Call of Brindelier (Keepers of the Wellsprings Book 3) (45 page)

“She’s blood bound,” Dub says to Stone after Muster is in position. “Sorc got her. But she’s a fair brawler, and just a kid. We could pay to have someone wash it out of her.”

“What?” I whisper. My ears are pounding with blood. Panic starts to rise again in my chest, constricting me. He’s talking about Quenson. About me. He wants to take me from my master. Sever our bond. Break us. I spin on my heel. Toward the door. The door Muster is blocking. I don’t care. I won’t let them take me from him. I’ll fight. I do. I launch myself at the giant. Punch his stony chest. Claw at him. Kick him. He just stands there. Eventually, he lifts me up by my collar until my feet lift off the floor. I swing a punch and he stretches his arm out until he’s too far for me to reach with my fist, but I don’t care. I still fight. Still struggle.

“You sure?” Muster says to Dub. “I could just crush her. Might be easier.”

“No, you can’t crush her, Muster,” Dub says. “Save the crushing for the enemy. She’s just a kid.”

“I’m for it,” Stone says. “Hywilkin.”

“No!” I scream. “You can’t! Master!” I can’t breathe. My throat is closing. My vision is clouding. I fight. I kick. I punch. His name pulses over and over in my blood. Screaming for him. Aching for him. Quenson Quenson. “Quenson,” I screech in desperation.

“Someone’ll hear, Dub,” Stone says.

“Knock her out,” Dub says, and everything goes black.

Tib

All around the circle, they kneel against their will. They bow their heads to the dark prince. They lower their weapons.

“Stop this,” Margy says beside me. “I see how false you are. You’re nothing to me. An abomination of Necromancy. My brother is dead.”

Her voice echoes beneath the canopy of vines and flowers. It pulses with hope and reassurance. Some of those who bowed stand up. The Elite. The General. The fairies and their golems.

“Think, Sister,” Eron urges. “Think of what we could accomplish. Two heirs. Two suitors. Side by side. We could rule Brindelier. We could rule all of it. The Dusk is strong, but so is the Dawn. Your side has gained that which the Dusk could not, but look at our power, sister. See the might of the Dusk. We cannot even be stopped by death itself.” Like Margy’s and Quenson’s voices before, Eron’s echoes through the cliffs and out over the city. It pulses with power. I feel its sway. This is my fault, I think. My fault for not stopping them from getting Errie. My heart pounds hard against my chest.

Eron holds his empty hand before his eyes and looks at it like it’s the most amazing thing he’s ever seen. Then he looks at Margy imploringly.

“We had dreams together, you and I. Dreams of places and adventures bigger than Cerion. Imaginings. Musings. We could delve into them as we always wanted to. You and me, Margy. Sister.”

“No,” Margy squares her shoulders. “You’re not him. Don’t you dare take what he knew and use it that way.”

“I’m giving you a chance to see reason. We could easily destroy you, little girl,” he threatens. His eyes flash with malice. He takes a step closer. In his other hand, his sword leaves an inky trail of black in the air as it moves.

“You dare threaten the princess, the rightful heir of Cerion?” Kristan barks. He raises his sword, but looks unsure. I feel Eron’s power stretching over him. Keeping him back. The tendrils of his cloak and sword stretch closer to the general, winding around his arm, his blade.
Wait
, they’re saying.
Wait just a moment longer.
Kristan is powerless to fight the suggestion. His eyes go dark and blank.

My fingers tighten around the hilts of my daggers. All around us, everyone is poised. Even the fairies and their golems. Ready to charge. Holding their breaths. Unaware of the shadows snaking closer, winding around them. Unaware, or unable to do anything about it. I’m not sure. They don’t even bother coming closer to me. They know who I am. Instead, one of them stretches close to Mya, who stands guard on Margy’s other side.

“What good is it, to be the heir of a fallen city?” Eron huffs. “Cerion will die, Margary. It will fall like our weak father did, and nothing will remain but embers and dust.”

“My people are strong. Cerion will not fall,” Margy raises her chin, “and I will never stand beside you. Never.”

“I’m through with all this talking,” I mutter. I half expect her to stop me, but Margy doesn’t. Instead, she gives me a slight nod. Her permission is all I need. I throw my daggers, one, then the other.
Knifethrower
, I think to myself, focusing on my titles as I let go of the hilts.
Slayer of Shadows
.

One knife slices through the tendril that has crept to Mya. The shadows shrink away with a hiss. The other one severs one around the General’s wrist, but his other hand is held, and a third shadow covers his face.

“Guards!” Kristan barks. “Face center! Advance!”

They do as he commands. Turn to face us. March forward, advancing on Eron. As they approach, though, the shadows wind toward them. When they raise their weapons, they’re aimed directly at Margy. The Elite and our fairy allies struggle to face the guards and protect the princess, but they’re held, too. The shadows are everywhere. Eron laughs. So do the Sorcerers poised outside of the vines.

“See the power of Dusk, sister?” he chuckles. “By the command of our shadows, they would end you now. Just a word is all it would take.”

“It isn’t too late, Nullen,” Quenson calls from outside of the vines. “Turn the offering over to us, and we shall leave you to your burning city and defeated princess.”

Across the platform, Master Gaethon pulls free of the shadows. He starts saying something in Mage-tongue. His words are sharp and quick.  Light bursts from his fingertips, driving away the shadows.

“Get back to your stations,” he barks at the guards. Then he turns to Kristan, growling, “You weak-minded fool.” He snaps his fingers and the general collapses in a cloud of pink sleep.

“Irritable, Gaethon?” someone calls to us with a chuckle. The Sorcerer speaking isn’t one I’ve seen before. His skin is black with the Mark, but flecked with gold. Mentalist. “I imagine you would be. So many years trying to warn these fools of the impending inevitable. So much effort put into your wards and protections, and yet you never expected this, did you? How could you foresee your traitorous prince resurrected? Called to the ashes of his father, despite your ridiculous efforts?  You could not have imagined such atrocities. The fallen king who you failed to keep safe. So much failure on your part. So much wasted breath. And the others of your party. Your so-called guild. The Paladin, the warriors, the Bard, the healer. How often did they disregard your advice? How much breath was wasted falling on their deaf ears?”

As he speaks, the shadows creep in again. They wind closer to Gaethon. His eyes darken with every word. I draw my knives. I fling them at the threat and sever them. Gaethon blinks, but before he can clear his head fully more shadows rush in.

“He’s right,” he spins to the Elite, seething. “You never bothered to listen.” He raises his hands to cast and Benen tackles him. Lisabella yelps in shock and dives at the both of them, trying to break up the scuffle between her husband and her brother. The shadows wind around all three of them as the chorus of Sorcerers outside laughs. It only takes the blink of an eye for them to get entangled, too. They stand and turn against Bryse and Donal, who back away unwilling to fight their companions.

“Advance,” Gaethon shouts to the guards, and half of them do. The fairies dive in to fight them off. Eron stalks toward Margary with his sword raised. Twig bursts to human size beside her. I glance at Mya, but she’s entangled again. Her mouth is bound by black tendrils. Her eyes are wide and shifty. She’s trying hard to fight it.

The shadows are everywhere, though. It doesn’t take long for everyone within the dome to be caught up in them. It happens too fast. There’s no use trying to throw my knives. If I did, I’d have nothing to defend Margy with. Suddenly, that’s all I can focus on. The swirling cyclone of darkness drives closer, reaching out for the princess, whipping and lashing and trying to grasp her. I slash at them with all of my strength and with all the speed I can muster.

The others bear down on us, too. It’s just me, Margy, and Twig who haven’t been overcome by the shadows. Mya doesn’t attack us, but she’s held and struggling to resist. I slash again and again at the tendrils, sending them curling and shrinking away, but for every one I slash, two spring up in its place.

Beside me, Margy and Twig fight, too. She doesn’t say a word, but links arms with Twig, who towers above the two of us. Together, they send beams of light toward the shadows. Vines, like the tendrils of darkness that whip around us. The light twines with the shadow and casts it away. Just as it seems we might gain the upper hand, everyone pauses and everything goes silent. I sense the command before its sent, and my heart sinks.

“
Charge the wards
,” the shadows command, and the Royal guard is the first to obey. They crash through the wards surrounding and protecting us. They hack at Twig’s vines. The barriers fall away, leaving us undefended.

The darkness from Eron’s cloak and sword retreat to gather around him again, leaving the fairy defenders and the palace guards to pause in confusion over what just happened. He doesn’t release the Elite, though. He uses the power he regained from releasing the others to bind them tighter and bend them to his will. They advance, eyes wild and dark, weapons raised. Lisabella, Benen, Bryse, Donal, Gaethon, all of them stalk closer to us, ready to strike. I take Margy by the shoulders and we back away into the wall with nowhere left to go.

Beyond them, the battle rages between Dusk and Dawn. Fairies charge forward with golems of wood and light and wind. Imps fight beside their own golems summoned from shadow and stone. I don’t have time to see who has the upper hand. I’m too busy hacking and slicing tendrils away from the Elite and keeping them from hurting Margy. She and Twig try their light vine trick again, but it’s too weak. Even with Twig’s help, Margy isn’t trained enough to fight against this sort of magic. She’s worked long at hiding it, but not long enough to know how to use it.

Bryse looms over us, his eyes black with shadow, his stony fist raised in rage. He slams it down and Twig jumps in front of Margy to take the blow. Margy casts a ward, but it isn’t quick enough or strong enough. Bryse’s blow grazes Twig’s shoulder. It’s enough to make the fairy lose his footing. When he does, Bryse picks him up by the wing tips and flings him down onto the stone with an earsplitting roar. Benen follows with a sneer and kicks Twig while he’s down.

“No!” Margy screams tearfully. “Stop! Please!” She dives to Twig and throws herself over him to shield him, but her presence doesn’t make them stop. Lisabella raises her sword, ready to strike. Her expression is filled with hatred and malice. I arc my arm back to throw a dagger, but Donal blocks me with a thrust of his staff to my elbow. Pain sears all the way up to my shoulder and my arm goes limp. My dagger clatters to the ground. In a fit of rage, I throw my second one and strike him in the shoulder with it. Despite the blood that blooms from his shoulder, he doesn’t even flinch.

“
Bring her to us
,” the shadows whisper, and the rush of nothing that comes with the command helps me understand. Emptiness. Darkness. The shadows aren’t commanded by Eron or that Sorcerer outside. They’re commanded by the Void. The Dusk itself.

Bryse steps forward and swings his club-like hand toward Margy. He tries to scoop her up, but I grab her arm and pull her away before he can reach her. The princess thrusts her hands forward at the same time, and the shadowy tendrils retreat from the light of her spell, but not enough to release Bryse from their hold on him.

“Twig,” she whimpers, and I spare a glance at him. His wings are snapped. He isn’t moving.

“He’s okay,” I lie. “I’m sure he’s okay.”

There’s no time to talk. Lisabella arcs her sword with a powerful swing, and Margy and I both have to duck to avoid being sliced in two. Behind her, a wood golem peppered with arrows splinters as it’s hit by a bolt of purple energy cast by a Sorcerer. Lisabella doesn’t even glance over her shoulder. Her eyes are completely black. She’s empty. Gone. She starts to swing again, and Margy and I have no where left to go. We cower against the wall, holding each other, waiting for the blow.

It doesn’t come. Everything goes silent, and then there’s a blinding burst of light. It glares into every crevice of every crack in the stone. It washes over us like midday sun. Light and fresh. Peaceful and beautiful. Light so bright that squinting doesn’t help me see. I gaze in the direction of it with my healed eye, and even that doesn’t help me make sense of things. A human-sized fairy, carrying Azi’s new sword. The light that floods the area is coming from her wings. Her hair and cloak swirl around her brightly, casting dancing beams of every color, like Flitt’s hair.

“
Eron
,” I sense Flitt’s voice in the Half-Realm as she pushes it forth.

“
I see,
” Azi says in reply.

Flitt darts to Twig and presses her hands to his forehead. Pink and purple light mixes with green and swirls around his face. His eyelids flutter. His wings straighten and heal. I glance at Margy for her reaction, but she’s completely still. When I nudge her, she doesn’t move.  Everything Azi’s light touches seems to be the same. Frozen in place and time. Unmoving and unchanging. Everything except Eron. He strides forward effortlessly. Raises his sword. Narrows his eyes and clenches his teeth in a threatening grimace.

They don’t say a word. They simply advance on each other with furious speed. Azi’s sword radiates with light as much as Eron’s drips with darkness. When the two weapons clash together, the force of their strikes create sparks of light and darkness that spray out over them. Mercy sheds speckles of tiny stars that scatter across the ground. Eron’s sword leaves a spray of pebbles so black the light can’t touch them.

Azi drives Eron across the circle, all the way back to the pyre. With each strike of their swords, her light dims. The same is true with Eron. Every time their weapons meet, the darkness that drips from his blade seems to weaken. Their fight is fierce and merciless. Eron hacks at Azi, catching her waist with his blade. It slices between the scales of her armor with a sizzle. Azi screams and drives him back again. With a powerful slash, she carves a huge gash in the metal of his gauntlet. He almost drops his weapon then, but makes a quick fumble to save it. Azi takes the opportunity to swing again, and this time she adds a kick at the end that sends him stumbling into the pyre.

Eron screams in frustration and lunges himself at her. Azi spins to dodge him, but he catches her elbow and uses his momentum to throw her back behind him. She careens toward the pyre and throws her hands up to stop herself, and both her hands and her sword plunge into the red-hot embers. Eron gives a triumphant laugh, but it’s short-lived. The fire doesn’t seem to have hurt Azi. Her armor protects her from more than a weapon’s blow. It has wards all over it. Sparks of magic embedded into the gold flecks, that redirect the heat.