Warrior Witch: Malediction Trilogy Book Three (27 page)

M
y magic skated
over the sea, stretching in a long strip beneath Roland’s bridge, reaching both ends just before his magic vanished and the whole mess of humans and skiffs dropped on my flimsy replacement. There’d been no time to brace it against the sea floor, and the weight jerked me to my knees, dragging me forward and sending Damia’s, the Dowager Duchesse d’Angoulême’s, head rolling off into the brush.

I skidded on hands and knees toward the surf, my wrists trembling as I tried to find enough leverage to keep those thousands of people from plunging to their deaths. An icy wave struck me in the face, but I managed to turn and stop my slide with my heels, edging backwards as I sank a series of pillars into the ocean depths to hold the bridge up.

But it wasn’t enough.

Water hammered the length of it, the strength of the sea dragging my bridge back and forth, waves cresting to push at the skiffs, forcing me to grab them with fingers of magic to keep them in place. But for all my efforts, there were overturned craft in the water. It wouldn’t be long until bodies washed up on the shore.

And Roland was coming.

Get up,
I ordered myself, staggering to my feet. I could feel the weight on the Trianon end lightening; the familiar brush of Marc’s magic as he lifted the skiffs off the bridge. But he wasn’t moving quickly enough. Not even close.

I couldn’t run. If Roland got between me and the bridge, it would be child’s play for him to cut the flows holding it up. This was where I would make my stand.

It wasn’t long before my brother stepped out of the trees, Angoulême at his side. Roland’s eyes looked dead, but the Duke’s were full of fury. He knelt next to his mother’s body and touched her cheek, and any thought I might’ve had that he’d set her up to die was chased away.

“If Cécile survives your death, I’m going to find her and make her wish she hadn’t,” he hissed, rising to his feet. He shoved Roland hard between the shoulders. “Kill him and take the crown. Make yourself King of Trollus and ruler of the Isle of Light.”

The words acted like a trigger, delight washing across my brother’s face. Then he attacked.

The first blow made my shield shudder; the second radiated through my limbs, making my body ache. I couldn’t do both, couldn’t hold all those lives out of the water while holding back my brother.
One more
, I told myself,
one more, and you’ll have done all you can
.

The impact sent me staggering, and the magic behind me collapsed. I swore I could hear the screams of the drowning over the pounding of the waves.

Roland laughed, and magic whirled toward me like a storm. I braced, putting all the might I had at my disposal into a counterblow. The strength that had held up Forsaken Mountain. That had quelled my enemies. That had allowed me to walk through fire and ice unscathed.

It was not enough.

H
ands were on me
, Sabine’s and Marc’s, trying to hold me steady, but I pushed them away and fell against the wall, my fingernails digging into the stone. Drawing in a deep breath, I tried to sing, but it came out raspy and jarring. Snatching up the water skin, I guzzled the contents even as the horde began to shift and move, many of the people climbing to their feet, the injured struggling against those trying to help them.

I began the lullaby again, but the magic was faulty and impure, the islanders not reverting to that blissful calm, but swaying and twitching with collective unease.

“Is he dead?” Marc demanded, his hand gripping my arm hard enough to leave bruises.

I shook my head, tears falling from my face with the motion.

“Hurt or unconscious?”

I nodded, but those terms didn’t encapsulate all of what I was feeling. Unconscious, hurt, and… drained.

“Shit!” He was across the tower to the door in an instant. “Get all of ours back inside the wall,” he ordered the half-blood messenger Tips had left behind. “Now. Hurry.” Then he set off a series of lights, which were answered by flashing on the wall.

Chris swooped over top of us. “I saw Roland,” he shouted. “He’s sitting alone in a field. But I couldn’t find Tristan.”

Bile burned in my throat, and I tried and failed to tune him out.

“And we’ve got more trouble coming our way,” he shouted as Melusina circled. “Dozens of Angoulême’s followers are coming this way, fast.”

“How do you know they’re his?” Marc asked. “They could be from Trollus.”

“Because I recognize the troll leading them,” Chris replied. “It’s Comtesse Báthory. They’ll be here in a half-hour, tops.”

So much for Roland killing her.

The dragon landed on the tower, and Chris climbed off. “You need to find him,” Marc said. “Go and look.”

“I don’t know how,” my friend said, his eyes welling up. “The water is full of bodies.”

I felt sick, but the song kept flowing.

“Victoria and Vincent will be out there as well; look to them for help,” Marc said.

“I’ll try,” Chris said, then he inexplicably snatched Souris up and stuffed him in his coat before leaping onto the dragon’s back.

Lights flickered in a pattern on the wall. “Everyone’s inside,” Marc said, then his hands fell on my shoulders. “Stop singing.”

I stiffened, risking my focus to turn and look at him.

“Better they think Tristan’s dead,” he said. “And if he was, you wouldn’t have the focus for magic.”

Stopping felt like abandoning all those out there, but I knew he was right. We’d done what we could for them, and now we needed to prepare for the attack. I let the song trail off, turning to the center of the tower so I wouldn’t have to witness the reemergence of their madness. Then I took a deep breath. “We need to go down to the wall and see what we can do to prepare.”

M
arc had raced ahead
to warn Fred and his men of what was coming. Sabine and I followed on horseback, her clinging to my waist as we raced through the empty streets. Windows and doors were boarded shut, but there was no missing the fearful eyes peering through the cracks or the tension singing through all of Trianon. They knew what was coming.

On the wall, it was even worse. The half-bloods were arrayed at equal intervals, holding up their piece of the patchwork barrier, but their faces were drawn, hands resting against the stone for balance, a few even on their knees as if the effort of standing was beyond them. The expressions of the human soldiers were even worse. Some sat staring blankly at nothing; others wept openly; more still were muttering prayers for divine protection which were barely audible over the cries of the horde below.

I glanced through an arrow slit, and immediately wished I had not. “Let us in, let us in,” they screamed when they caught sight of my face, a mass of them surging forward with renewed effort. Clawing, grasping, pushing, and shoving – not a one of them seemed without injury, and the ground at the base of the wall was drenched with blood and bodies. Had that hour of respite done them any good, or had I only prolonged their anguish?

Turning away, I hurried to where Marc stood. Fred and Joss kneeling at his feet, in my brother’s arms a still, silver-haired form. “No,” I shrieked, sprinting toward them. “Gran!”

But even as I fell to my knees, I knew it was too late.

“We were out there helping the children.” I looked up and saw Lady Marie standing next to Marc. I hadn’t recognized her in the plain homespun she wore, her hair pulled back in a tight braid. “She was healing those who needed it, and I was giving a sleeping draught to them so they wouldn’t rejoin the mob when your spell broke and…” Her voice cracked. “She had just finished healing a little girl, and she collapsed. There was nothing I could do.”

A sob tore out of my chest, and I staggered over to an arrow slit and looked out. Sure enough, beyond the horde lay a long row of small forms, their faces still with the peace of sleep. “Bring them in,” I choked out, refusing to see them trampled or injured when the battle began. Refusing for my gran’s last act to be a waste.

No one moved.

“Bring them in,” I screamed.

Marc nodded, and I watched as tender ropes of magic wrapped around the children, lifting them over the madness made of their parents and relatives, and deposited them gently on the ground inside the dubious safety of the wall. He turned to Sabine, but she was already moving. “I’ll get them somewhere safe,” she said.

“I have more of the potion,” Marie said, touching my shoulder. “If you’ll let me bring more of the children in, I can give it to them and treat their injuries.”

She was asking my permission, I realized. Like I was the ruler instead of her. “Do it.”

Nodding once, she turned and called, “Zoé!”

The half-blood girl who had once been my maid appeared, and the two hurried around the bend in the wall, their heads together as they conferred.

I gently kissed my gran’s forehead, pulled her cloak over her face, and then I said, “How do you think this is going to go?”

“They know I’m in here,” Marc replied, staring out over the hills and fields as though he could see our enemy coming. “They know hundreds of half-bloods, many of whom possess a fair amount of power, are in here.” His jaw flexed. “Angoulême built this army for a reason – I believe they’ll disguise themselves and join the horde, break down sections of the wall and get inside the city hidden within the flow of humans. After that…” He shook his head.

“But you’d be able to pick them out of a crowd, wouldn’t you?” Fred asked. “Feel their power, or however that works?”

“Yes,” Marc said. “But they’ll be hemmed in by civilians on all sides. Attacking them without harming dozens of innocents would be next to impossible. And even if that was a sacrifice we were willing to make, we don’t have the power to fight them all.”

“Can we get word to Trollus?” I asked, wishing there was a way for me to contact Martin. “The trolls there helped those on the water – maybe they’d be willing to help here.”

“We can send a half-blood,” Marc replied. “But even if they’d be willing, I’m not sure they’d make it in time.”

Fred was staring through the arrow slit down at the screaming islanders, not seeming to be paying attention to anything we said. I jabbed him in the ribs with a finger. “Suggestions?”

He nodded slowly, and in a tone that was alarmingly similar to one I often employed, he said, “I think I have a plan.”

I
t was deathly
quiet on the wall, every half-blood in Trianon grim faced as they held their portion of magic reinforcing the stone. Down below, almost every soldier Fred had at his disposal stood armed to the teeth, waiting. Ready to fight the moment the wall was breached.

Almost
every soldier.

I paced up and down the narrow walkway, stopping to peer carefully through an arrow slit from time to time to see if I could pick out a familiar face in the horde below.

Under Marc’s watchful eye, several of Tips’s crew had carefully opened the tunnel they’d dug to get under the city wall when they first arrived, allowing Fred and a hundred of his most trusted men to leave Trianon undetected. Dressed in civilian clothes with cloaks to cover their weapons, they’d joined the mass of islanders trying to push their way through the wall, mimicking their wails and mannerisms. Waiting.

“Please go back to the castle, Cécile,” Marc said. “Sabine, Marie, and Joss could use your help, and there is nothing you can do here.”

The women had taken cartloads of sleeping children back to the castle, and it was true that many were injured and needed a witch’s touch. But I couldn’t bear to leave. “My brother’s out there,” I whispered.
I’m afraid of losing him, too.

“I can’t spare anyone to stand guard over you.”

“Then don’t,” I said. “I know the risks, and I’m not helpless.” I pulled open my coat to reveal a pair of pistols and a set of blades. “Besides, the castle will be the first place they look for me.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw him shake his head, but he voiced no further argument.

“Let us in, let us in.” I tried not to hear, not to listen, but sweat had already soaked through my shirt despite the chill of the air.

Marc hissed through his teeth. “Báthory.”

“Where?”

“The woman in the red cloak. I’d recognize that strut anywhere.” His hand went to the pommel of the sword at his waist, as though that would be his first line of attack. “There’s another. And another.” Careful to keep out of sight, he pointed out the approaching trolls. All of them wore hooded cloaks that obscured their faces, and other than Báthory, all were doing a fair job of imitating the motions of their human shield. Moving at a speed that would not attract attention, they joined the mob of humans, carefully pushing their way forward until they were hemmed in by islanders on all sides.

“Mark them.” His order rippled softly down the line of half-bloods, those known to have a deft touch lighting the faintest of sparks behind the heads of the enemy trolls. If I hadn’t been watching, I wouldn’t even have noticed, and I prayed it was enough to guide Fred’s men to their targets.

Sure enough, men began to move slowly toward the trolls, carefully, making it appear as though those around them were pushing them in that particular direction.

“Come on,” Marc hissed. “Get into position.”

And it was then I picked Fred out of the crowd, only a few feet away from Báthory now. “No,” I moaned, my hands turning to ice. “Not her.”

But he was right behind her, now pressed up against her, the troll not even noticing amidst the bumping and jostling of limbs and bodies.

“Brace yourself,” Marc said, and a heartbeat later, a horn blared and everything turned to chaos. Pistols fired and then men surged at their targets, steel blades in their hands. I saw a dozen trolls or more go down, but Báthory was not one of them. One hand pressed over the spurting hole the bullet had left when it exited her chest, she screamed and spun, catching Fred’s blade as it descended and wrenching it from his hand. Plucking it from the air, she sliced with a speed no human possessed, catching him on the arm. He went down, the crowd falling over him, and I screamed his name.

“Báthory,” Marc shouted, then he was over the wall, landing amongst the humans, who even in their stupor seemed to know enough to move. The air charged, magic smashing against magic; then the Comtesse was flying through the air, landing some distance away. Marc sprinted after her, sword in hand, and with a cruel slice, separated her head from her neck.

But none of that mattered. Not caring about the risk, I hung half over the wall, searching for Fred amongst the teeming mass. “Fred,” I screamed again. “Marc, find him!”

His silver eyes searched with no more success than mine, but before he could do more, stone shattered and a section of the wall collapsed. Shaking his head at me, he ran in the direction of the breach.

I didn’t know what to do. Even if I didn’t break both my legs jumping from this height, I was likely to be crushed by those beneath, most of whom were significantly larger than I was. But my brother was down there. My brother.

There was only one thing I could do, and if it gave away that I was alive, that Tristan was alive, then so be it.

I began to sing.

The islanders stilled, then sank down into the mud, their faces serene as they listened. I searched amongst them for my brother, relief crashing through me as I saw him struggle out from under the limbs of a pair of men, then drag himself away from the crush of humanity. His arm was bleeding profusely, but he was alive.

For now.

Because amongst the seated humans, there stood several cloaked figures who were unaffected by my magic. Not all of Angoulême’s followers had been killed. Not even close.

As one, they attacked, hammering against the half-bloods’ shields, and when those fell, the thick rock beneath. Sections of the wall crumbled or were blown inwards, and everywhere, everywhere, there was screaming. Great pieces of stone fell on the islanders below, their serene faces never registering fear as they were crushed, maimed, and killed. The soldiers behind me fought valiantly against the trolls who strolled in through the breaks in the wall, stepping on fallen humans like they were cobbles of a paved street. I hazarded a glance back and saw Marc fighting amongst them, but he was only one against dozens.

“Drop the wall and fight,” Tips roared, and the half-bloods fell into teams, sprinting down stairs and leaping off the walkway into the fray. Some threw themselves at the full-blooded trolls with no regard for their own lives, while others defended the human soldiers as they withdrew or regrouped. Some of the trolls fell, but only at incredible cost of life. We could not win this.

My voice was the only thing keeping the islanders out of the battle, but it felt like I was doing nothing. Pulling out one of my pistols, I leveled it at a troll wielding twin maces formed of magic that shattered bodies with each swing. If he was fighting like that, his shields were down. Finishing a verse, I aimed and fired, the bullet passing straight through his shoulder. He bellowed and spun around, eyes searching for the culprit.

And landing on me.

I fired with my other pistol, but he brushed the bullet aside, expression feral as he slashed an arm sideways. Half-bloods and human soldiers flung themselves at him, but it was too late, the air was already rippling with magic. Turning to the wall, I lunged toward a break in the parapet, and toppled over the edge.

I clenched my teeth for the impact, ready to start singing no matter how many bones I broke, because if I didn’t, the resurgence of the mob would trample me to death.

But the impact never came.

Instead, arms broke my fall, a familiar face appearing in my line of sight.

“I’ve been looking for you,” Martin said, winding his way through the islanders as they stirred. He started to say something else, but his voice was drowned out by the blare of a horn. Not the horn Angoulême’s followers had used in their attack, but the great horn of Trollus. It blared again, then I caught sight of movement in the trees and trolls broke into the open, sprinting our direction. Hundreds of them.

“I brought reinforcements,” Martin said. “Now let’s get out of the way.”

The citizens of Trollus descended on Trianon, some stopping to pluck the oath-sworn islanders up, drawing them back and holding them steady, while others leapt though the breaches in the wall, attacking Angoulême’s followers. They showed them no mercy, ripping them to pieces, and once the soldiers and half-bloods realized they were allies, not enemies, they roared a rallying cry. Not long after, it turned to cheers of victory.

The battle was over, and against all the odds, we had won.

But not without cost.