Renegade Wizards (29 page)

They met in the shadow of an alley off the main street, between two buildings and the blackened Old City Wall. Tythonnia recognized him instantly, the blond-haired hunter who had brought Virgil before the conclave. His features were gentle, but his fierce, black eyes were a startling contrast to the rest of his face. He carried a powerful and etched longbow, and they spoke in whispers, each relating their part of the story, from Solanthus, to the attack of the dolls at the ruined village, to the High Clerist’s Tower, through to that moment.

Tythonnia was relieved to hear Thoma harbored doubts about the instructions to execute them. He was struggling to believe that his companion Dumas was either lying to them or somehow enchanted. He did admit, however, she’d been acting strangely.

They both agreed Thoma needed to speak with the other two.

They’d just arrived at that consensus when Thoma’s eyes widened. Tythonnia barely had time to react before Thoma
grabbed her shoulder and threw them both to the ground. The air above them crackled and sizzled as a wall of heat pushed past them. A ball of fire exploded against the Old City Wall behind them, and flames peppered the adjoining roofs.

Dumas stood there, between them and the Alley, her face contorted in livid anger. It was the murderous look of a woman scorned. Thoma scrambled to his feet, caught in the hesitation of whether to draw his blade or not.

“Dumas—” he managed.

“You dare?” she screamed. Before Thoma could respond, Dumas’s hands flew into a pattern, her lips moving to unlock a spell.

“Run!” Thoma managed.

Tythonnia got to her feet just as electricity flowed from the tome’s chains into Dumas’s arms. The spell, whatever it was, ruptured the ground between the two hunters, and the force of it slammed into Thoma. He flew backward and struck the city wall. He landed in a heap and struggled to rise.

Instinct took over and Tythonnia grabbed his arm to lift him, but Thoma shoved her away, toward the narrow defile between the buildings and the battlement.

“Run,” he cried again. With a shout of fury, his hands flew into a quick pattern.
“Halilintar!”

A jagged blade of lightning coursed from his hands directly towards Dumas. Tythonnia rounded the corner, but in her peripheral vision, she could have sworn the lightning bolt struck the tome on Dumas’s chest before simply vanishing. A moment later, she could hear Thoma shouting, “Dumas, what are you—”

Something cut his voice to a strangled halt.

Tythonnia ran even harder, turning down one alley and across another. Finally she hit Smiths’ Alley, in time to meet with a surge of locals. Two buildings were on fire, and the denizens of the Alley were reacting quickly by forming
water chains. It was enough to clog the streets and, Tythonnia hoped, hide her escape.

By the time Tythonnia reached Rosie’s shop, the older woman was outside, watching the commotion.

“What’s going on?” Rosie asked.

Tythonnia grabbed her by the arm and dragged her back into the barn. Par-Salian was coming down the stairs while Ladonna was out of bed and looking down at them from the loft.

“Hunters,” Tythonnia said. “Dumas’s gone mad. She killed her companion to get to us.”

Par-Salian’s face turned ashen.
“Dumas
is here?”

“We leave now!” Tythonnia said. She rushed into the stall and began shoving whatever she could grab into her pack.

Rosie ran up the stairs to help Ladonna while Par-Salian was at Tythonnia’s side.

“The horses?” he asked.

“Street’s too crowded,” Tythonnia said. “We go on foot.”

“Dumas?” he asked again, shoving his personal effects into his bag. “You’re certain?”

“Yes!” Tythonnia shouted. “And don’t ask me why. I don’t know!”

Kinsley watched pandemonium unfold around him as people ran back and forth along the street. He managed to grab someone by the arm, a young woman who looked ready to punch him. He flashed a copper coin in front of her eyes to quiet her down.

“What’s going on?”

The woman plucked the coin from Kinsley’s fingers before answering. “A woman set the buildings on fire with witchcraft!” she said. She pulled free of Kinsley’s grasp and raced down the street.

Kinsley looked around, hoping to spot the likeliest culprits.

It wasn’t the first fire Smiths’ Alley had had to deal with, but that didn’t diminish the chaos. Parents escaping with their children and a fire line struggling to pass water buckets forward filled the street. The buildings were packed tightly enough that it was easy for the fire to spread. People raced around not so much to douse the blaze that ate at two buildings, but to throw water on the adjoining roofs.

With murder in her eyes, Dumas pushed through the crowds, unmindful of the yelps of protestation that greeted her. She couldn’t believe Thoma was dead; she could still see the renegade Tythonnia cutting him down with a spell—

But why do I see my own hand extended?

She was trying to save him. That’s what it was. Thoma was about to die, and she couldn’t save him from—

You.

From Tythonnia! She couldn’t save him from Tythonnia. Indeed, she made an effort to remember it more clearly: Ladonna and Par-Salian were there too. They were torturing Thoma and keeping her at bay.

“Dumas!”

Dumas turned and found Hort racing toward her. “What happened?”

“The renegades,” she said, grabbing Hort by his cloak. “They killed Thoma. They did this. Find them! Kill them and spread their guts across the rooftops!” she cried.

Hort appeared dazed, his eyes glazed at the news.

“You go that way,” she said, pointing north along the street. “I’ll go south! We can’t let them slip by us. Not this time.”

He nodded absently as he moved away. With each step, however, he seemed to gain momentum like a juggernaut.
He didn’t seem to care who he pushed out of the way; he was out for blood, and Dumas wasn’t entirely sure why that pleased her so.

Within a few minutes, they were packed and ready to leave. Rosie forced Ladonna into a hug, and despite her protests, she seemed to relax in the older woman’s embrace. Par-Salian thanked her in turn, and to Tythonnia’s surprise, even she was swept into the woman’s arms.

“You have a home here. Visit,” Rosie whispered in her ear.

“I will,” Tythonnia said and meant that promise with teary-eyed fierceness. She liked Rosie and hoped she could return to spend time with the older woman.

The three wizards melted into the street crowd. The fires still raged several blocks away, and the line struggled to keep the blaze contained. For the moment, they were winning, and Tythonnia prayed the fire wouldn’t make it to Rosie’s place. The older woman, in fact, moved into the crowd, trying to help with the line. Her strong arms would be a welcome addition.

They followed the stream of traffic to the north, toward the docks. Men and women not involved in staunching the blaze took their children, their elderly, and a handful of possessions for safekeeping just in case the fire spread.

Tythonnia kept glancing over her shoulder, searching for Dumas or the other hunter. She could see nothing, however; the street was too crowded to do anything but brush over the many faces in the rush. Ladonna walked with some difficulty. The wound needed more time to heal, but she was supported by Par-Salian.

Several people in the crowd gasped, and before Tythonnia could register what was happening, a bank of fog swept over them. At first, she thought it was smoke from the fire, but
when the sulfur smell of rotten eggs struck a second later, she understood the nature of the spell.

The stench was overwhelming, and before Tythonnia could stop herself, she’d fallen to her knees and was vomiting violently. Ladonna and dozens of others also succumbed, some clutching their chests and guts as waves of nausea swept over them. The stench of bile made her even sicker, and she was overcome by a bout of dry heaves, her stomach cramping to void what wasn’t there.

She couldn’t move without triggering a new wave of nausea, couldn’t think clearly enough to cast a spell. Two people, including Par-Salian, were still standing. He was fighting the nausea well enough though he seemed a touch green around the gills. He looked around and Tythonnia, in turn, realized none of them could see very far. The cloud extended a considerable distance, and with everyone trapped within the narrow confines of Smiths’ Alley, it may well have extended for several blocks in either direction.

Par-Salian’s fingers danced and slipped over one another before he raised both arms and cried,
“Belit gusta!”

Gusts whipped at his trousers and shirt, and the cloud was pushed away. Par-Salian directed its course and cleansed the air around them with a sweep of his hand. He was able to cut a swath through the noxious cloud, though he couldn’t push its effects away from everyone entirely. Only a handful of people were safe, including them.

The fresh air was a welcome blessing, but before Tythonnia could stand, four bolts of light suddenly appeared from the mist ahead of them and slammed into Par-Salian. The blow knocked him off his feet. He hit the street hard, the back of his head bouncing on the cobblestone ground. He groaned in pain, and a weakened Ladonna crawled over to help him.

Tythonnia squinted, trying to see where the bolts had come from. When she realized she couldn’t see their attacker, she decided to go on the defensive until they could rally. She
fumbled for the bit of eyelash trapped in amber as she rose to her feet. Her hands moved and the magic responded with a spark that traveled up her spine and into her skull.

“Tak’kelihatan lingkaran,”
she said. The spell had saved them before; perhaps it could do so again. The script of magic vanished from her thoughts just as the three of them vanished from sight.

A moment after that, the whole world vanished.

Tythonnia stopped, sudden panic overwhelming her.

No sound came to her, nothing of the screams and cries of the people in the street around her. No sight came either; the world was dark as though the gods had blown out the candle of the sun. She could still smell the lingering sulfur and bile, the sweat and stale air. She could still feel the clothing on her back and the street beneath her.

She swayed, finding it difficult to maintain her balance. The cloud left her weak. Panicked, she swept her arms out in front of her and cried the names of her friends. But if they responded, she couldn’t hear it against the pressure of silence. Time turned momentum against her, the seconds slowly turning into minutes, turning into hours. She felt suspended in an inkwell, not even hearing her own voice, her own breathing.

The blow came out of nowhere, shocking the breath from her lungs and paralyzing her entire body. It struck her in the stomach, like a kick to her midsection. Tythonnia dropped to her knees, unable to inhale. She clutched her belly and tried to curl up into a ball. Another kick stomped down on her shoulder and drove her to the ground. She screamed in pain as the wound tore open again. And yet she heard nothing.

Again the blows came, vicious and without mercy. One attacker, one heavy foot, drove into her again and again, the attack made worse by the horrible, pressing quiet. She screamed even louder, if only to hear her own voice, and flailed
to grab the angry foot, to stop the attack. The next kick blew past her hand, however, and struck her squarely in the jaw.