Book 3: Chapter Thirty-Three

Bobo was a coward.

He’d accepted that long ago. Whenever he was confronted with a choice to run or fight, he’d always chosen to run.

Life as a librarian had suited him fine for a while—there was little danger to be had there—but his grandfather’s stories of great adventures had eventually proven too enticing to ignore. Bobo simply needed to find an adventure that required knowledge and intellect rather than brawn.

His first adventure had proven less adventurous and rather more greedy than he liked to remember—gathering up all the notes and translations he’d made from Ellerie’s book, then slipping out of town in the dead of night. He’d considered asking her to let him participate in the search, but he’d expected her to turn him down, and worse, he’d feared that once she knew he wanted to find the ancient city himself, she’d take the book away and not allow him to translate any more of it. So he’d finished translating the important parts for himself, then ran away. He’d left the book itself, so it wasn’t theft, exactly, except for the wages she’d paid him, but it certainly wasn’t the grand start to his adventuring life that he’d always dreamed of.

In the hills east of the Black Crow Mountains, where he’d hoped to find evidence of old ruins that might lead him to Tir Yadar, he’d pretended to be a priest of the Fox. That, too, had been cowardice. He could put fancy words on it, pretending he’d done just as much for the people as any of the other fake priests roaming the hills, but the truth was, the hillfolk were a rough lot and he’d been scared of them. To keep himself safe, he’d decided to take advantage of the respect they showed their priests. While there, he’d come to realize that he liked being thought of as an important man, rather than just a bookish librarian with a talent for languages, so he’d remained in the hills even after it became clear his search had failed. But, eventually, he’d had to run again.

When Ellerie caught up with him in Circle Bay, he’d wanted to flee that time too, but Corec had forced him to make things right with her. It was hard to say no to Corec, especially after the man had saved his life. That incident had turned out better than Bobo could have hoped—working together, he and Ellerie had succeeded in finding Tir Yadar—but it hadn’t changed who he was inside.

Despite his fear, though, he usually managed to find some way to contribute when his friends were threatened, even if it was typically just to stand in the back with Nedley and try to keep anyone from attacking Katrin or Shavala while the two women did whatever it was they did during a fight.

But this time, he couldn’t see a way to help. They were on the third floor of a building, with Nedley guarding the stairwell. Katrin was cradling Shavala in her arms, the elven woman still moaning in pain from whatever had happened. Bobo hadn’t been able to find anything wrong with her, but she still hadn’t managed to get to her feet. Marco stood in the corner, looking as scared as Bobo felt. He wasn’t a fighter either.

The enemy hadn’t caught sight of the group inside the building yet, so there was nothing for Bobo to do other than watch as his other friends were surrounded. There were simply too many attackers for Corec and the rest to stop them all. Shavala’s role in the plan had been pivotal, and when she’d collapsed, everything had started to unravel.

Some parts of the plan had worked. The enemies were still headed toward the decoy building, where Leena would remain until the last minute. And they were mostly following the two routes Corec had expected them to take.

But other parts hadn’t worked. In addition to whatever had happened to Shavala, Josip had been injured, and Treya had been forced to leave Boktar and Razai to fend for themselves. Something else odd was happening down there too that Bobo couldn’t quite put his finger on—something to do with the two men in heavy armor that were now facing off against them.

What could Bobo do, though? His salves wouldn’t help Shavala. Did she need a healer? He should go fetch Treya, but that would mean he had to run into the battle. Could Treya even be spared from the fight? There were so many men down there. Corec would need her help.

No. It was better to stay here. After all, if the enemy discovered where they were, Nedley wouldn’t be able to fight them all off on his own. Yes, that’s what he’d do. He’d stay right where Corec had asked him to stay. He wasn’t abandoning his friends. He was simply sticking to the plan.

Bobo waited for the wave of relief he usually experienced when avoiding a fight, but this time, it didn’t come. Below him, Boktar was being forced back by the two heavily armored men, whose weapons—one carried a warhammer, the other a sword—were now glowing. The white glow reminded Bobo of the light that often surrounded Treya’s fists when she was fighting. Were these the priests? Boktar was trying to fight back, but his strikes seemed to be blocked by a flickering aura that overlaid the men’s armor.

Nearby, Razai was crouched down, her hands over her ears. Her curved knives lay abandoned on the ground. There were stories that priests sometimes had powers over demonborn.

Still watching over Shavala, Katrin began singing again, but the battle had grown so loud, it was impossible to tell if it had any effect. Josip was sitting up now, leaning against a wall, and Treya was helping Corec and Sarette guard the intersection.

Bobo glanced uncertainly from the melee to the stairwell and back again. He’d turned down Corec’s offers to teach him how to use a crossbow. He’d turned down the occasional suggestions to buy some armor and learn how to use his walking cudgel as the weapon it truly was. Part of the reason he’d stayed with the group for so long was because they’d always protected him when he needed it, but now they were the ones who needed help, and there was nothing he could do.

It didn’t matter, he decided. He had to try anyway. Taking a firm grasp on his cudgel, he jogged to the stairwell. He’d have to hurry if he was going to get to Boktar before the priests wore him down. If Bobo could distract them, the dwarven man might still be able to win the fight.

Then, something … changed. Bobo’s vision flashed with different images that went by too fast to see. His cudgel suddenly burst with white light as new knowledge forced its way into his brain. He didn’t understand it all, not yet, but he knew enough. He couldn’t do anything for Shavala, but he could help the others, and now he knew how.

He changed direction and took a running leap out of one of the openings that had once served as a window—though if it had ever held any glass, it was long since gone. He landed on the street two floors below with barely a stumble, his legs feeling sturdier than they’d ever been. Then he waded into the battle, swinging his glowing cudgel back and forth against the men with the knives, knocking them away with each hit. Had he always been this strong?

“Release her!” he shouted as he approached the priests, his words echoing strangely.

They ignored him, but Razai suddenly looked up, an expression of intense surprise on her face, which then grew into an evil grin. Snarling, she grabbed her knives and tackled the nearest priest, knocking the armored man to the ground. She straddled his chest and pressed her knee against his sword arm, pinning his weapon down, then rammed one of her knives up under his helmet, into the underside of his jaw.

Bobo gripped his cudgel with both hands and swung at the other man, hitting his shield hard enough to force him back. The protective aura flickered one last time and faded away. While the priest was off-balance, Boktar slammed his warhammer into the man’s knee. The priest cried out in pain and collapsed, and Boktar finished him off by piercing his helmet with the spiked end of the hammer’s head.

Bobo flinched as a spurt of blood hit him in the face. Cowardice wasn’t the only reason he tried to avoid fighting.

“What was that?” Boktar called out, facing off against two more of the knife men.

Bobo said, “I … I think something strange just happened.” The strength he’d experienced faded away, and his legs suddenly felt wobbly. His vision went gray.

Razai caught him as he fell.

#

Ariadne ignored the sound of the battle. How could she take sides when she knew nothing about the combatants, other than the fact that one group was looting her home?

Wait. Looting? That part wasn’t real, was it? Wasn’t that part of the dream?

Nothing made sense anymore. She couldn’t tell what was real and what was fake. The fortress was wrong. The ruins of Old Town were wrong, as was the view of the surrounding area. Even the people were wrong—humans and elves, but different somehow, and not just in the languages they spoke.

If the looting hadn’t happened, where had the Necklace of Tongues come from? When it wasn’t in use by an envoy to a distant land, it should have been stored in the Enchantment Repository. How had she gotten it?

Could everything be a dream? Everything she’d experienced since going into stasis? That had been one of her theories, but some things seemed too real for it all to be a dream. Wrong, but real. Using the necklace to interpret an unknown language had been unlike anything she’d ever felt before. How would a dream have come up with such a sensation?

Had she gone insane? Maybe she was still at home, awake but unable to recognize anything or anybody. And yet, the pain from the necklace had been real. She was certain of that. And the necklace had been looted from the Enchantment Repository.

But if the looting was real, that meant she was awake, and this was truly Tir Yadar. Her breath quickened, and her arms and fingers grew numb and tingly. She recognized the symptoms—she’d felt them before. She was hyperventilating.

Forcing all thoughts from her mind, she took a deep, slow breath, waited, then took another. It didn’t take long for the numbness to disappear, at least now that she knew how to deal with it. The first time it had happened, after learning of her brother’s death, she hadn’t realized what was going on. The numbness had caused her to panic, making her hyperventilate even more. She’d nearly passed out before a nurse had explained that she was doing it to herself.

Calmer now, she patted the hilt of her longsword, reassuring herself that it was back. It gave her an anchor to hold onto. She’d only worn the panoply and blade of a Mage Knight for a week, but after seven years of training for the position, she’d grown accustomed to staying armed for most of her waking hours.

She took another deep breath, then forced herself to face the truth. There was no dreaming in stasis. If the body was placed outside of time, the mind must be outside time as well. If there was no time, there could be no dreams.

Which left two possibilities. Either she truly had gone mad, or everything she saw was real.

If this was Tir Yadar, what had happened to her people? Where had they gone? The amount of time that had passed—no, she had to ignore that. There were still limits to what her sanity could process.

Was she truly the last of the Mage Knights? What had happened to the two who’d managed to leave the pods? She would need to return to the stasis room to determine who they were, but she had her suspicions.

Thinking about that was better than thinking about being alone amongst warring tribes of human looters. Her mind would slip again if she spent too much time considering her situation. She had to do something else instead. She had to find the Chosar and the Mage Knights. She had to find the wardens—the real wardens, not this false one.

Ariadne’s mind felt clearer than it had since she’d first entered the stasis pod. She was still hiding things from herself, she knew, but it was the best she could do for now.

The noise of the battle surged closer. Shouts and cries, and metal clanging against metal. Perhaps she should have positioned herself farther away, to not risk getting involved.

Yet, she kept thinking about what the false warden had said. Non-combatant civilians—farmboys who’d been hired to drive wagons—were hiding in a former granary nearby. She could see the structure from where she stood. One of the boys was staring at her from the entrance, but ducked back inside when he realized she’d seen him.

Ariadne had no desire to get in between two warring barbarian factions, and she certainly had no intention of protecting the group that was looting her home, but if she didn’t want to fight, why had she placed herself between the battle and the civilians?

As she slipped that question into the pile of things she was trying not to think about, a squadron of five armed men rounded the corner. Their eyes went wide when they saw her standing before them. They approached carefully, eyeing her armor with suspicion. She didn’t recognize them from among the looters, which meant they must have accompanied the new group. They wore no uniforms and their armor had seen better days, but they appeared to know what they were doing. Warriors, then, but not soldiers.

“I have no quarrel with you, humans,” Ariadne said, in the language she’d received from the false warden. “Kill the others if you wish.” If they returned to the battle, they wouldn’t find the hidden farmboys.

They didn’t seem to understand her words, so she repeated them in The People’s tongue. It didn’t help. Instead of trying to communicate, they hefted their weapons and circled around her. If they were smart enough not to rush a knight in plate armor, they had the potential to be dangerous.

So be it.

Ariadne drew her longsword in a spinning motion, activating her combat spells as she blinked behind a man with no helmet. She finished her draw by slamming her blade halfway through his neck. Kicking his body off her weapon, she blinked again, reappearing behind a man wearing a coat lined with thin metal plates—regular steel, she thought, and perhaps thin enough that they couldn’t block her sword. She rammed the tip through his armor and into his chest.

Her elder senses warned her of a presence closing in. She whirled around, parrying a strike from a third man’s side sword.

His two remaining compatriots turned to run. Unfortunately, they ran in the wrong direction, toward the granary.

She blinked and appeared in front of them in a crouch, swinging at one man’s knees. His armor didn’t extend that far down, and her cut went deep into the bones in his leg. She jerked her sword out, then stood and batted the other man’s spear away, striking his armor again and again until she broke through, leaving a deep slash into his torso.

Leaving those two to die from blood loss, she blinked again, returning to the third man. Not bothering with any niceties, she appeared behind him and swung her sword in a wide, overhead arc, down onto the thin metal of his helmet, splitting it in two. His body collapsed as if it was boneless.

Ariadne took a moment to catch her breath, then walked back to the bleeding men to finish them off. Now that the immediate danger had passed, it would be cruel to make them die slowly. Even demons were granted that much mercy on the battlefield.

She was already starting to feel the effects of her spells. Mage Knights faced limitations on their magic, especially on the arcane side, since burning out one’s own gift of wizardry came with consequences. It allowed her to cast her spells nearly instantaneously, and without regard for the metal armor she wore, but it meant the number of spells she could learn was extremely limited.

Every Mage Knight had to make difficult choices. Blinking was a spell used for making quick strikes, but the downside was the hefty amount of magical power it consumed. Other knights made different decisions. The knight who’d worn the panoply before her had specialized in durability, able to remain on the battlefield for hours on end. Ariadne had figured that if she needed to fight for longer, she could simply avoid the blinking spell, but that was easier to say than do. She would need to learn self-control.

Just as she finished killing her two bleeding opponents, another man, this one bald, crept out of a gap between buildings, glancing back to make sure he hadn’t been followed. She watched him, curious. She’d never seen him before, so he must have been one of the newcomers, but he wasn’t armed.

He stopped in surprise when he encountered the first of the bodies, then looked up and saw her. He whispered something under his breath.

Too late, Ariadne realized it was a spell. Three darts of light hit her in the chest, dissipating against the mirrorsteel plating. A wizard, and one that didn’t understand how to fight a Mage Knight. His eyes grew wide when his spell didn’t affect her, and he quickly began muttering the words to another.

His first spell may have been ineffectual, but he might get lucky the next time, or he might choose a spell that her armor wouldn’t block.

Ariadne was growing tired, but one more time wouldn’t hurt. She blinked, reappearing directly in front of him. He was a regular wizard and wasn’t wearing any armor, so she thrust her blade through his lung, ensuring he wouldn’t be able to finish his casting. The look of surprise never left his face as he died.

She pulled her sword from his body but didn’t bother cleaning or sheathing it. Instead, she stepped into a shadowed alleyway and watched the entrance to the granary. She was growing too lethargic to continue using magic. If any others came close to the civilians, she’d have to fight them the old-fashioned way.

#

Leena waited, tense, as the battle raged. Her role was to play the decoy, making sure the Seeker sent the enemy troops toward her position so the others could take them by surprise. If they reached her, or if the wizard tried to target the building she was in, she was supposed to teleport far enough away to stay safe.

The plan had started well, with their opponents’ initial approach coming along the expected paths, but their greater numbers now threatened to overwhelm Corec and the others.

There was a disturbance in the distance as someone—was that Bobo?—leapt out of a window onto the street below and started swinging wildly. Leena blinked, not sure she was actually seeing what she was seeing.

Then, suddenly, Leena’s Uncle Rohav appeared next to her, struggling with another Sanvarite dressed in the Zidari style. The man reared back and hit Rohav in the jaw, knocking him away, but a younger Traveler appeared out of nowhere, running at the man and tackling him to the ground. Rohav joined the younger man, and together, they were able to hold the enemy’s Seeker down.

“Where’s the rope?” Rohav shouted.

Leena ran to grab it, hoping their efforts wouldn’t be in vain. If the Seeker was also a Traveler, the bonds wouldn’t hold him, but it was rare for someone to be trained in both. While the three gifts were closely intertwined, usually only one was strong enough to be taught. Leena hadn’t even realized she was a Seeker until she’d met Sarlo.

The three of them managed to bind the struggling man’s feet together, and then tie his hands behind his back. Rohav removed his shoes and tossed them out the window, so that if he did escape his bonds, it would be harder for him to run away. Despite fighting their efforts the whole time, the Seeker didn’t teleport. Either he wasn’t a Traveler, or he was too exhausted to use the gift.

The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

Or perhaps he was just pretending. Unfortunately, the rope was the best they could manage at the moment. Leena had asked Ellerie, but the elven woman didn’t know any warding spells that would block Traveling.

“You’re late,” Leena told her uncle. “I was worried something had happened.”

“You didn’t give me enough time. I had to gather everyone, then make sure they memorized the descriptions you gave me so we didn’t take one of your friends by mistake.” He leaned back against the wall, coughing and rubbing at the red spot on his jaw where he’d been hit. “But you’re right. It took me too much effort to get here on top of everything else. Maybe some of us should have stayed behind and let the strongest come without us. We held them back. Some of them could have gotten here in a single hop.”

The younger Traveler stood over the Seeker’s bound form. “Who are you?” he demanded. “What’s your name?”

The Seeker just sneered at him.

“We’ll have time to get it out of him later,” Rohav said. “There’s a more pressing matter right now.”

The Traveler nodded. “What about you?”

“I can’t manage any more teleporting today. I’ll stay here and watch the traitor.”

“Then I’ll be going,” the younger man said.

He looked out the window at the melee below, then disappeared, reappearing in the midst of the battle. He wrapped his arms around one of the archers, and they both disappeared. The Traveler reappeared alone, bracing himself as if landing from a jump. A moment later, a body came falling from a great height, slamming into the corner of a building and then bouncing off. The Traveler grabbed another man and disappeared again.

A dozen other Zidari joined him, and soon more bodies were falling as the Travelers winked in and out. Others returned wet, having left their opponents in the middle of some distant body of water.

A young woman Leena had never met misjudged her return, falling at least ten feet to the ground below. She screamed in pain as she landed wrong and collapsed, then disappeared. She’d either be nearby, hiding until she could be healed, or, if she could, she might have returned home. Leena would try Seeking the girl after the battle. For now, she was supposed to save her strength in case she was needed to send messages back to Sanvar. Unfortunately, she didn’t know how to fight like the others. She wasn’t yet skilled enough to teleport someone else along with her.

The Travelers made heavy inroads on the archers and the men with the snake knives, but, one by one, they began disappearing from the fight as they ran out of strength or were injured.

And then, in the center of the melee, an elderly woman with pure white hair appeared. Despite her age and her long Zidari dress, she ducked effortlessly under the swing of a sword, then tapped her assailant, sending him elsewhere in the blink of an eye. Unlike the other Travelers, she didn’t teleport along with him. Instead, she touched two more men who hadn’t seen her yet, sending them away, too.

Satyana, Leena realized. The most powerful Traveler in living memory, a legend amongst the clan. Leena had never met her before, but there was no one else it could be.

The old woman danced gracefully through the battle, narrowly avoiding her enemies’ weapons—and sometimes seeming to teleport right through them. Where she touched, her targets disappeared, and unlike the other Travelers, she went after the armed mercenaries rather than the men with the knives. More bodies came plummeting down from above, landing far enough away to not risk hitting any allies, but close enough that the attackers could see their screaming companions slamming into the ground and dying.

After sending eleven men to their deaths, Satyana stumbled, dropping to one knee. Was it an accident? Or had she used too much magic? Whatever the reason, one of the mercenaries charged her, raising his spear in a two-handed grip to strike. The old woman made a rude gesture and disappeared just before he reached her. She didn’t return to the battle.

The mercenary stopped and stared at where she’d been, too surprised at her disappearance to notice Corec coming up behind him, raising his glowing blade.

#

Corec struck down one of the mercenaries, then charged another, shoving him back and forcing him to trip over the bodies of two more sprawled behind him. Reversing his grip, Corec stabbed down, piercing through the padded armor the man was wearing, then stepped back to look for a new opponent.

His arms and shoulders ached—the fight had raged longer than any he’d seen before, and only his armor and spells had kept him alive, along with the occasional flashes of light from Treya that seemed to reinvigorate him somehow. He’d tried to take the brunt of the enemy’s attacks, knowing he was better protected than Sarette, but now Treya and Ellerie had joined them, and together, the four were managing to hold the intersection.

The last of the Travelers had disappeared from the battle, but they’d been more effective than Corec had hoped based on what Leena had told him. There were no archers left that he could see, and Leena’s countrymen had taken many of the other attackers as well, lessening the pressure.

There hadn’t been any sign of the wizard, at least on Corec’s end of the fight. Perhaps he was still out there, waiting, or perhaps Ellerie or Shavala had managed to find him.

The men with the knives posed little danger one on one, but they fought to the death, almost suicidal in their attacks. What could have possessed untrained villagers and farmers to join this sort of battle?

The mercenaries, far more capable than the knife men, hadn’t surrendered, but most of the ones who still lived had begun to flee back into the barrens, frightened away when they realized magic was being used against them. Between Ellerie’s spells, Corec’s and Sarette’s weapons, and the Travelers, the armsmen had gotten a glimpse of something they weren’t prepared to face.

Not all had been scared off, though. A mountain of a man in full plate rushed at Corec. The mercenary was big enough to grip a longsword in one hand, and he carried a metal-plated heater shield in the other. Worse, he must have come from the rear ranks—he didn’t seem tired at all, and he swung his blade fast enough that Corec was forced back, parrying rather than attacking. Corec’s shield and armor spells had run out long ago. His armor itself would hold against a strike from a sword, but against an opponent so strong, he’d have to take care to prevent a hit to his helmet or a gap in his armor, or simply being pushed to the ground where it would be harder to defend himself.

Then a strange buzzing noise, like hundreds of bees, came out of nowhere. The green glow of the enchantment on Corec’s sword resurfaced, growing brighter until it overwhelmed the blue glow of his sword-strengthening spell. The mercenary struck again, but when Corec blocked the blow, his sword sheared through his opponent’s, cutting the blade in two. The buzzing grew louder, and he reversed his swing, striking diagonally down at the man’s side. The weapon cut clean through the mercenary’s vambrace, severing his arm, then bit into his cuirass and his ribs. The buzzing noise faded as the man died, the green glow disappearing under the blue once more.

The last of the mercenaries turned and fled. Corec didn’t give chase. To his left, Ellerie whipped the tip of her rapier across a knife man’s face, then stabbed him through the heart. There were no other enemies left standing nearby. Treya and Sarette were still trying to catch their breath, watching the fleeing men with looks of relief. There was a smudge of dried blood on Sarette’s cheek, and more blood splatted across Treya’s tunic, but both women appeared to be standing without a problem.

Glancing to the other end of the block, Corec found that Boktar and Razai still fought. Josip had joined them, apparently recovered from his injuries, though the weapons he was using weren’t his. And was that Bobo leaning against a nearby wall, his eyes closed? What was he doing there?

Corec jogged in that direction, the others following him. There was still a fight to finish.

#

“Act normal,” Rusol hissed as he, Jasper, and Rodulf reached the entrance to the dining hall. “If you look nervous, they’ll know something’s wrong.”

The two frightened wizards were forced to obey any orders he gave them, thanks to the modified warden bond, but an order could only go so far. Neither of the men were actors. Rodulf pasted a rictus of a smile across his face, while Jasper attempted to project confidence, though his eyes still darted back and forth as if wondering when he would be attacked.

It would have to do. Kolvi and Magnus would have been better choices for companions, but Leonis was unlikely to tolerate an elder witch, and Magnus would have refused to sit down with priests of Pallisur. Besides, those two had another role to play this evening. Rusol glanced up at the musicians’ balcony overlooking the dining hall. Kolvi nodded to him, then disappeared again behind the curtain. Magnus would be with her, the two of them prepared to strike when Rusol gave the order.

Leonis and his men hadn’t arrived yet, but the hall was busy with servants setting the table. Rusol had come early on purpose.

“Avoid the peppered beans,” he said, “and pay close attention to see if any of Leonis’s men do so as well. If they do, kill them first, as soon as the poison starts taking hold in the others. Then, focus on those who are least affected. The poison will likely hit them at different times so we’ll have to work quickly once they figure out what’s going on. Remember, they’re priests, so they might be able to heal themselves if we’re not fast enough.”

“I don’t like this,” Jasper muttered. “Killing them in cold blood.”

“I told you what Leonis is trying to do. Do you really want to swear obedience to Pallisur and his teachings to get your spells back?”

“That’s impossible,” the old man said. “He can’t really do that, can he?”

“I don’t know, so let’s make sure we don’t have to find out.”

Rusol eyed the room, looking for anything out of place. Except for Samir, he’d never killed anyone before, and tonight he would have to kill nine men. Was he up to the task? Leonis and his men were battle-hardened warrior priests with centuries of experience fighting elder witches. True, it was unlikely they’d faced many witches as strong as Kolvi or Rusol, but there were nine of them. Had Rusol overestimated his own capabilities? Would the poison really be enough to give them an edge?

The word warden suggested some sort of guardianship or protection, but the dreams Rusol had received when he was chosen hadn’t indicated how to go about that. After his brother’s death, protecting his family had been an obvious choice, and he couldn’t afford to wait for the threat to come to him. The other wardens had struck first. He had to hunt them down before they could strike again.

But killing Leonis went beyond protecting Rusol’s own family, or even the nation of Larso. The Church of Pallisur was a blight, and anything that gave the Church or the god himself more power had to be prevented. Leonis may have been a madman, but if there was any chance his scheme might actually work, it had to be stopped.

Was this what it meant to be a warden? Rikard had always been the golden child of the family, beloved by commoners and nobles alike. Rusol had preferred to stay in the background, uncomfortable around other people. Rather than helping to administer his family’s own kingdom, he’d spent most of his time learning to master magics that were illegal there. He hadn’t had a choice, of course—he’d been born with demon blood, and the elder magic had affected him far more than it had his brother—but it meant he’d never held much of a position of importance in either the family or the kingdom. Not until Rikard’s death, and even then, there had only been grudging acceptance of Rusol as the new heir.

Now, though, he felt a sense of significance, momentousness. He would finally do something that mattered. The people of Larso had no idea of the threat they faced, but Rusol was going to save them from it.

It was almost enough to help him forget his terror at the knowledge that failure would end in his death. Almost, but not quite.

How could Leonis actually go through with his plan? He was a warden, too. Shouldn’t he know how wrong it was? His insanity must have pushed him over the edge. There was no other explanation that made sense.

The sound of stomping boots came from the corridor, and Leonis and his eight priests filed into the room. They all wore full armor and had their weapons at their sides. Some had shields strapped to their backs.

Rusol swallowed. He had his own sword belted at his waist—he was in Fort Northtower after all—but he’d left his armor back in his suite. Heavy armor wasn’t appropriate for a formal supper. Leonis’s men apparently didn’t follow the same custom.

Then they fanned out across the room into a half-circle, making it obvious they hadn’t come for supper. The last few servants, sensing trouble, slipped out through the kitchen entrance.

Rusol felt a sudden spike of fear in his gut. “What’s the meaning of this?” he asked, trying to keep his voice from wavering. Just because they were armed and armored didn’t mean they’d discovered he was trying to kill them. It was still possible the priests were chasing after some other threat, real or imagined.

“Did you really think you could use demonic magic under my nose and I wouldn’t learn of it?” Leonis asked, his voice full of quiet menace. “It was bad enough when I thought you were an elder witch, but a demonborn? You are no kin of mine.” He clenched his fist and Rusol fell to his knees, feeling like a puppet with its strings cut.

He tried to stand, but he couldn’t move his limbs; he could barely breathe. His mind raced. He’d known, in theory, that some priests had power over demonborn, but he’d never experienced it for himself—never realized how overwhelming it was. He needed time to think.

“You … would …” He had to pause, gasping for air. “You would blame me … for an … accident of birth?” The Church wavered back and forth on its stance regarding demonborn. It was unlikely that Leonis’s thoughts on the matter were so indecisive, but if Rusol could delay for just a bit longer, it would give his bondmates time to react.

“Demonborn are no accident,” the other warden said. “The only question is what to do with you. The Order of Pallisur in Larso has lost its way. I doubt I can trust them for anything, and I’m too close to my goal to deal with a war right now. We’ll have to make it look like an accident.”

Why wasn’t anyone doing anything? True, if Jasper or Rodulf started casting a spell while surrounded by armed men, they’d be cut down before they could finish, but why hadn’t Kolvi or Magnus taken action? They were still hidden, undiscovered. They could take Leonis by surprise.

Could they be waiting for a signal? Surely they could see Rusol couldn’t move. Why weren’t they helping?

Without them, there was only one option.

Rusol embraced the divine blessings the shadow creature had granted him.

Leonis’s spell might prevent Rusol from using demonic or elder magic, but it didn’t block divine magic. With a moment’s thought, he banished the other warden’s spell, freeing himself, then switched to elder magic and thrust his hands forward, sending a wall of towering flame toward the priests directly ahead of him.

The quick change in fortune startled them, giving him time to jump to his feet. The inferno reached his enemies, but they’d taken precautions. The fire washed over them without harm—all except one, who burst alight, squealing in agony as he burned to death.

Leonis rushed forward, his warhammer in a double-handed grip. Rusol targeted him with a direct bolt of lightning to the chest. The priest’s protection spells held but he was still knocked off his feet from the impact. Rusol hit him again while he was down, then tried to figure out how to adapt the old plan to the new situation.

The original idea had been for Rusol, Jasper, and Rodulf to sit at the far end of the table so Rusol and Kolvi could catch Leonis and his men in between them. Surrounded as they were, that wasn’t an option, which meant Rusol and the two wizards were in danger from friendly fire. He quickly cast three more divine spells, shielding himself and his allies from fire, lightning, and even physical attacks, though he knew that last one would be of limited effectiveness.

The priest to Leonis’s right shook off his surprise, then waded through the fire to bash Rusol to the ground with his shield. Rusol’s protective aura held, though, and the pain wasn’t as great as he’d expected. The priest raised his sword to strike, but a beam of light suddenly took him in the face, melting away his features.

There was a sharp cry from Rodulf, and then the wizard fell silent.

“Now!” Rusol shouted, and Kolvi joined the battle, streaks of lightning bursting from the balcony. She focused her attack on the priests nearest to her, not realizing Rusol and the wizards were protected from her magic, so Rusol spun around to check on the others.

Rodulf had been knocked to the ground and wasn’t moving, but his physical protection spell still held. Jasper, though, was hit by a glowing white sword before he could complete his first spell. The first strike shattered the protective aura and the second bit deeply into his torso. His eyes went blank as he fell.

Rusol launched streamers of lightning toward the priests who’d taken out his wizards, following up with more bursts of flame, hoping Kolvi was keeping the others away from his back. It was a matter of speed and endurance now. Would the protection spells give out before the priests could reach them?

Kolvi extended her lightning storm to cover the entire room, apparently realizing the wild bursts of elder magic weren’t harming Rusol or his bondmates. Or maybe she just didn’t care. The priest who’d hit Rodulf was knocked to the ground by a bolt. The protective aura faded away from the one who’d attacked Jasper just as Rusol hit him again, the lightning frying his body and leaving a smoking corpse.

Magnus shouted a word of warning and Rusol whirled back the other way to find Leonis climbing to his feet. Rusol threw balls of flame which exploded when they hit him, but the man’s shielding spells remained strong.

Above them, Magnus stepped to the edge of the balcony and drew his war bow to its full strength, putting his whole body into it. He aimed at one of the priests and loosed an arrow that glowed with the brilliant white light of divine magic. The projectile hit its target, blasting through the man’s divine protection spell and steel breastplate.

Rusol crouched down and slapped the floor in front of him, transforming the stone into something viscous, almost as if it had melted but without the heat. The stone changed in a wave rolling out from Rusol’s position, trapping Leonis and two of his men before becoming solid once more. One of the priests had tripped and was swallowed completely, no longer a threat, but Leonis and the other were merely sealed up to their waists. Leonis pounded frantically at the stone with his glowing warhammer, chipping away at it.

“Stop, demon!” the man shouted. “I command you!” His words echoed around the room, growing louder with each iteration, but they had no effect. Rusol’s demonborn nature was still protected by his own divine magic.

Magnus released a second gleaming arrow, which took the other half-buried priest in the back of the neck, killing him instantly.

Rusol blasted Leonis with a lightning bolt, then another, trying to break down his protective spells. Just as one wore off, the priest replaced it with another. Kolvi joined the attack, but Rusol felt himself weakening. Even bound in place, the other man seemed easily capable of protecting himself from their spells.

Rusol’s vision went red with demon rage, and he drew the mirror-like sword his mother had gifted him. Leonis had left the face guard up on his helmet, and the longsword had a longer reach than the priest’s warhammer. Rusol had never fought with a weapon before, though, and his first stab was tentative. Leonis blocked the thrust, knocking the blade from his hands.

Rusol scrambled for it, and as he laid his hands on the hilt, something within the enchanted sword spoke to him. Without quite understanding how he was doing it, he pushed fire magic into the weapon. The blade burst alight, flames flickering along the edges.

Snarling, he struck again, avoiding Leonis’s parry but hitting his aura of protection. It was like trying to stab through dozens of layers of cloth, but the aura flickered wildly when the sword of fire hit it.

He thrust a third time. The flickering was lighter now, and didn’t last as long. Growling deep in his throat, he raised his weapon once more just as Kolvi’s next bolt knocked the warhammer out of Leonis’s hand.

“No!” the warden wailed. “Pallisur promised!”

Rusol rammed the flaming blade through the last of the protective aura and into Leonis’s face. The tip scraped against the man’s cheekbone, burning the flesh, before sliding into his eye. Leonis’s body jerked back and then slumped over, his lower half still encased in stone. The flames on the sword slowly died out.

Breathing heavily, Rusol stepped back to find Sir Barat staring at him in shock, surrounded by the bodies of two other knights and three servants who appeared to have been struck down by fire and wild lightning strikes. How long had they been there? Rusol had never noticed them entering the room.

“Obey me!” he shouted. There wasn’t time for finesse—he needed the compulsion spell to take effect quickly. “Guard the doors! Don’t let anyone in! If they ask, tell them that the foreigners tried to kill us.”

Barat hit his clenched fist to his chest in a salute and went to do his master’s bidding, while Rusol turned to survey the rest of the dining hall. All of Leonis’s men were down, not moving. There were three with Magnus’s arrows sticking from their bodies, plus the remains of several more arrows that had shattered against protective spells or armor. Apparently Magnus had been helping more than it had appeared at the time.

The other priests were dead from lightning or fire, plus the one buried beneath the stone floor and the one Rodulf had managed to kill. Rusol rushed over to the young wizard, finding him still breathing but bleeding from a wound to his temple.

“Get down here!” Rusol called out to Magnus and Kolvi, and they disappeared from the musicians’ balcony, heading to the stairs that led down to the dining hall. While they were on the way, Rusol checked on Jasper, but it was too late for the old man. He was already dead.

Magnus strode into the room, a broad smile on his face. “You’ve done well, my friend,” he said. “The Lady will be pleased. A great victory against Pallisur!”

“A victory against the wardens,” Rusol snapped. “Hurry, Rodulf needs healing.”

A brief flash of anger crossed Magnus’s face, but then it was gone and he crouched down near the boy.

As the excitement of the battle wore off, Rusol’s knees went weak. He found a fallen chair near the remnants of the table, and set it right side up so he could take a seat.

Kolvi had stopped near Leonis’s body. “Do you think he was really Torwin Larse?” she asked, staring down at it.

“Does it matter?” Rusol said.

“If it was truly him, he’s been hunting the elderfolk for centuries. Our own people, Rusol. It wasn’t enough for him to slaughter us here in Larso? He had to follow after the clans he chased to the north to continue his work?” She spit on the body. “He was an evil man.”

Rusol was descended from the elderfolk himself, but he didn’t have the same connection to them that Kolvi did. She’d grown up among them, one of the clans that had remained hidden within Larso. Still, he supposed she and Magnus were right. There was more than one reason to have killed Leonis.

And he’d done it. He’d managed to kill an experienced warden and his bondmates. He hadn’t even needed the poison. Rusol started laughing, then found he couldn’t stop. He laughed so loud that even Sir Barat poked his head back in through the door to see what was happening. Hiccups set in, and Rusol’s stomach began to ache, but he still couldn’t stop laughing.

Magnus laid a hand on his back and the pressure eased. “A warrior never knows how battle will affect him until it happens. Don’t worry about how you react after the fight is over.”

Rusol drew in a long breath, trying to recover from his hysterics. Perhaps Magnus’s words were meant to sound kind, but Rusol was supposed to be the one in charge. It was time to remind them of that.

“This was too easy,” he said. “I don’t think all of the priests were Leonis’s bondmates. He might have left some behind in Blue Vale. Let’s get his vambraces off and check his runes.” Judging by the First’s runes, if a bondmate died before a warden, it would leave behind a permanent scar. Even if the other runes had disappeared when Leonis died, it might still help them determine how many of the dead priests the man had bonded. Or maybe not—a dead rune could just as easily have belonged to a bondmate who’d died long ago. But some information was better than none, and Rusol needed to know if there would be any further threat coming from Blue Vale.

In the meantime, it would take days to clean up this mess. It would be easy to influence the knights and priests to believe the battle had been justified, but much harder to convince the entire tower that no magic had been involved. To do so, Rusol would need to use his demonic magic on a scale he’d never attempted before. It was time to try the new type of compulsion he and Magnus had been experimenting with, intended to create servants as obedient as his red-eyed hunters, while still allowing them to retain their human intelligence.

Then, he needed to return to Telfort and order Yassi to double her efforts to find mages for him to bond. He’d gotten lucky this time. Leonis and his men were used to fighting physically, depending on their divine defenses to protect them from magic—but those defenses could only protect against so much at once. Despite being a warden, Leonis had recruited only priests, rather than finding those who could have made up for his own weaknesses.

Rusol wouldn’t make the same mistake. This time, he wouldn’t bond the first random mage Yassi found, like Jasper. This time, he’d look for ones who could fight. Perhaps it was time to look outside Larso for his recruiting, maybe south to Matagor. There were wizards there who trained in the art of war.

There was a lot to do, but now he was certain he could do it—as long as the shadow creature didn’t ask for any payment for its help.