by Layton Green
“I don’t know where he is. He ran off on some quest, mumbling about a dream and having to fight Lord Alistair. You have to understand what happened to him—”
Will cut off as the air beside them shimmered. A tall man with a high forehead and regal bearing materialized, stepping out of the portal as his gray cloak with silver trimming fluttered behind him. He carried an azantite scepter, and bejeweled rings adorned every finger. Will knew at once who he was.
The opaque portal remained in place, a displacement of the air that bent the light in an oval behind Lord Alistair. His eyes moved to regard Synne hovering by the Coffer, and a satisfied smile graced his lips. “I see my faith in you was not misplaced.”
Val gave a slight bow. Mateo and Dalen were staring white-faced at the Chief Thaumaturge, Yasmina looked as collected as ever, and, strangely, Mala was nowhere in sight. Will glanced up and down the beach, and over at the parched hillside, but it was as if she had disappeared. Dalen looked too distracted to have cast an illusion. Had she seen Lord Alistair and decided to escape?
Yet if she had a way off the island, why not use it before they entered the keep?
“Shall we proceed?” Lord Alistair asked.
Val glanced at Will. “We’re ready.”
“Ready for what?” Will said.
“Send him home, please.”
“No!” Will cried, certain that Lord Alistair had the power to do exactly what Val had asked. Will reached back to grab his sword, yet before he could grip the weapon he found himself caught in an iron grip. Though he had not heard her move, Synne was holding him from behind, pinning his arms at his side. Will bucked to free himself while Mateo and the others watched in shock, not daring to intervene.
Val removed Zariduke from its sheath and handed it to Lord Alistair.
Will gasped in disbelief. “No!”
“I’m sorry. This sword has caused us so much trouble. Dad should never have left it for you. But it’s all over now. You’re going home, and no one’s coming after you.”
“You’re not listening. The sword and the Coffer are the only hope we have! How can you trust him? He probably killed our father!”
“No,” Val said, shaking his head. “We believe another mage did that. It’s one of the reasons I have to stay here.”
“So Groft didn’t have the sword after all, but wanted us to believe he did,” Lord Alistair mused. “A clever ruse.”
“Why would anyone do that?” Will said. “That doesn’t make sense!”
“To make the Revolution appear stronger than it really is,” Val said. “I’ve made my decision, Will. I’ll send Caleb as soon as I can.”
Lord Alistair unfurled a hand, and another portal opened beside Will, one that displayed a street scene full of people in modern dress, motorized cars, electric lights, and the familiar sights and sounds of Magazine Street. Home.
“Don’t!” Will cried. “I can’t go back yet!”
Val lowered his eyes. “I’m sorry. It’s the only way I’ll know you’re safe.”
“Dammit, Val! You’re not my protector anymore!” Will felt frantic as he looked at his brother and then Lord Alistair, and saw the inevitability of his fate in their eyes. “What about my friends?” he said, looking at Yasmina and the others. “Their safety is my responsibility.”
Val turned to Lord Alistair, and the Chief Thaumaturge considered the question. “As long as they renounce their participation in the Revolution, then I have no quarrel with them.”
“Thank you,” Val said. “Yasmina, would you like to go home?”
“I am home,” she said simply.
Surprised by her answer, Val seemed to take in her appearance for the first time, the pewter cloak and owl staff, then pressed his lips together and nodded.
Even if Lord Alistair was telling the truth—which Will doubted—he knew by the set to Mateo’s jaw that he would never renounce his people. “He won’t let them go, Val. He’ll stick them in the Fens.”
“He will if they keep their part of the bargain. It’s their choice.”
Will knew his brother was not in charge, and had no say in the matter. After Synne released Will, Lord Alistair flicked his wrist, causing Will to drift closer to the portal. In the background he saw Mardi Gras beads strewn on the traffic lights and oak trees, heard the clamor of tourists on the street. He tried to make a grab for the sword but couldn’t free himself from the grip of Lord Alistair’s magic. In fact, he couldn’t move a finger.
“Val,” he pleaded a final time, as the gateway drew nearer. “Please listen. Don’t do this. I have to stay here and help Caleb, and these people need us. Our people.”
“Goodbye for now, Will,” Val said softly. “I love you.”
As Will drifted into the portal, screaming at Val to listen, the beach and the brown hills and everyone around him disappeared, leaving Will hurtling through space and time, one world gone in an instant and another revealed.
Except Will did not land on Magazine Street in New Orleans, back on Earth as he expected. Instead the image of his home city disintegrated around him, as if it were a one-dimensional facade that had conveyed a false impression of depth, and behind the crumbling motes of light he saw damp, rough stone walls streaked with grime. His breath fogged the cold air as his surroundings clarified to reveal a ten-foot wide cell with a door of grated iron and a tiny hole in the corner. He rushed to the door, failed to budge it, and gripped the bars of the dungeon cell as the terrible reality of the situation set in.
PRAHA
-32-
In the amphitheater of the Nilometer, surrounded by tiers of empty alabaster rows soaring overhead and a score of dead bodies on the floor, Ferala grabbed the last remaining fighter by the throat and held her in the air. All around them, the macabre, lifelike remains of an array of exotic creatures bobbed from slender wires strung across the amphitheater.
The dhampyr’s slender fingers tightened around the throat of the mercenary. With her other hand, Ferala held the tip of her dagger an inch from the poor woman’s eyeball. “Where is Skara Brae?”
The woman couldn’t stop her hands from trembling. Despite living in one of the most dangerous cities on Urfe, and having faced countless monsters and cutthroats, the cold fingers and piercing crimson eyes of the dhampyr assassin frightened her more than anything she had ever faced. “I don’t know! The last I heard she’d gone off to the Old City again, her and Bartu.”
“You understand,” Ferala said, “that a single cut of my blade is fatal? You’ve seen my handiwork all around, yes?”
“I have,” the woman whispered. A contingent of Skara’s disciples had chosen not to flee the wrath of the dhampyr. One by one, they had all fallen. She was the last.
“Then you understand the consequence of lying to me? I assure you I will know if you’re withholding information.”
“I swear it! Skara left and we haven’t seen her for days!”
“And the others? The bearer of the sword and his companions?”
“They left together with Skara and Bartu on a barge upriver.”
“Who was the barge master?”
“Meru. Her name is Meru. You’ll find her at the docks every morning, or at the Kumo House spending coin.”
After a few more questions, satisfied the woman knew nothing else of interest, Ferala traced a thin line across her throat with the dagger, causing her paroxysms of pain as she collapsed to the floor. Within moments, the powerful toxin ensorcelled into the blade worked its dark magic, and the last of those who had remained to challenge the dhampyr was dead.
Frustrated by the lack of progress, wondering why Skara and the others had failed to return, Ferala started to change into her bat avatar when she received another telepathic message from the Grandfather, the third in as many days.
*Ferala!*
As she had the other times, Ferala ignored her superior’s call.
*You know the laws. If you do not return to the mountain at once, I will be forced to replace
you.*
Ferala continued the transformation, hovering in place by flapping her membranous wings. No, she would not be returning to the mountain. Nagiro was the only living soul she loved, and the Grandfather had refused to barter for her twin brother. Knowing an assassin would be sent to quiet Nagiro, Ferala would have to find Zariduke, trade it to the Alazashin for her brother, and in the process inflict as much suffering as a human soul could bear on those responsible.
Just before she soared up and out of the Nilometer, Ferala took a final glance at the preserved menagerie in the amphitheater. To free her brother, she would travel to the ends of Urfe if she must, and when she had finished with her mission, perhaps she, too, would build a shrine like this one, a mocking tribute to the humans who had dared commit this deed.
Or at least what was left of them.
VALLEY OF CYRMARCYTH,
NINTH PROTECTORATE
-33-
Tamás led the survivors of Freetown and the contingent of Roma warriors protecting them, two thousand blades strong, on the march through the valley in the driving rain. They had evacuated hours before the sky filled with smoke on the horizon behind them, and reports of the final attack by the Congregation’s tilectium airships trickled in. Freetown, city of hope and refuge, symbol of the Revolution, capital of the Roma clans and other oath avoiders, was no more.
The wizards had razed it to the ground.
The green, sprawling valley extended for miles in all directions, bordered to the east by a range of white-capped mountains. A hundred yards ahead, on the bank of a gushing stream, the Prophet was camped with several thousand Devlans, some of them trained fighters but most ascetic devotees pitifully short on battle experience. Still, Tamás needed every hand he could get, and hoped to join forces with the Prophet before the long journey to the Great River.
Tamás gave the signal to his commanders to halt. Accompanied only by Caleb and the Brewer, he rode ahead into the camp of the Devlans. For reasons unknown, after Caleb had left on his mysterious journey, the Prophet and his followers had departed Freetown in the middle of the night. Tamás had not heard the Devlans mentioned again until Caleb reappeared in Freetown, stepping through a portal with the Brewer in the middle of the Red Wagon Tavern. Holding a mace with a diamond-shaped head, Caleb had looked around the inn and demanded to see the Prophet at once.
Reports had arrived that another attack by the Congregation was imminent. Tamás had already convened the council to discuss the evacuation. A scout had reported that the Prophet had gone east, into the valley, and Tamás knew the Prophet might be more willing to listen if Caleb was with them. With or without the Coffer, it was time to begin the long march east to New Victoria, hoping for a miracle along the way.
Caleb had barely said a word since his arrival. Now, as the middle Blackwood brother rode side by side with the Brewer, the only person in whom he confided, the rain slid off Caleb’s black cloak without dampening the surface, as if unaffected by the weather. It was the same cloak Caleb had taken from the Coffer, and Tamás wondered at its nature. Caleb’s new mace hung by his side, and the edges of his leather vambraces were visible as he gripped the reins of his powerful steed.
Tamás was surprised when the Prophet himself rode out to meet them, accompanied by a woman with skin as dark as ebony, a young mage with wild brown hair, and a muscular man with a shaved head and tattooed forearms, wearing very strange clothes and staring at Caleb with a shocked expression. To make matters even more bizarre, an enormous harpy eagle took flight from a nearby cottonwood, cawing before soaring away into the rain-streaked sky. Tamás hoped it was not a spy for the wizards.
He focused on the Prophet. “Greetings.”
Beside him, Caleb nodded at both the woman and the man with the shaved head, who had the bearing of a seasoned warrior. “Lance. Allira.”
Though the woman did not reply, her eyes glowed with warmth, and Tamás sensed an empathetic soul. He wondered who she was.
“Caleb?” Lance croaked. “How did you get here? Where are Will and Val?”
“We can exchange proper greetings later,” Tamás interrupted. “As you might be aware, Freetown has been destroyed. Death squads roam the Ninth, the airships could appear at any time, and according to reports from New Victoria, the Protectorate army has gathered outside the city. We have to assume the Congregation has decided to secure the Ninth and eradicate all non-citizens in the process. If we do not take action . . .”
He trailed off, as everyone present understood the situation. Unless they swore fealty to the Congregation and renounced their heritage and beliefs, it was genocide or the Fens. And Tamás sensed that for the Roma clans, even if they acquiesced, there was no turning back. The black-sash gypsies had pushed Lord Alistair too far, and he would never accept a vow of fealty even if the Roma Council opted to give him one—which they never would.
Yet even if every able-bodied free holder in the Ninth joined the fight, their numbers would be pitifully small compared to the Protectorate Army, and a mote in the eye of the wizards. To stand a chance, they needed a groundswell of support from the commoners in New Albion, or the intervention of a foreign power, or the return of the Coffer and the resurrection of a legion of true clerics and a hundred thousand paladins.
They needed, in short, a miracle.
“My followers are prepared to offer our unconditional support in the struggle,” the Prophet said.
Tamás blinked at the rapid offer. Good. At least the Prophet grasped the dire nature of the situation.
“We have only one demand,” the Prophet continued, “and it is non-negotiable.”
“Yes?” Tamás said.
The Prophet turned his horse to face Caleb. “The Devlans will only follow the Templar into battle.”
Stunned, Tamás found himself at a loss for words, quickly trying to think of a way to massage the situation. Despite opening the Coffer, the middle Blackwood brother was neither warrior nor leader, and had shown no desire to participate in the conflict. Yet before Tamás could offer a solution, Caleb urged his mount forward. A sudden silence befell the soldiers in both camps, and Tamás and the other delegates seemed to recede into the background as Caleb’s eyes burned into those of the Prophet, neither man seeming to notice the rain slashing their faces or the wind whipping into their cloaks.
When Caleb finally drew tall in his saddle and spoke, his voice was as hard as a block of azantite, and his words shocked Tamás even more than had the demand of the Prophet.
“I’m ready to lead you,” Caleb said.
* * *
TO BE CONTINUED IN
WIZARD WAR,
The Thrilling Conclusion to THE BLACKWOOD SAGA
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Acknowledgments
Yet again I owe an enormous thanks to my amazing editors Rusty Dalferes, Michael Rowley, John Strout, and Maria Morris for their continuing help on this series. Sammy Yuen delivered another knockout cover, and uber-detailed proofreader/formatter Jaye Manus is the best-kept secret in the book world. My handful of advance readers are also integral to the process—thank you so very much. Finally, a special shout to my nephew Luke Gifford for sharing his excitement about the series and reminding me of the thrill of discovery.
About the Author
LAYTON GREEN is a bestselling author who writes across multiple genres, including fantasy, mystery, thriller, horror, and suspense. He is the author of The Blackwood Saga, the Dominic Grey series, and other works of fiction. His novels have been nominated for multiple awards (including a two-time finalist for an International Thriller Writers award), optioned for film, and have reached #1 on numerous genre lists in the United States, the United Kingdom, and Germany.
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