Citadel of Fire (The Ronin Saga Book 2) (79 page)

F
INN STAGGERED THROUGH THE MADNESS.

His whole body ached, the spark draining him as surely as a day spent working the Devari forms. Though what gave him hope and confidence was Meira. She moved at his side, using threads of flesh to disable thieves, or sand to blind them as Devari clashed with dark Reavers, their soulwed blades cutting spells from the air with ease. He had witnessed the talent and dexterity of those men, and was glad they were on his side this time.

Abruptly, a dark Reaver—Ingard—leapt from the mist, throwing a bolt of fire at the two, and Finn wiped the man’s fire away dismissively while Meira cast threads of flesh, buckling his legs.

“Where is he?” Meira questioned the man in a dark tone, violence in her eyes.

Ingard laughed. “He will end you and your pathetic flock, Meira.”

Meira sighed and waved a hand sending threads of searing flesh through the man, cutting at his nerves. Ingard cried out, quivering in pain. “I’ll ask again, where is Sithel?”

Ingard trembled but shook his head. Upon his scarlet robes, a mockery of his station, were two-stripes. He was no match for two three-stripe Reavers. “You won’t get anything out of him,” Finn said again with a sigh. “The pawns never know where the king is held.”

She scowled at him of all things, and then flicked a hand. Ingard’s eyes rolled to the back of his head and he collapsed, unconscious.

“You shouldn’t scowl,” he remarked. “It doesn’t suit your pretty face.”

She scowled deeper if anything.
She really is beautiful,
he thought
, even in this madness.
Her dark hair framed her thin, furrowed brow and sharp features, but her eyes held intelligence and integrity deeper than he had ever seen.

“We’ll find him,” he told her, with a reassuring touch. “I swear it.”

* * *

Gray moved like a tempest.

As much as possible, he avoided Darkeye’s men, leaving them to Jian and the other Devari, but wherever he found Darkwalkers he stopped, attacking with abandon. He heard screams through the white fog of men and women. Suddenly, searing claws lanced out of the mist, reaching for him. Gray sucked in his gut and the claw burned his clothes, barely missing his own evisceration. Gray cut blindly. Morrowil sliced the fog and a Darkwalker screeched. With a casual wave of his hand, Gray blew away the nearby mist to reveal the bleeding creature—a strange, insect-shaped head with a dozen eyes gleamed lifelessly. The creature’s many limbs, like large black knives the length of his arm, twitched in the throes of death.

A dozen,
he counted, adding up his kill toll of the foul creatures.

“Ayva!” he called, but there was no answer, only mist and the muted cries of war. “Zane!” he shouted louder, but still nothing. Abruptly, he saw a horse bolt through the mist. He prayed the others were all right, and when he glimpsed flashes of fire and sunlight, he hoped it was them.

With that, he gripped Morrowil tighter, cleaving his way through the fog, searching for both his friends and for the foul blood of more Darkwalkers.
If I can kill them all, then maybe this madness will end.
The desperate thoughts sounded too much like something Kail would have said.

Suddenly, Reavers appeared at his side, and he raised his sword as if to cut.

“It’s me!” the voice sounded, female and strong. Gray let his rage subside as he recognized Meira.

Gray lowered Morrowil but did not apologize.

Meira released a worried breath. “By the Star of Magha, I’m glad to see it’s you, Gray. I saw you slay that Darkwalker and thought you were a demon of neither side,” she confessed. “But I’m glad to find that you are on ours. An Arbiter’s grandson indeed.”

The way she said the words made Gray shiver. “I barely know which side I’m on in this chaos. I can’t see a thing.”

Finn appeared at her side, sword in hand. He thought it strange the Reaver bore a sword, having seen his prowess with the spark. But the man appeared a capable swordsman, his fighting side told him. “Are you all right?” the three-stripe Reaver asked.

He nodded. “I am, but where’s Ezrah?”

“Fighting beside Jian and his Devari against a legion of Darkwalkers that I would not dare to face if there were a hundred of me,” the man answered, pushing his red-scarlet headband up to pull the hair out of his eyes.

“Your friends?” Meira asked, concern in her dark eyes.

Gray shook his head. He’d lost Ayva in the beginning of the fight, and Zane had seen Darkeye and chased after him like a cerabul—he envisioned in his mind a large, black animal with a temper like an unquenchable fire.
His
memories.

Abruptly, a group of thieves wearing the bloodshot eye appeared from the mist and leapt at them. Finn reached out his arm. A wave of fire rushed towards the men. But Gray tapped into the nexus, waved his hand, and a gust of wind snuffed the fire. In the same gesture, he pulled deeper and wrapped the men in flows of wind, holding them in place. Paces away, the thieves’ eyes were wide, swords still raised like statues. “There is no need to kill them,” he proclaimed firmly. But his body sagged from the effort, and part of him, the
Kirin
side, wished Finn had just killed the men. It would have been easier, at least.

“Ever the savior,” Meira said softly.

Oddly enough, Finn shivered, hand upon his sword. “I don’t think I’ll ever get comfortable with you using the banished element, but I do approve of your methods,” the three-stripe Reaver answered. “It’s a horrible thing to kill a man.”

With a flick of her fingers, the dozen men sagged in his bonds. He let them go and the thieves crumpled to the ground. He looked at Meira, angry, and she answered, “Not dead. With the right threads,
flesh
can convince the simple of mind to slumber. Not that sleeping amid this insanity is the safest of paths.”

A sudden cry of men and women sounded.

“Meira,” Finn ushered. “The other Reavers need us.”

“Good luck, my guardian,” Meira advised sincerely, and with that, the two vanished into the mist once more.

* * *

Finn led the way when there was a break of fog, and he saw Guran, the vile three-stripe that had led their Fusing when they were torturing Ezrah. Guran fought other Reavers and Devari with bouts of flame and earth, and Finn tensed, watching the horror.

“He’s there,” Meira announced. “Sithel.” She marched forward.

“Wait,” Finn said, sensing the man’s level of the spark. It was almost more powerful than his and Meira’s combined, but she was right. Where Guran was, surely Sithel was as well. “We have to gather help, for Guran and the others are too strong. We cannot fight them alone.”

Suddenly the ground rumbled, erupting in a cloud of dust and flames. Finn cried out, reaching for Meira. “No!” he bellowed. The world spun, stomach churning as the ground lurched. Finn gripped the spark, trying to balance himself, when it flickered… The dust settled, and he saw Sithel marching through the fog, Guran at his side. Finn saw Meira too, closer still. She rose to her feet, bracing herself with all her power, and he choked, staggered by the sheer amount of spark she held, brimming in her hand. Finn rose, racing for her when pain lanced through his limbs. He gasped and saw Guran curling his fingers in spite. “Stay!” the man shouted, as if speaking to a disobedient
dog. Meanwhile, Sithel continued to stalk forward, hobbling with his feeble leg, wearing a slick smile, face pinched like that of a rat. Meira waited. She raised her hand, trembling from the voidstone, and unleashed all the power she had in a torrent of fire that raced for Sithel. In the last second, the man raised the blue crackling orb and the fire sizzled.

Finn tried to thread bits of his own, but every time he did, his mind burst with new pain, shattering all thought with searing agony.
Guran…
he seethed through his jumbled torment. The man was just too strong.

Sithel stood, looming over Meira, and more dark Reavers appeared from the fog like phantoms, Darkwalkers at their side, ambling like misshapen nightmares. Skin burning as if on the point of rupture, Finn tried to catch a desperate breath. Blackness crept across his blurred vision, distantly aware of his mind breaking. He reached out for Meira, watching her surrounded from all sides. Then, before it all faded, in a rare break in the mist, he glimpsed a vision of white high above.

* * *

Gray spun, looking for more Darkwalkers, his temper growing.

He had a feeling they were losing. He heard thousands of cries of anger and pain and very few screeches from the inhuman beasts. He knew the Darkwalkers were too many. Twice more he found Darkwalkers, one scuttled across the sand on eight limbs like a spider, and another walked upon two spindly legs. He moved away from its horrible body quickly. However, as a whole, they were avoiding him now, as if growing smarter.

Reavers, Devari, and Darkeye’s thieves misted in and out of the heavy, white fog like apparitions in a nightmare. Gray spun with each new muffled cry. Bloodcurdling screams sounded from everywhere until he thought his mind would implode. Suddenly—
I’m coming…
a voice said inside Gray’s head.

“Darius…”

Where are you?
The rogue’s call was distant, the sound of rushing wind tied to the panicked thoughts, although Gray sensed elation and triumph in Darius.

Parrying a dirty thief’s rutted blade and slamming his foot into the man’s chest, Gray twisted to the east and looked up. He cursed. Through the heavy mist, he couldn’t see a thing.

But he
knew
.

Drawing deeply upon his nexus, his vision flashed, blackening, and he fell to the ground. In his mind, the nexus flickered as well.
“No…”
He gripped the sand beneath him. It was draining the last of his energy, pushing him too far again. His weakness frustrated him, but worse was the fear of losing his power.

Strength is within, my boy,
Ezrah’s voice echoed in his head.

Just a little while longer,
Gray pleaded of his nexus and stumbled to his feet. Tying threads of wind to his blade, he slashed. Morrowil cut the air and a gale of wind followed it, kicking up a tempest of sand, and blowing away a swatch of mist to reveal hundreds of Reavers and Devari fighting. He saw Ezrah and Jian battling, but above that, he saw a patch of sky. Ayva suddenly was at his side, dagger in hand. “Is that…?” She questioned.

“Darius,” he answered.

Through patches of the fog, Gray saw a gryphon flying through the brightness, a rider on its back.
Darius.
On the rogue’s tail was a huge, strange and white beast but with giant black wings. With curling horns the size of a man’s leg, Gray knew what the creature was.
A phox.

I can’t see through this mess!
came Darius’ voice, fearful.
Where are you?

“He’s brought help, but he can’t land,” Gray explained hurriedly.

“I heard,” Ayva answered. “We need to clear a path for him.”

Zane was suddenly at his side, Hannah close behind. His red tunic was riddled with gashes, but the blood in his blond hair didn’t look like his own. In his hand, his sword blazed a brilliant red to rival Jian’s who fought a score of Darkeye’s thieves a dozen paces away. “I heard something,” Zane announced. “Is that Darius?”

Gray tensed.
How had he…
He shook his head. There was no time. “We need to clear away this mist,” he ordered.

Fire leapt to Zane’s hand, searing the clinging vapor. “Then stand back.”

A burst of light blinded both Gray and Zane. They turned to see Ayva holding a golden sphere of light in her palm, much larger than before, banishing the nearby mist with an even greater force. “How about together?” she posed.

“Together,” Gray agreed, and as one, they poured their powers forth. Wind rushed along his arm, gushing outward and blowing away mist. Fire seared, and the sun took chunks out of the living vapor.
“More!”
he bellowed. He felt the nexus pulse, and he asked for more.
Stillness and anger,
he reminded himself and another gust of wind issued forth. But where he struck, more mist took its place.

“What is this?” Zane bellowed. “It’s not working!”

More screams echoed through the mist—without sight he knew they would all be slaughtered. Time was running short. Darkwalkers flashed about them, killing Reavers and Devari. They were growing bolder despite Morrowil.

It was only a matter of time…

“Look!” Ayva shouted suddenly.

Nearby, he saw a group of Reavers—none that he recognized, their hands raised to the sky, a white haze pouring from their palms, filling in the gaps they created, allowing the misty killing-fields to continue. Gray growled, using more of his power. His knees grew weak, legs trembling again and he collapsed, but still he held up a hand, issuing wind for Darius to see. But it was not enough.