The Free Kingdoms (Book 2) (25 page)

The gale hit Toth with its full force. Bits splashed free and burst into the wizards at the door, drawing the air from their lungs and throwing them to the ground. The king struggled with his sword, trying to reach his feet but failing. Toth absorbed the attack, drawing power into himself like he was filling his lungs with sweet-smelling air. At last the vortex disappeared. Narud and the wasp fell to the ground. The light in Chantmer’s hands winked out.

Toth laughed, while Chantmer shrank in fear, face turning pale. The dark wizard’s voice was husky with power. “You are not Memnet’s equal, my friend. You failed to protect yourself while you drained magic from the gurgolet’s victims. Instead of destroying me, you have merely fed my power.”

He strode across the room to Chantmer, who trembled weakly “And now, slave,” Toth said. “I will bind your soul.”

Left hand still holding the Tome of Prophesy, Toth put his right on Chantmer’s shoulder. The man screamed and struggled to free himself. His eyes bulged and blood streamed from his nose and ears while he writhed under Toth’s hand.

Markal had never cared for Chantmer, had grown to hate him, but at one time the wizard had believed in the Order as much as any of them. Whatever had turned him to lust power didn’t mean he deserved to become Toth’s wight. While the others remained on the floor, Markal regained his feet and threw himself at the dark wizard, drawing his magic even before he knew what spell he would cast.

Markal had felt such moments before, when the magic coursed through his veins with such strength that he tasted what more powerful wizards felt. But always before, the magic leaked away at a moment of doubt. But today, his anger and force of will burned so strongly that the full strength of his magic flowed from his limbs, crackling in the air.

And it came to him, the perfect spell. His arms turned into long thorns, dripping poison and sharp as the tree that had impaled the Martyr. He threw himself at the two men, prepared to send these two evil men to the Harvester.

Toth pulled away from Chantmer and lifted his hands to defend himself. Markal buried his left thorn into the man’s chest. Toth reeled backwards and gasped, trying to free himself. Markal shoved the thorn further in, its poisoned tip touching the man’s heart. Toth slumped to the ground, dead.

Then, pulling free, Markal turned to finish Chantmer the Betrayer, who stood with mouth agape. But Chantmer had one final trick. Memnet’s Orb flared in his hands, and Chantmer wrapped his cloak around his shoulders, then bled into the air, leaving Markal to stab at nothing. A puff of red smoke trickled along the ground, leaking out the window and leaving the tower. The orb fell uselessly to the ground, rolling into a corner.

A blue figure stood where Toth’s body lay, more solid than a wight. Taller even that Chantmer and wearing a gray robe inscribed with cartouches, it struggled to pick up the Tome of Prophesy, but couldn’t get its fingers around the book. When it stood upright, its eyes burned with hatred. It sped toward the door, reaching for King Daniel. But the other wizards threw themselves in front of their king, making signs of warding. The tip of Toth’s fingers touched Daniel’s hand, but then it was driven back.

“You haven’t won,” Toth said. “Tonight I will find another body and Cragyn’s Hammer will bring the Golden Tower to the ground. My dragons will turn the Citadel into a wasteland and I will put every man, woman, and child in Eriscoba to the stake. And I will have the book anyway.” It sped from the open window.

Narud returned to human form, while the thorns on the end of Markal’s arms returned to their proper shape. One hand shriveled and blackened. King Daniel took his sword and killed the wounded wasp, then joined the others in appraising Markal with new respect.

Markal said, “If the Citadel falls, it won’t be under Toth’s magic. He is drained of power.” He smiled. “The perfect time to hunt his soul.”

#

But while Toth lost the battle in the Golden Tower, his armies regained the road outside the city.

Four dragons roared fire on the Eriscobans at Cragyn’s Hammer. Griffins poured in from every side, but the massive beasts shrugged away the attacks and pounded at the cavalry to drive them from the bombard. Dragon wasps came from all directions to press the griffins.

Toth’s army regained its courage when it saw the dragons. A band of Kratian nomads turned the attack first, charging their camels into the fray. Mammoths came from further back, storming along the road and sweeping their metal-capped tusks back and forth to clear their path. Veyrian cavalry and footmen swarmed back into the fight.

Within minutes, the Eriscobans faltered under attack from air and ground. The camel riders overtook Cragyn’s Hammer and fortified the bombard while the mammoths and cavalry drove the Eriscobans back toward the gates. Darik saw that they hoped to flank the Eriscobans and reach the gates before Hoffan’s men shut the gates and barbicans behind them.

Prize secured, the dragons turned on the embattled griffins. One huge beast turned its head in Darik’s direction and bellowed a cone of fire. Joffa ducked out of the way. Flames crisped the hair on Darik’s arms, but he was otherwise unharmed. Others were not so lucky, including Flockheart. He fell to the ground, burning and entangled in Brasson’s tether. Both griffin and rider landed in the midst of the enemy, and were swarmed over by men with swords. Others fell all around them, and dragon wasps surrounded Daria.

And then, a trumpet sounded overhead, followed by an answering call. Darik looked into the sky. He’d seen the cloud castles since Balsalom, watching the battles, but refusing to participate. Throughout the day they’d drifted ever lower, as if they wanted a closer view. And now they rode to war.

Hundreds of winged horses dropped from the castles, white armored knights in their saddles. Visors lowered on helmets and shields outstretched, the winged knights lowered lances and charged. Wasps rose to meet them, but they scattered wasp and kin and rode at the nearest dragon. They hit the beast before it knew it was under attack. Some lances broke on the impact, but others bit deep. The dragon roared in pain, while the other three flew to meet the new attack. The winged knights turned from the wounded dragon to meet them.

Rolling forward in a series of precise charges, the winged knights fought away the dragons between belches of fire. They killed dozens of dragon wasps, and wounded all three remaining dragons, but none as seriously as the first, who’d born the brunt of a full charge, unprepared.

At last, the three strongest dragons turned east and fled, building speed as they headed toward the mountains. Darik expected the winged knights to ride in pursuit, or sweep down and turn the tide of battle yet again, and allow Hoffan to recapture Cragyn’s Hammer. Instead, they flew for the Golden Tower.

Daria shouted for the griffins to regroup, and the survivors came to her call. Her father had fallen, and she rode on an unfamiliar mount, but Daria looked every bit the warlord. She sat high in the saddle, her hair blowing back from her head, her mouth firm and defiant. Daria held her sword overhead and ordered a charge at the remaining dragon, wounded but still dangerous.

“Daria!” the other riders shouted. “Daria Flockheart!” They followed her into battle.

#

Markal and Narud carried King Daniel toward the door. Still weakened from his brush with Toth’s wight, he struggled to his feet and reached the stairs under his own power. Markal turned back to retrieve the Tome of Prophesy. The room hung heavy with death, so palpably thick that he didn’t know how the Order would ever meet here again, should the Citadel survive. He stepped past the dead wasp and Toth’s body toward the dais.

A commotion sounded outside the windows, and a man swooped into the room on the back of a winged horse. Dressed in white armor, the man kept his face hidden behind its helm until the winged horse came to a stop a few feet away from Markal. Three more winged knights flew into the room. Their mounts pranced nervously in the enclosed area, shaking their heads and wings, while their riders calmed them.

Markal grabbed the Tome and ran. Shouts and neighing horses sounded further down the stairs, and he knew they’d taken the lower levels already. He turned back to the four knights, readying a spell.

The first of the knights threw off his helmet. A circlet of gold sat on his brow. Markal was struck by the resemblance between Collvern and his father. The piercing blue eyes and the strong jaw-line had been in the royal family since the fall of Aristonia. And like the rest of them, pride soured his face.

“Collvern,” Markal said.

“Markal. You lied to me. Kallia never had the book.”

Markal said, “Did you expect the truth? I’m not beholden to you.”

“But the lies. What of your oaths to your Order?”

“A lie, Collvern?” Markal said. “You meant to kill two innocents, and I had to prevent you. Even my oaths don’t compel me to protect my enemies at the expense of my friends.”

Collvern shrugged. “I hope that story comforts you. Alas, we punished the khalifa of Balsalom simply to disprove your lie. I hope the khalifa’s death doesn’t tax your conscience.”

Markal searched his face and saw the lie in his eyes. Something had happened, but not Kallia’s death. “Enough of this. Have you come to our aid, or are you an enemy?”

The king shook his head. “We are neither. We care nothing for Outlanders, or your wars. Only taking back what is ours so we can defend ourselves.”

“Aristonia is dead, and the Desolation has existed in its place for so long that revenge is meaningless,” Markal said. “Why not join the battle and together we can drive the dark wizard back to Veyre?”

Collvern said, “The Cloud Kingdoms are for the Cloud Kingdoms. Nothing more and nothing less.”

“Then why have you come?” Markal asked. “To scold me? Have you no more pride than that?”

The king ignored this insult. “To retrieve the Tome of Prophesy, of course. It is rightfully ours, scribed by an Aristonian wizard.”

Maybe so, Markal thought, but the steel plates had been forged so long ago that such claim was meaningless. The writer of this book hadn’t even spoken the same language as was spoken in Mithyl now. But more importantly, he knew the misuse Chantmer had put the tome to and didn’t want to relinquish it.

He stepped back toward the door. “No. I found the book and I have given it to the Order of the Wounded Hand. And I have the means to protect it.”

Collvern narrowed his eyes. “Perhaps,” the king said. “But as you can hear, we’ve taken the Golden Tower. Indeed, my magistrate Kreth is below with the weakened remnants of your Order. If you hide or protect the book, I promise you that the Citadel will fall tonight. We will destroy the Golden Tower and let the enemy into the city. And we will destroy the remnants of the Order of the Wounded Hand. Otherwise, we will leave you alone.”

Disbelieving, Markal stared at the king. The book belonged to the successors of the Crimson Path, that order of Aristonian wizards destroyed in the wars. And the leading survivor of that order, was Markal. Indeed, the Mountain Brother had put the book into his care at Flockheart’s tower. Furthermore, he’d already seen how dangerous the book was in the power of someone like Chantmer, or King Collvern, equally as arrogant.

But he had no choice. There was no way they could stand against the Cloud Kingdoms
and
Toth’s army. Very well. He might give the book away, but he would get it back soon enough.

Reluctantly, Markal stepped forward and held out the Tome of Prophesy, all too aware that he betrayed the promise he’d made to the Mountain Brother. Collvern took the book with a triumphant smile, then turned his mount toward the window. The others followed. They flew from the tower.

Markal dropped his head. As he did, Memnet’s Orb rolled from the shadows to lie at his feet. Markal retrieved it, surprised. He remembered the day the orb first appeared to Memnet the Great while he studied in the library, and wondered why the orb wanted him to take it. The glass was cool under his touch. A tiny ember glowed at its center, struggling to stay lit. Chantmer had drained it to the point of death. Markal caressed it, gave it just enough life force to keep it alive, then turned back toward the window.

As the winged knights disappeared into the sky to return to their Cloud Kingdoms, the tower shuddered beneath Markal’s feet, struck by some object. He shoved the orb into his robes, then looked down from the window to see what new blow had fallen.

#

Daria’s griffins attacked the wounded dragon with a fury that belied their reduced numbers. They attacked it with sword, claw, and beak. The dragon’s skin was thicker than leather, but not invulnerable. Soon it bled from a hundred cuts, griffins at its neck and attacking its back. Darik rode underneath, Waspcleaver biting into the dragon’s underbelly. It loomed above him, massive and scalding from the fires in its belly. Broken lances protruded from its flesh.

Twice the dragon roared fire, catching griffins both times, but the attack continued, unrelenting. It lifted higher into the air to flee, but griffins pinned it against the Golden Tower. At last, wings torn, tail broken, the dragon lurched toward the ground, eyes dimming. It crashed into the Golden Tower, just above where Cragyn’s Hammer had attacked the masonry, then slid to the ground, fall broken by the wall. It shuddered twice, then lay still.

They had done it!
Darik realized with elation. They had killed the dragon. He could see no other dragons or wasps anywhere on the battlefield. They had fled.

And, as he looked back at the battle, he saw further good news. Most of Hoffan’s men reached Eastgate in time, while protective barbicans slid to secure their retreat. Arrows rained down from walls and towers at the enemy, forcing them from the walls. Toth’s army had retaken Cragyn’s Hammer, but it lay in the ground, its cart destroyed. Useless for now.

But the enemy surged toward the walls. Not toward the gates, but to the base of the Golden Tower. The dragon’s fall had broken through the damaged masonry, opening a breach into the bailey and the lower levels of the Golden Tower itself. Archers slaughtered the enemy by the score, while griffins harried their assault, but the Veyrians would gain entrance to the city.