Final Enchantment (Unbreakable Force Book 6) (8 page)

30

Aaric

“
K
enroc,” Aaric yelled above the thunder of hooves. “Have you ever heard of magic called merging?” They were riding at a gallop north toward Ruis. About two hundred nomad warriors rode with them; the rest of the clan was returning as well, but more slowly, including Adaryn’s two younger brothers. It took more time to move tents and supplies.

They were close, a couple of weeks at the most, and Aaric would be able to see the city.

Kenroc frowned, pondering the question. “No, I haven’t,” he said. “What is it?”

“Something the dragon mentioned to me,” Aaric replied. “And I read about it in a book. It’s where two magic users combine their essence, making them immensely powerful.” He frowned as he considered it again. “I don’t know how that’s even possible,” he admitted at last.

Kenroc was silent for a moment as their company rode, scanning the surrounding countryside before speaking again. “I wouldn’t know how it works, but it makes me think of my wife.”

Aaric’s ears perked up. Kenroc almost never spoke of his late wife. “She had her magic and I had mine,” the nomad continued. “We were equally matched in enchantment, but whenever we faced a problem in life that was too great for one of us to bear alone, somehow, together, we were always able to overcome the trial.” He smiled. “It wasn’t ‘merging,’ in your sense of the word, just working together. We were stronger, when our spirits and minds had the same purpose.”

Aaric frowned, thinking on Kenroc’s words.

Together. One purpose.

He smiled. He’d fit the pieces together.
That’s how it works.

Now for the application. He just needed to make sure he reached Adaryn in time.

31

Adaryn

I
stood on the ramparts with Bran, Fyrsil, and Lord Welling, looking east, the vast plains spread before us. Twinkling in the twilight, yet far away, were the campfires of the massive Twyli army.

“So many,” Lord Welling murmured, his brow furrowed. “And they’re all magic users?”

No one answered. No one had to. These were the Twyli.

“I’ll stop them.” Bran spoke, a fierce light in his eye. “I’ll defend this city and everyone in it.”

Fyrsil shook his head. “What makes you think you can stop them, boy?”

“I have the sky jewel,” Bran replied with a frown at the brigand king. “I’m unstoppable.”

“Up to this point.” Fyrsil snorted. “Hydari and Myyre will rip you to shreds. The sky jewel won’t help you. Not with this.”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence.” Bran rolled his eyes. “But I’m not afraid.”

“You should be.”

“Enough,” I broke in. “Arguing won’t help anything.” I peered at the twinkling lights, chewing my lower lip pensively. “Fyrsil, the Twyli woman who’s teamed up with Donell. You’re sure she’s a rogue?”

“Absolutely.” The once-king nodded. “It was no secret among the Twyli that only royalty was allowed to extract essence. My guess is she was sent to scout ahead for them, and turned against them once she realized she could strengthen her own power, perhaps to rival their own.”

“I was stronger than her,” Bran said, his eyes worried as he studied the scene before us. “I could sense it. I was stronger than Donell, too. But . . .” He trailed off for a moment before continuing. “I don’t know if I’m strong enough to defeat all four. If they were to join forces—”

“They won’t,” Fyrsil interrupted. “If Eletha survived the gun wound, she may return. But that she hasn’t shown herself since we’ve attacked means she’s dead, recovering, or she’s decided to pursue other options.”

“How can you be sure she won’t join with the twins?” I asked.

“I know a thing or two of royalty.” Fyrsil smirked at me, a dark eyebrow arched. “We don’t share our power easily.”

“We must focus on the army,” Lord Welling said. He stood a short way from us. While the temporary head magistrate definitely tolerated the presence of magic users, he still wasn’t at ease with us. Or perhaps he sensed Fyrsil’s contempt for him. “Perhaps if my men and I were to find a way to harass them, it might slow them down . . .”

“You’d die.” Fyrsil’s mood seemed to darken with every passing minute. He shot a withering glance in the direction of the magistrate. “They’re too strong for you.”

“Perhaps you’d volunteer yourself?” Lord Welling’s tone was mild, but a tightening around his eyes said he was feeling otherwise.

“I’d last longer than you.” Fyrsil glared at him. “You’re a weak Denali.”

The magistrate’s face darkened and he opened his mouth to respond, but Bran cut in. “I will attack the army,” he said. “Alone.” He spoke to Lord Welling, ignoring the brigand king. That Bran held a magistrate in Ruis in higher esteem than a fellow magic user spoke volumes about how much things had changed. “It should be a fairly simple matter of manipulating the elements to make their progression slower.” He wouldn’t look at me, which meant Bran was going to try something stupid. I remembered he always did this when growing up. Foolish man.

“I’m going with you,” I said, causing Bran’s head to whip around, his eyes locking with mine.

“I won’t let you,” he retorted. “It’s too dangerous.”

“You don’t have a choice,” I shot back. “You’re going to need someone to back you up in case something goes wrong.”

“I’ll take Fyrsil,” Bran replied. “Better if he sticks his neck out.”

Fyrsil shook his head. “If you’re going to be pulling on enough magic to destroy an army, I don’t want to be anywhere near you.” He turned, looking down at the city. “And I’ll be needed here. A pity that none of you know how to heal with magic. That is what Ruis will need.” He stifled a yawn, and began to walk toward the stairs that would take him down the ramparts. “I’m going to get some rest. I advise you all to do the same. We’re going to get precious little of it soon.”

“Can we trust him?” Bran asked, watching the brigand king saunter away.

“I . . . think so,” I replied. I thought about the Twyli king and Fyrsil’s resemblance to him. I thought I knew why Fyrsil was helping us thus far, but for how long? Could we
really
trust him? I wanted to believe so. I bit my lip, remembering Fyrsil’s past. He’d lied and cheated. He wasn’t all good, but then, he wasn’t all bad either. He’d saved my life on more than one occasion, and he’d saved Grace and Lord Flores too. "Just be careful," I added. "He wants the Twyli leaders gone, but he also wants the sky jewel."

Bran nodded in agreement.

Talk turned to the topic of city defense. I left soon after, not having anything to add to that, and as I lay in my bed, Dahlia's breath deep with slumber, I thought of my father. Where was he? Bran said he'd gone south with the clan. I could still go after him, but he had left long ago enough that even if I were to find him, we couldn't hope to return to the city in time. That and I wasn't completely sure I would be able to convince him to aid Oppressors.

I missed him.

32

Donell

D
onell no longer tried to stop the tears that streamed down his face. Eletha was dying. The gun wound she’d received had become infected, and neither he, nor anyone in his clan, had the healing ability needed to mend it. Healing powers were very rare among the nomads.

Making herbal poultices, he’d worked tirelessly to treat and change her bandages, but it didn’t matter. Day by agonizing day, Eletha grew weaker, her life force slowly slipping away. It’d been over a week since they were ambushed by Bran, and it was overwhelmingly clear the woman wasn’t going to make it.

Her skin was hot and clammy to the touch, her mind coming in and out of fever dreams. The wound site was a bleeding mass of broken bone and tissue, the skin discolored, the infection spreading. Donell didn’t know what else to do, but keep treating it, and hope for a miracle.

They shared a special bond; he’d never felt this way about anyone. Even now, he could feel the pull of her magic. It beckoned to him.

Sitting by her side, Donell anxiously took her hand when Eletha opened her eyes, looking up at him. They were still yellow, so beautiful.

“I’m dying,” she said. It wasn’t a question. Her voice was so quiet, Donell had to lean closer to hear it. He nodded, not trusting himself to speak. “At the hands of a Denali.” Anger tinged her voice. “Will you do something for me, Donell?”

“Anything.” He would. He would do anything for her.

“Avenge me.” She held his gaze in her own. “I had a dream that I would rule this land, all lands, eventually, and that dream has been destroyed by a Denali.” Her breath was becoming more shallow; death was near. “If I cannot rule, than at least other Twyli will. The Denali will not win. Topple the walls of Ruis, Donell. Raze Ruis to the ground.”

“I promise, Eletha. I promise.” Donell pressed his lips to hers as the life force of Eletha left her body.

Donell was alone.

Sobs wracked his body as he curled around the lifeless figure of the Twyli. For a brief span of his life, he’d felt almost happy. And now it was gone, ripped from him.

Bran.

This was Bran’s fault. The nomad was a thorn in his side, and had caused this to happen. Donell stood and left the camp, walking toward Ruis, heedless of everything else but the burning rage and hatred that swirled inside him. Ruis would burn, and Bran would die.

33

Bran

R
uis was in chaos. Bran ran down the streets, toward the city gates, pushing against the crowd that surged in the opposite direction. Women and children were crying, men shouting, everyone scared. Bran had tried asking people what they were running from, but no one was able to give him a coherent answer.

Nearing the gates, Bran slowed, stricken. There
were
no gates. A thick cloud of dust hung in the air where they’d once stood, and people milled about in panicked confusion.

Donell stood in the center of chaos, lightning streaking from his fingertips to strike anyone in his path. Eyes locked on Bran, the redheaded nomad stalked forward, magic pulsing from him in waves, slamming people aside like cast-off dolls.

“She’s dead, Bran!” Donell’s yellow eyes were red-rimmed from weeping, his face contorted with fury. “She’s dead, curse you! You started all of this, but I’m going to
finish
it!”

Raising his hands, pale yellow lightning shot from Donell’s fingertips.

Bran reacted instinctively, creating a shield of light and air. Donell’s lightning slammed into it and was absorbed, Bran staggering from the impact. With a thrust of his wrists, he sent the shield spinning toward Donell.

The redheaded man leapt to the side, and the shield slammed into the guard house, reducing it to a pile of roof and brick.

With a roar, Donell launched himself at Bran. The two men fell to the earth, grappling with each other.

Donell summoned a knife, the blade flickering with a sickly light, and stabbed at Bran’s chest.

Bran grabbed the nomad’s wrist, the knife’s blade hovering an inch over him. He was stronger than Donell, but the other’s madness lent him strength. His face twisted in a feral snarl, sweat and tears staining his face. “After you die, nothing will stand between the Twyli and Ruis. Eletha will be avenged.”

With a heave, Bran threw him off and scrambled to his feet. The two nomads faced each other, both crouched defensively as they circled, looking for an opening, for weakness. Bran hesitated, memories he’d shared with Donell in their youth. Hot-headed and impulsive, the two had gotten themselves into a lot of scrapes, but nothing Bran wasn’t able to get them out of. He’d always led, and Donell had always followed him unquestioningly. So much had changed.

Bran hesitated. He didn’t want to kill the nomad, but looking around at the shattered ruins of the gates and slain people, Bran knew he wouldn’t have a choice.

Donell’s magic was more powerful than any magic user Bran had faced. The Dark magic had made him strong. With the sky jewel, Bran was still the dominant magic user, but Donell’s white-hot fury gave him an edge and ferocity he wouldn’t otherwise have.

With a yell Donell summoned a spear, hurling it at Bran.

Bran dodged it, but Donell hurled another, and another. Bran pulled magic through the sky jewel and working the elements, buckled earth and cobblestone so Donell stumbled.

The redheaded man regained his footing and grinned. “After I kill you, I’m going for Grace. I’m going to take her, and—”

He never finished. Bran snatched the wind and pulling as much power as he was able through the sky jewel, threw Donell.

Donell flew several feet in the air, slamming into a pile of rubble. The redhead cried out and was still.

Bran stood with shoulders slumped, his breath coming in painful gasps. He looked at the unmoving form of Donell, once his friend.

“What in blazes is going on here?” Bran turned to the voice. Lord Welling sat on a great gelding, his eyes taking in the devastation. “Did the Twyli just ambush us in our own city?”

He removed his spectacles, dry-washing them on his shirt before propping them back on his nose.

“No,” Bran said wearily. He felt like he’d run a thousand miles. He was tired. So tired. “Just a renegade. A rogue.”

Lord Welling opened his mouth to reply, but paused when two horsemen came galloping in from where the gates had once stood. They reined to a halt before the magistrate, and Bran recognized them to be Oppressor scouts.

“They’re coming, my Lord,” one said, dirt and sweat streaking his face. “The Twyli are advancing.”