Shadow & Flame

by Mindee Arnett

  They walked the rest of the way in silence, meeting no one. When they reached the shade door, Kate pressed her hand against the rough stone and whispered the word of invocation. A line of light shone from the wall, drawing the outline of the doorway. It was small, barely wide enough for the horse to fit through. Kate went first, leading the uror horse out onto the field. Distantly, she could hear the sound of the raging battle. The uror horse raised its head and snorted loudly in alarm.

  Keeping a tight hold on its lead, Kate closed her eyes and reached out with her sway, searching for Signe. She found her quickly. Signe, Kate thought, sending the word directly into her mind. She felt Signe flinch, but only for a moment. Help save the uror horse. I’m sending it to you along with Eravis Fane.

  She sensed Signe’s confusion at the strange request, but also her quick acceptance. I . . . I will keep them safe.

  Satisfied, Kate withdrew her magic and turned to Eravis. “I’ll help you get on.” She stooped down, cupping her hands together to give Eravis a foothold. Then she boosted her up onto the horse’s back. Although the princess appeared nervous, she wrapped her fingers through the horse’s mane with one hand and accepted the lead rope from Kate with the other, sitting astride like a practiced horsewoman.

  Kate faced the uror horse. Holding its head between her hands, palms spread over its cheeks, she touched it with her sway once more. Go, find Signe Leth. She will keep you safe. Kate sent the horse an image of who Signe was and where to find her. Kate pressed the urgency on the horse. To her surprise it answered back, a simple yes that was more feeling than language.

  Letting go of the lead rope, Kate looked up at Eravis. “The horse knows the way. Just stick with it.”

  Eravis stared back at her with a stunned gaze. “You’re like him, aren’t you? Lord Gavril?”

  “I’m nothing like him.” Kate fixed a glare so fierce on Eravis that she flinched.

  “Yes, I can see that you’re not,” Eravis said after a moment. “I owe you my life, Kate Brighton. A debt that I will repay. Whatever I have the power to give you, I shall.”

  Kate considered the woman’s statement carefully. “There is only one thing I wish from you.”

  “Say it, and I will make it so,” Eravis replied, the haughty princess once more.

  “When the battle is over, you are to go home to Seva, and never again return to Rime.”

  Eravis opened her mouth as if to protest, but then closed it and gave a firm nod. “I swear it on all the gods both living and dead.”

  Satisfied as well as she could be, Kate stepped back. “Good luck.”

  “Thank you, Kate. I will never forget you,” Eravis said.

  “Nor I you,” Kate replied, no matter how much she wished she could.

  With that, Eravis and the uror horse headed up the hill, soon disappearing from view.

  Kate watched them go, her emotions settling inside her, the jealousy and hurt she’d harbored starting to fade.

  Grateful for it, she turned back to the mage door with renewed focus, one hand touching the hilt of the Hellsteel still strapped to her hip. It was time to stop Rendborne. Once and for all.

  31

  Corwin

  CORWIN STARED AT THE FOUR assailants across from him. He knew them all, called them all friends—Dal his best friend, his shield brother.

  Now they were his enemy. Corwin felt his mind split. To fend off four opponents at once, he needed unwavering focus, but he couldn’t manage it. Not knowing that Gavril was somewhere nearby.

  “Dal, don’t do this,” Corwin said as Dal raised his sword, preparing to strike. “Fight him.”

  “I . . . can’t.” Dal’s whole body shook as he spoke, as if he were in the throes of fever tremors.

  “Yes you can.” It wasn’t empty hope. Dal’s resistance was palpable, far greater than Corwin had ever seen anyone manage against Gavril. Maybe that meant this wasn’t Gavril after all—or if it was, perhaps he wasn’t as strong as he used to be, or his attention was divided enough for Dal to break free.

  But the other three Rimish soldiers weren’t putting up nearly the same amount of fight. The three of them charged Corwin at once, moving to encircle him. Corwin raised both sword and buckler in defense. He blocked the first blow, parried the second, and ducked the third. Coming up from the crouch, he jabbed the hilt of the sword at the first soldier’s face, knocking off his helm and smashing his nose. The man stumbled backward with a grunt of pain. If he’d been a true enemy, Corwin would’ve followed through with a cutting blow to his neck, but this was an ally—no matter what Gavril might force him to do.

  Corwin turned to block another blow. This soldier wielded an axe, which hit like a boulder, jamming Corwin’s shoulder, pain alighting down his entire right side. It took all his strength to first hold the blow, then deflect it. He followed through with a vicious left hook, the side of his buckler connecting with the man’s neck. His helm remained in place but his head snapped sideways, stunning him.

  The third soldier advanced now, but he wasn’t alone—Dal had lost his struggle, and he came at Corwin at the same time. Corwin danced backward to keep them from surrounding him again. He especially feared Dal. The others were soldiers, but Dal was a warrior. Corwin would’ve had have a hard time beating him in single combat, let alone two on one.

  Make that four on one. The others had recovered, and once again were advancing on Corwin. Pushing thoughts of Gavril out of his mind, Corwin focused on the fight before him. He needed to disarm the soldiers as quickly as possible before engaging Dal. Drawing on years of training and a carefully honed instinct, Corwin threw himself into the fight. His whole body became a weapon, his sword an extension of his arm, his buckler an extension of his fist.

  The hardest part was fighting to disarm instead of kill. His old arms master taught him that he would fight like he trained and so he trained to deliver killing blows. But he managed to be more precise. The helmetless soldier he rendered unconscious with a blow to the temple with the side of his shield. The man dropped to his knees and tumbled over, landing face-first on the blood-slicked grass. Corwin broke both of the axe-bearer’s wrists, rendering him powerless to hold any weapon. To the third soldier, he delivered a vicious kick to the man’s knee, dislocating it.

  Then Corwin swung and faced Dal, raising his sword just in time to block a dual strike from both of Dal’s swords. They fought, trading blow for blow, parry for parry, but Corwin could find no opportunity to disarm or incapacitate his friend. Fatigue tugged at Corwin’s arms, and sweat stung his eyes. Around them, the battle raged, but no one moved to intervene; they were all fighting their own battles with the seemingly inexhaustible enemy.

  There was no way through Dal’s defenses, not without delivering a killing blow. But Corwin refused to do that.

  “Corwin,” Dal said, panting heavily as he swung his right sword crossways at Corwin’s torso in a move meant to confound the opponent and to coax him into leaving himself open for a counterstrike. Corwin knew the move well and didn’t fall for it. “Do you remember Belloss?” The strain in Dal’s voice made him sound like a stranger.

  “Of course I remember.” Did Corwin now have to worry that Gavril was exploiting his memories?

  “Bait the Drake,” Dal said.

  Bait the . . . Corwin shook his head as understanding struck him. “No. I can’t.” The move wasn’t one taught by any arms master anywhere, but an underhanded tactic that was more at home in a barroom brawl than a formal fight. If done right, the opponent couldn’t improvise a way to block it, but it wasn’t meant to disarm—it was meant to maim, severing all the tendons in the opponent’s hamstrings. If the person didn’t bleed out, they would never walk normally again.

  “Yes you can. It’s the only way.”

  Corwin shook his head, aware of how strange it was to be having an argument like this in the midst of a fight.

  “Please . . . I don’t know . . . how much . . . longer . . . I can hold . . . him.” It was getting h
arder for Dal to talk, to maintain control of his own mind. “Kate . . . needs . . . you.”

  His words struck Corwin like an arrow. How long had it been since she went through the wall? Too long. And he still had Gavril to contend with. Corwin knew that even if he killed Dal, Gavril would just move on to the next available mind, another vessel for him to turn into a weapon.

  Corwin didn’t answer. He didn’t want Gavril to know what he had decided. If Gavril was deep enough into Dal’s head, he might know how to anticipate the move and counter it.

  Corwin let the fight continue another few moments, and then he went into the Bait the Drake position. Dal recognized it at once, and for a second Corwin saw him start a countermove, but then a tremor spread through his body, and he held back just long enough for Corwin to strike.

  The edge of his blade slid in between the folds on the backside of Dal’s leg armor, reaching skin and all the precious tendon and muscle beneath. With a cry, Dal fell forward onto his knees, his leg no longer able to support his body.

  “Dal!” Corwin reached for him, dread pounding in his temples. His strike had curved wide, cutting through the side of Dal’s leg toward the front, dangerously close to major veins.

  “Get away!” Dal slashed out with his arm. “He’s still here. He’s still got me.”

  Corwin’s fingers clenched around Dal’s shoulders. He wanted to rip Gavril apart, to make him suffer. This had to end. He would kill Gavril again, and this time he would make sure he was truly dead.

  Lurching to his feet, Corwin started to turn, then stumbled as a hand took hold of his ankle and yanked. It was Dal. Still fighting. Still being forced to fight.

  “Let him go!” Corwin shouted, trying to pull free of Dal’s grip, but Dal held on as if his hand were an iron clamp. The strength was impossible, especially from someone injured and bleeding and fatigued from fighting.

  Corwin kicked, yanking and shoving with all his might, but he couldn’t break free. He glanced behind him at Dal only to see it wasn’t Dal anymore. His features were contorted into a fierce rage, animalistic, like a wounded beast. Dal yanked himself forward, pinning Corwin’s leg beneath his body.

  With panic clutching at his thoughts, Corwin searched for his sword, but it had fallen out of reach. Cursing, he squirmed back around, working to fight Dal off. They began to grapple; Dal groped for Corwin’s throat while Corwin fought to keep him back. They were of a similar weight and height, but whatever Gavril was doing gave Dal unnatural strength. No matter how hard Corwin struggled, he couldn’t break free. Desperate, as Dal’s fingers sank into his throat, Corwin balled his hand into a fist and struck Dal in the temple. He might as well have been punching a brick wall, for all the effect it had.

  Even worse, Dal began to laugh. “Keep fighting me, Corwin,” Dal said. “The more you resist, the sweeter my victory.” It was Dal’s voice, but Gavril’s words. Nausea burned through Corwin’s gut.

  “Let him go, you coward,” Corwin said, staring into Dal’s eyes, knowing Gavril could see him. “Face me yourself and stop hiding behind—” The words died in Corwin’s throat as the pressure on his windpipe built. His panic heightened, blurring his thoughts. Then instinct took over, and Corwin lowered his hand to his waist, where he could feel the small knife he wore pressing into his side. His fingers gripped it, pulled it free.

  He raised it, Dal’s throat within reach, naked and vulnerable. But he knew he couldn’t do this. Couldn’t kill his best friend.

  “Do it, Corwin,” Gavril said in Dal’s voice. “Kill him before he kills you.”

  “No,” Corwin croaked, struggling to draw a breath.

  “Do it and know that there is nothing you have that I cannot take away.”

  Corwin pressed the knife to Dal’s neck, drawing blood. Dal made no move to stop it, and his grip on Corwin’s throat remained steady. This was a stalemate.

  “You have no choice,” Gavril said through Dal. “To get to me all you must do is kill your best friend.”

  It was sickening to hear such words come from Dal’s mouth, to know that he was being used like a puppet. Corwin had never known such hate before. It was like an all-consuming fire intent on burning him up from the inside until there was nothing left.

  “Corwin,” Dal said, and this time it was Dal speaking. Blood trickled out from the sides of Dal’s eyes, spilling onto his cheeks like crimson tears. More blood flowed from his nose, mouth, and ears. Gavril was killing him, slowing squeezing the life out of Dal with his magic. And yet he was still here, still fighting.

  “We can beat this, my friend.” Tears burned Corwin’s eyes at the sound of misery in Dal’s voice. “No one can defeat us. Not when we’re together.”

  “You’re right,” Dal replied, his gaze hardening. “Tell Signe . . . I love her.”

  “Nooooooooooooooo!!!” Corwin screamed, but before he could pull back the knife, Dal threw his head forward, jamming his throat against the blade. Blood pooled over Corwin’s hand, hot and sticky. Dal remained upright half a moment longer, then he crumpled to the ground, the light in his eyes extinguished.

  Corwin fell to his knees beside his friend, his brother. “No, Dal, gods, please, no.” He drew him into his arms, his grief like a madness, driving away all sense of the battle, all concern for his own safety even as more Rimish soldiers drew near him, swords ready and minds bent to Gavril’s command.

  Reaching deep inside himself, Corwin searched for the will to fight, but it wouldn’t come. Not with his best friend lying dead in his arms. He tilted his head back, eyes closed against the sun.

  A shadow moved across his face, looming over him. Opening his eyes, Corwin saw a horse, one half of it as white as ivory and the other half as black as onyx. The uror horse. With a shrill neigh, it spun about, slamming both back feet into the nearest soldier coming to attack Corwin and sending him flying. Then it turned and struck another soldier with a foreleg. Teeth bared, it spun about several more times, fighting off any who dared draw near until no more did.

  Wonderment flooded Corwin’s chest as he stared at the uror horse standing over him, nostrils flared and eyes wild, a halter on its face with a lead hanging loose. The horse snorted and stomped its hoof, impatient now, demanding. Somehow, Corwin understood what it wanted and hope gave him the strength to climb to his feet. This wasn’t over yet. He had to keep fighting. For Kate. For Dal. For his people.

  The uror horse stood still as stone as Corwin climbed up, one hand holding its lead rope. The moment he sat down, the horse leaped forward into the canter and then the gallop, as if certain of the way. Corwin held on, putting his trust in it. This was no ordinary horse, after all, but a being sent from the gods.

  The horse rode for a cluster of Sevan soldiers not far from the gate. They were standing in a formation around a single man in their center.

  Gavril.

  Corwin’s heart constricted in his chest, and he forced air into his lungs. “We must end him,” he said, shouting against the wind. The horse’s ears—one black and one white—flicked back and forward as if in confirmation.

  The horse charged into the line of soldiers, rearing up to knock three of them over. Corwin held on, left hand fisted in the horse’s mane now and right hand tight on his sword. He swung as the horse came down, felling one of the soldiers in a single blow. In perfect unison with the horse, he shifted his weight and struck the next one. The uror horse handled the final two with hooves and teeth.

  Then there was no one left but Gavril, who had retreated as soon as the attack began and now stood several yards away, his back to the wall and with Corwin blocking his escape through the gate. The man raised his hands toward Corwin and the horse, fingers bent as if he sought to pull Corwin down with a thought. But it wouldn’t work. Not with the vial around Corwin’s neck. He could feel it heating up, reacting to the magic, deflecting it. It was as if Kate herself stood beside him, protecting him. The uror was safe too, its mind unchangeable even for someone with sway.

  “You can
’t get to me anymore, Gavril,” Corwin shouted.

  “Perhaps not,” Gavril replied. “But I can get to them.”

  Corwin glanced to his right to see that several Rimish soldiers had followed him with the intent of backing up their prince. A dazed look had come over their faces, and Corwin watched in horror as they turned to face one another, weapons held throat to throat.

  “Let me go, Corwin, or they all die,” Gavril said, already taking a slow, measured step toward the gate, as if certain Corwin would do as he bade.

  Corwin looked at the soldiers, seeing the fear in their eyes, the helplessness. Some of them were struggling against Gavril’s grip, but he held them tightly. Stalemate again.

  No, Corwin refused to give up, to give in.

  Slowly, he slid off the horse’s back. “How did you survive the Hellsteel?” Corwin asked, stalling as he racked his brain for a way out of this that didn’t involve sacrificing his men. I will sacrifice no more this day, he vowed, the loss of Dal burning in his chest.

  A dark look crossed Gavril’s features. He was thin and haggard, deep dark pits beneath his eyes and his skin bleached white as bone. “The Lord Ascender is powerful. Even death obeys his bidding.”

  “Rendborne’s death is coming for him right now,” Corwin said. “But what about the Hellsteel? It should’ve taken your magic.”

  Gavril flinched, and his hand rose to his chest automatically. Corwin watched the gesture, and he could now see the shape of something beneath Gavril’s tunic, something that wasn’t part of his armor. A vial. “This too, the Lord Ascender granted to me again.”

  Corwin frowned. There was something beneath Gavril’s words. He was not being truthful about his restored magic.

  It is borrowed, a voice spoke inside his mind. Stolen.

  Corwin blinked in surprise, wondering where the voice had come from. But he didn’t doubt the truth of it. This was purloined magic—which meant it could be taken away. If he could just be quick enough.

  Corwin could tell at a glance that the armor Gavril wore beneath his clothing had been enchanted by the magists. He would have to be close to penetrate that defense—and the Rimish soldiers would be dead long before he managed it. But he didn’t need to penetrate Gavril’s armor—he only needed to end the man’s magic, and the vial was atop the armor, not beneath it. Without his magic, Gavril was less than nothing, a worm soft and vulnerable and easy to squash.