped as he looked to each of the remaining thirteen columns before turning his attention back to the beast at his feet.
As the knight touched the blue hilt Lydria watched his eyes, her own full of expectation as to how he would react when he came into contact with the stone. His eyes flickered and widened but only for a moment. Keldon casually lifted the blade, surprised to see none of the creature’s viscous green blood staining the metal, but instead a shining radiance as if new – or Lydria noted, more than new. The blade shone with its own light, a light neither Keldon nor Haidrea seemed to notice, a blue shimmering iridescence from the cross-piece to the tip of steel, that was as visible to Lydria as her own hand.
“There is nothing like a good fight to make a sword feel lighter than normal,” Keldon mused as he swung the blade over his back. “We may still have need of it, I’m afraid. I have heard nothing from beyond the gates – we know not where Ahlric’s forces stand.
“Lydria!”
“Kimi? Where are you?” A wave of relief swept over Lydria as she rushed toward the castle doors which she opened with a thought. Kimi launched himself into her arms and she had to use a small bit of magic to lift him easily. Kimi w
asn’t in his disguise and Lydria’s collar pulsated a dim blue, visible to the crowd that had gathered outside the castle doors. A small group of guardsmen formed a line between the castle and citizens awaiting news of the nearby army. None outside the castle knew of Wynter’s defeat, but many had seen the light from the tower, and guessed their king was working to defeat the forces of Wesolk. The ringing of hammers on metal which had been so constant since Lydria had arrived in Solwyn had gone eerily silent, only the single biting report of a lone hammer rhythmically falling on metal remained, highlighting the stillness in town – the calm before the storm of battle.
Lydria looked past Branch and Krieger to a group of dirty, stern women who waited patiently, peering between the uneven line of soldiers in front of them. In their eyes Lydria saw the same look she had seen too many times in the past – the look of those who knew they were going to die. They weren’t sad, but resolute in their belief. Lydria smiled warmly and scratched her neck, drawing the women’s eyes to her blue collar, hoping that if they knew they were protected by magic, they might feel more hope and less inevitability.
Turning to Branch and Krieger Lydria caught them up on the matter of Wynter, Nethyal, and the pillar before Krieger summarized the work left to be done. “We still have two problems – Ahlric and a citizenry who are going to be displeased that we committed regicide.” Lydria looked at Keldon as the leader in a town where, regardless of Lydria’s power, he alone held any sway.
“There is only one prudent course of action,” Keldon, standing fully upright with dark green blood smeared across his chest and face, looked down at the others who were immediately worried that the kingdom’s virtuous Knight Commander would ignite a riot. “We lie.”
“Good people hear me now and carry my words to those protecting our city,” Keldon’s voice shifted coming from deep in his chest and projecting across the streets, and without warning, Keldon pulled his sword from his back and touched the tip to the rock steps of the castle. Almost immediately Lydria felt calm and ready to listen to whatever Keldon might say. It was an odd feeling and one that passed quickly, but a glance to Krieger and Haidrea and then to the townsfolk, confirmed she was the only one so dispossessed.
“Is Keldon a wielder now as well?” Kimi looked up suddenly as if startled when the sword met the steps.
“He does not wear a collar; but note the hilt of his sword. Do you think magic could reside within the blade?” It was a rhetorical question as both Lydria and Kimi looked to Haidrea’s necklace, its pale golden light just visible on her neck for those keen enough to look for it. The pair waited to see what Keldon would say, and whether his words would mark him as friend or foe.
“Wynter is no longer king of Solwyn. He has broken trust with you and the Lord Nethyal discovered this treachery and fought a beast that Wynter conjured from some nether world, a beast unknown to man, and terrible in its countenance. The beast has been beaten by the blade before me, and Wynter taken captive and removed of his magic by the might of the Lord Nethyal and this wielder,” he motioned to Lydria who held up her chin to more fully expose her blue collar for all to see. “Wynter is imprisoned in the Cobalt Tower. He is no longer a wielder, and he has no claim to your servitude or your loyalty.”
Keldon’s last words were inflected so that all knew he was finished speaking. As heads in the crowd began to bob with understanding, the knight casually swung the sword around his back and into its scabbard and almost at once the silence was broken by murmuring amongst the crowd. “All Hail King Nethyal,” shouted one man, who was followed immediately by a dozen others.
“The Lord Nethyal, died fighting the beast and Wynter.” Keldon’s sorrow was genuine, but he quickly regained his composure and rallied the people. “The only king nearby is a foreign king who would take our land and enslave us. Look not to kings, but to your own arms and the love of your families.” With that, Keldon swept off the steps of the castle toward a horse his lieutenant had waiting for him.
The crowd, understanding the danger had not passed, went back to positions along the walls or on the rooftops, or back to their homes, or whatever they were needed. The crowd dispersed quickly, and horses were brought for Lydria, Haidrea, Branch, and Krieger.
The ride beyond the gates was fast and their approach was noticed almost immediately. Ahlric’s army was stopped on the tundra several long bowshots from the town and Keldon lifted a flag of parley as they rode forward and down a small hill where sights of war were laid out in front of them, the stench not yet diffused into the air, but the birds already descending upon their feast.
While largely flat, the tundra had several small, shallow gullies and it was in one of these that Ahlric had placed his men. It was a good location, Lydria noted – it provided some shelter to hide the actual size of the army and provided a natural break in the terrain that would allow for some basic staging and maneuver out of sight from the city – and a place to retreat if it came to that. Currently, however, the only thing the small hill hid was devastation.
Along an arc several furlongs in either direction, men and horses were laid out along dips in the ground that were not part of the natural landscape. Their blood pooled on the easily saturated tundra and the pathetic groans of fallen horses and their riders rose from the ground as they passed, while blood flowed into puddles like the babbling of a small stream. The stench grew thick and Lydria held back a tear for the men who were taking swords to horses and trying to remove the wounded. One of these men, as Lydria watched, moved to the front of the line of downed animals and fell to the ground. She couldn’t see what happened but the spray of red mist that rose from where he fell made it clear his body would soon be collected with the others.
Lydria dismounted and moved to the nearest casualty and held her hands to his chest. A thin spray of blood documented his heartbeat and the man, turned his head to her and said, “Is that you, mother?” before his jaw went slack and the spray of blood became a seeping trickle. She stood and turned to take in the carnage. The risen sun played off tack, armor, and blood, creating a kaleidoscope of twinkling light which was mesmerizing and sickening in turn.
Haidrea joined Lydria by the horses and together they knelt to the ground and placed their joined hands on the dirt. “Feel Eigrae, wielder, feel what Wynter has done.”
Lydria followed her palms into the ground and saw that Wynter had created dozens of shallow pits and filled them with stakes and ice blades and covered them with a magical image of the surrounding land. It was a classic pit trap made many times deadlier by magic. This is how one can kill with magic, she thought, just like the ice wall that killed Nethyal, these pits were harmless. But if a person fell upon them, they were deadly. The magic didn’t cause the death, but it created the instrument of death, which meant Lydria’s magic could not heal those few who cried out their last breaths in pain. Reaching out further, Lydria felt more traps still covered and pushed her magic through the ground until yellow light sprayed up from a dozen new pits that opened in an arc around the town.
As she finished the two women stood in time to see a single rider approaching. The man, in chain leggings and light chest plate, had been up long before sunrise, and was possibly drunk. His face was ashen, and his eyes met Keldon’s and then each of the others in turn, lingering on Lydria, her neck, and glancing to either side where shafts of yellow had only moments before reached out toward the sky. He straightened in his saddle and offered Keldon a salute as crisp as his bruised and bandaged right arm would allow, calling the Knight Commander of Solwyn out by name. Keldon’s size had made him well known even among soldiers of Bayside. “Sir Keldon, I am Captain Manlar – do you come under flag of parlay and agree to the traditional terms of such a flag?”
“We do.”
Manlar nodded and yanked on the reins of his horse, joining Keldon as they made their way past the pits of devastation through an area of relative calm, where only trampled short grass gave notice of anything amiss. In the center of camp, well away
from the dirty white tents of the common soldiers, there was a grand tent with gilt threading. It was large enough where Keldon could easily stand inside with several men and their horses. The king’s standard, however, did not fly. “Did Ahlric not take the field?” Kimi, again in the guise of an orange tom, sat alertly on the saddle in front of Lydria.
Keldon noticed the lack of standard as well and asked Manlar who they would meet.
Manlar said nothing as the horses slowed. Squires collected their horses and Manlar held open the tent flap. Inside on a feather bed lay the body of Ahlric.
“He died leading the first group toward Solwyn,” Manlar said. “He had told the men he would be back shortly with the head of a traitor. He didn’t make it halfway there. It grieves me deeply to lose four score men and half as many horses.”
Manlar was informal, as soldiers who consider themselves peers were likely to be. Lydria had always found it so with her father among others of his rank. When a superior or inferior came to the room, however, the formality reappeared instantly. Waving them to take a seat, Manlar poured wine and quickly drank some himself.
“What happened?” asked Krieger.
Manlar started, only then recognizing the figure before him and starting to stand, resuming his seat quickly at a gesture from Krieger. “My lord, we were told you had been killed by the Eifen.”
“You were misinformed. What has happened, captain?”
Manlar told them of how several hundred men had formed that morning in good spirits and preparing to be back at the camp by lunch, the town securely in their control. The first wave ascended the hill and the flats to either side and seemed to be swallowed by the ground.
“They simply rode into their graves. There was no way to know they were there, and no way to avoid them.” Manlar passed an icicle about six inches long and two inches wide at the base to Keldon who passed it to Lydria.
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