Call of Brindelier (Keepers of the Wellsprings Book 3) (46 page)

“Forgive me, Majesty,” she utters, staring horrified into the fire. She’s so disturbed that she disturbed the king’s ashes that she doesn’t notice Eron creeping up.

“Azi, behind you!” I shout, and she whirls with her sword gripped in both hands. Her blade nearly meets its mark, but Eron parries. More dark pebbles scatter across the stone. More sparks fly from Azi’s sword. One skitters to a stop at my feet, and I crouch to pick it up. It’s not an ordinary spark. It doesn’t burn me or fade in my hand. It pulses, like a chunk of pure light. It calls out to the fae:
Take me. Use me.
But all of the fairies and their golems are under the effects of the stilling spell. They don’t see or hear. They hover in mid-battle, helpless and useless. All except Flitt, that is.

She flies up to my palm and takes the spark and goes back to Twig. Her color seems to brighten a little as she holds it, and Twig stirs as she places it on his lips. His eyes fly open and he looks at her, and she presses her hands to his lips and shakes her head. Frantically, Twig looks around. When he sees Margy, he shrinks back to fairy size and darts to her.

“
Margy
!” he pushes, but the princess still doesn’t budge. “Help me, Tib,” he whispers, and starts shoving her. I get the hint and take Margy carefully around the shoulders and pull her back, out of view of the fight. I wedge her beside me, between the back of the carved stone chair and the low wall. When I’m sure she’s safely hidden, I peek out to keep watching.

Azi’s wings have nearly gone now. Eron’s cloak has stopped swirling. Their swords still glow with light and dark, but both are very weak.

“Look around you,” Eron growls as the two opponents swing and slash and block and parry back and forth across the platform. “You will not win this, Azi. Your people are held fast by darkness. Sorcery has won. The Dusk will rule everything now, and with them, I will claim Brindelier and every land beyond this one. You have failed. Cerion is dying.”

While he talks, he does something strange with his feet. Some sort of sword dance. Through the glow of her skin, I see Azi smirk.

“After all you’ve been through,” she says, “you’re still trying the same tired tricks, Eron?”

She crouches fast and sweeps her sword low, catching both his ankles in one swing. Eron lands hard on his back. His cloak slinks over him hungrily. Azi stands above him, her sword poised to strike. She raises it to thrust. One strike through his heart. One strike is all it would take. A single clap makes her pause. That one is followed by another, until the Mentalist-Sorcerer I spotted earlier steps forward from the frozen battle, applauding. Azi doesn’t lower her sword. She keeps it ready to strike, but the Mentalist-Sorcerer has caught her attention.

“End him
,” he pushes to her, “
and watch them all die
.”

With a flick of his wrist, he gestures to the other Sorcerers. His allies. They creep forward into the light. Their hands are all posed the same way: Palms up. Thumbs touching fourth fingers. Tendrils of the Void snake out from them. Three Sorcerers. Six tendrils. They slink along the ground, absorbing the black pebbles as they go. They wind around the Elite. Her mother and father. Her friends. They pull them up to hover in the air, and push them out over the wall so they dangle high over the rocky cliffs and the dark sea.

“You have something we need, Azaeli Hammerfel, Champion of Light. Something which was stolen from us. Give it to us now, and we might let them live.”

A strange sensation distracts me from the scene. Something else, close by. A suggestion. A redirection. It’s strong. Powerful. Dream Magic. Thoughts and wishes. It forces everything and everyone nearby to look away. Something somewhere else is much more interesting. I see it plainly. A diversion. A distraction.

“Tibreseli, Flitt, Twig,” Valenor’s whisper flicks across our ears. “Look over the wall.”

“Oh,” Flitt gasps as she drifts toward the sea. “Look.”

I keep a hand on Margy and lean way over. With my healed eye, I peer down toward the sea. What I see makes my heart race. Sails and wings floating, held up over the water by great sacks of air. A ship, as fine as I’ve ever seen, hovering just out of view of those above. Ruben bobs just below me, waving excitedly from the crow’s nest. At the ship’s helm, Cort keeps the wheel steady. Raefe paces the forecastle, his hand on his hilt. Golems swarm around him, working the cranks and bellows, watching over the sides of the ship for attackers. Dozens of them. Forty or fifty, at least.

“Hide, Tib,” Twig whispers.

“But, Margy,” I mouth. Twig glances at Flitt, and she nods. She reaches into her belt pouch and pulls out her hand and sprinkles something that looks like gold powder into Margy’s hair. The princess vanishes, but I can still feel her shoulder under my hand.

“Give me your coin,” Flitt whispers, “and take her. You go with them, Twig. You’re too weak. Hurry!”

Azi

The air is tinged with smoke and shadow. His Majesty’s pyre is dying out; its lingering smoke mixes with that of Cerion on fire. On the platform, everything is silent. The Sorcerers stand poised, holding my loved ones over the edge of the cliff, ready to drop them. Eron lies at my feet, the dark magic of his cloak lapping around him like black water. Mercy vibrates in my hands, pulsing with Light, waiting for my command to end the abomination that was once the prince.

“
I have it!
” Flitt yelps excitedly into my head. “
I have the coin!
”

I don’t look away from Eron, whose eyes are black and impenetrable. Flitt shows me something else. A ship. It’s there and gone again, but somehow I understand. She doesn’t want to show me too much. Just enough that I understand what can be done, but not enough for the enemy to glean any information that could help them. I push to her, “
Bring it to the gate.”

“Without you?”
she asks. I nod, very slightly, and she darts off, hidden in the Half-Realm, unnoticed by my enemies.

“You’re injured, Azaeli,” the Mentalist hisses at me. His words seem to twist into the wound at my stomach where Eron’s blade struck me. My breath catches. “Injured and alone.”
Alone
.

Mercy pulses with a glow that seems to shove the Mentalist’s intentions away from me.

“Who first, then?” the Mentalist murmurs. “The Paladin, I think. Her mother.”

He points at one of the Sorcerers controlling the dark tendrils, and she drops her hands. Instantly, the tendrils break and Mum plummets out of sight.

“No!” I scream and plunge my sword downward with all my strength. I feel it meet with Eron’s armor and go through to the stone beneath him. He snarls and writhes and his allies cry out in horror. Two of them lunge at me, breaking the tendrils that hold Bryse and Donal and my comrades fall away, disappearing beyond the cliff wall. Mya, Uncle, and Da are the only ones left now. They and the guards and the general are still frozen by the same spell that seemed to blanket this place as soon as I arrived.

The Sorcerers drive the shadows toward me and I lash out. Golden threads that whip at my enemies like arrows and plunge through them, forcing them back. My heart aches for those I failed to protect. I cling to the hope that’ll somehow be saved by that ship, and I let their sudden absence fuel my need for victory. Narrowing my eyes, I guide the golden threads to bind each of those who face me. I imagine them thickening into ropes of gold which shine with the light of love and righteousness. I bind their wrists and necks. I force them to the ground to lie on their stomachs. I command the three who are still holding Mya, Da, and Uncle to pull my companions back to safety. I compel them to release their wicked tendrils. When they obey, I bind those Sorcerers, too.

Holding so many at once takes a great deal of concentration. I feel the power bestowed by the Wellspring slowly draining away. The wound at my stomach throbs, and I press my elbow into it to stop the bleeding.  Eron moans and tries to get to his feet, but Mercy holds him. The Mentalist stands a safe distance away and watches the scene cautiously. When he speaks, his voice is both in my mind and outside of it. With every word, my head throbs painfully.

“At this point, one might imagine me offering you a different bargain, Azaeli. Your powers of Mentalism are stronger than I foresaw. One might expect me to offer you a place at my side. An apprenticeship, if you will. After all, it is not every day I am witness to a Mentalist of your skill and power.” He raises his hand with a smirk. “But we both know such an offer would be a waste of breath, my dear. So instead, I beseech you. Release Eron. We would all agree that you are the victor in that match. Lower the magics you have placed on this fray. Allow it to play out. I have every confidence that the Dusk shall be victorious, but it would be quite a sight to see, would it not? Release my allies and your own from the Stilling. Let them have their battle.”

I sense the urgency in his plea. His desperation shows me how important Eron is to their cause. Cautiously, with a firm hold on my sword, I look around at the fight that has been frozen in time, taking it in for the first time. Arrows have stopped in midair. Imps and fae hover in place with colorful blasts of magic puffed out from their fingertips, waiting to release their power. Guards stand encircling Margy’s abandoned chair, their swords and spears pointed at a princess who is no longer there to cower from their assault. Golems of wood and wind lock together with shadow-beings in fierce, utterly still combat. It’s like a painting or an arrangement of statues depicting a great fight, and according to the Mentalist, this is all my doing.

I glance at Eron, whose face is strangely highlighted by Mercy’s golden pulse. No blood flows from his wound. No breath escapes his lips. He can’t gasp or bleed to death. His dead eyes search mine as he struggles to free the blade from his chest.

I try to gauge who has the upper hand in the fight as I look over the scene of the king’s pyre. It seems rather even, as long as the Mentalist stops forcing others to turn sides.

“I’ll agree,” I say, still unaware of how to release the spell, “as long as you agree not to force betrayal any longer. Let the Dawn fight for the Dawn, and not for you. If the Dusk’s might is as strong as you insist, then you don’t need petty tricks of the mind.”

“A noble thought. I agree, Azaeli, Knight-Mentalist. And the victor of this battle shall claim the offerings. The one stolen by the Dawn, and the other two.” The corners of his lips turn up in a wicked, blue-skinned smile. He flicks his wrist and Uncle’s eyes clear of darkness. So do Mya and Da’s. I try not to think about Mum or Bryse or Donal. I try to trust what Flitt showed me before she left. I push the thought out of my mind as tears sting my eyes. I blink them away and take a breath and try to remember what happened when I first arrived here to make the battle go still.

“Azaeli, beware,”
the voice which echoes through my thoughts is melodic, yet commanding. The scene before me shifts and another scene transposes itself over it, like a sheer curtain over a window. The fairy queen, seated on her throne, smiles down at me. The light that shines from her makes me squint.
“Beware,”
she says,
“be ready. I am here. I shall aid you. Do not be afraid of what is yet to come.”

Her warning bolsters me. I feel her with me. The light of the fae surrounds me and encases me. I gaze across at the Mentalist, and with a slight nod of my head, the spell I didn’t even know I’d cast is lifted. The effect is immediate. Fae clash with imps. Sorcerers push their shadows at me. The guards, Mya, Da, and Uncle look confused for a moment, but quickly regain their senses and turn their attention to the battle. Every one of them seems enraged by the very idea that they had been used as tools for the Dusk, and together they unleash a mighty fury against the enemy. Half of the guards begin searching for the princess while the other half form a wide half-circle between the pyre and the oncoming attackers to protect His Majesty’s remains.

The Sorcerers surge forward from the craggy hillside and let loose spells the likes of which I’ve never seen. Jets of purple haze that burns as it grazes my skin. Dark, seeping energy that makes my eyes and mouth prickle and itch. Mya sings and Uncle casts wards and the effects are diminished but not completely stopped. The fae order their golems to charge the source and together with them they surge forward bravely, but I notice their hair and skin going gray and their clothes withering. Some of them dive to the ground. They scoop up the chips of light which sprayed from my sword during my battle with Eron and nibble at them. The light chips rejuvenate them. The word of this healing spreads quickly, and for a moment it seems as though the Dawn might have the upper hand, but the Dusk imps catch on. They find the chips of darkness cast off by Eron’s sword and restore themselves as well.

I gasp and cough within the poisonous purple and black fog. A shadow breaks through the barrier of fairies and soldiers and comes straight for me. Without thinking I pull Mercy free and slash at it, and it screams and fades. I realize my mistake too late. Something scuffles behind me and I turn and swing my sword hard. It meets with Eron’s upper arm but he barely reacts to what should have been a bone-breaking blow. His black eyes seem to smoke with utter malice, and he dives at me bare-handed. I’m caught off-guard by his sudden attack and try to regain my footing but to no avail. I lose my grip on my sword and Mercy clatters across the stone several paces away as I fall hard onto my back. Eron’s cold hands slip into my neck guard and close around my throat. He’s strong. Much stronger than the former Eron had ever been. I try hard to push him off of me. I try to force my knee between us or to roll to one side. I try kicking and punching and pushing with all of my strength, but between the lack of air from choking and the effects of the Sorcerers’ poisonous spells, I feel the hopelessness closing in. The pain of my stomach wound throbs. Pinpoints of darkness scatter across my vision. The bones of my neck crunch under Eron’s inhumanly strong grip. My throat closes painfully. I fight to breathe as he stares down at me, his eyes empty and lifeless, and raises his fist.

Beyond him Mya’s voice carries over the battle, clearing my mind of thoughts of despair. Her song shifts my outlook. Past the dark silhouette of Eron’s head above me, through the narrow tunnel of my vision, I notice the sky growing brighter. The stars of night are fading. A soft glow on the horizon announces the pending arrival of the sun. The Dawn. 

“I already killed you once,” Da growls over the din of battle. “Get off my daughter!”

His axe catches Eron in the side with a sickening thump and throws him through the air away from me. The force of Da’s attack rolls me to my side, and the relief that courses through me as I cough and gasp for air is quickly blotted out by the head-spinning pain in my neck at even that small amount of movement. I struggle to get to my knees and try to help, but my throbbing neck isn’t strong enough to hold my head up.

“Be still,” Mya says as she drops to her knees beside me. Her hands are soft on my cheeks as they cradle my head. “Don’t move.” She begins singing a song of healing, and the magic of it soothes the burning in my eyes and mouth from the poison cloud that still hovers. It isn’t strong enough to mend the damage Eron caused, though. I try to swallow and end up coughing instead as the pain sears through my throat. I try to push through it, to focus away from the pain and concentrate instead on the welcome sensation of breath filling my lungs. As tainted as it is, it’s still a relief to breathe it in. Focusing on that, I watch Da stalk to Eron and strike him again. Eron fights fiercely, but Da is a seasoned fighter.  I try to catch Eron with strings of Mentalism, but his mind is dead and empty and the strings don’t take. Da doesn’t need my help, anyway. Despite Eron’s inhuman strength, Da finally bests him by throwing him over the cliff wall. 

The loss of the prince causes an uproar of protests from the Dusk, who press their attack harder. Da comes to stand over us, his axe ready. Uncle holds his ground between us and our attackers and sends the blast of a fireball into the crowd of Dusk. Several imps and Sorcerers fall to the ground, screaming and burning. I try hard to lie still and allow Mya’s song to heal me, but it’s difficult. I yearn for Mercy and feel the sword heavy in my palm.

“Azi,” Da warns. “Be patient or be lost.”

“I can’t be patient,” I try to growl, but my throat is too sore and my voice cracks out at barely a whisper as tears slip from the corners of my eyes and roll into my ears. “I have to fight.” I push against Mya’s hold, but the pain is too much. In the distance, a Sorceress thrusts her hands forward, aiming her spell directly at us. I imagine the golden strings and they catch her hands and fling her away before she has a chance to cast.

“Healer!” Mya’s shout rises over the battle and echoes across the hillside. Some of the fairies hear and come to hover close to me, but even with the sparks to rejuvenate them, their magic is too spent to do me much good.

“Here,” comes a whisper out of nowhere. A flash of red fur streaks past my range of vision. Two hands graze my neck, and even as gentle as their touch is, it pains me until the prayer is whispered and the soft pink glow of healing floods my vision. The relief is immediate as healing magic weaves through my throat and neck, opening up my swollen airway and mending the crushed tissue and bone. When it fades, the face looking down at me shocks me.

“Dacva? How?”

“Elliot!” Mya cries. “You found him!”

“Long story.” Dacva grins down at me. “Short version is, Redemption’s back. Tried to force me to join up again, but I refused. Thanks to Elliot, I was able to get away.”

“Thanks to you, I was alive to do so,” Elliot says as he fires his bow into the fray with a quick, fluid motion. “Get down,” he shouts and shoves Mya out of the way just in time to avoid a bolt of lightning from the group of Sorcerers that once held her. In front of us, Uncle throws up a ward just in time to block the surge of spells that scatter apart in a wash of color, missing us completely. Thanks to Dacva’s healing, I jump to my feet to stand beside Uncle and face the attackers. A glance at Uncle shows him to be in bad shape. Blood drips from a gash at his cheek. His lips are pale, and I notice him clutching his side to cover a hole singed through his robes.

“Uncle,” I whisper and step closer to him. When I do, a trio of arrows streaks past my ear. Mya screams and the sound of her voice seems to push them faster. Each arrow strikes a different Sorcerer with a force so hard that none of them have a chance. They fall over, defeated.