But in the end, it didn’t matter. If they thought he could make a difference, then let them think that. He would play along. He would do whatever it took to bring Amina home.
“And what of my daughter?” he pressed.
With a curt gesture, Xiana assured him, “To find your daughter, you must defeat the Warlord.”
“She could be dead already,” he protested.
Her smile drained away. “It’s possible, of course,” she said softly. She turned to the Sensho and asked him a question in their strange, lilting tongue. They conferred quietly as Rylan listened, his eyes downturned, focusing on the soft fibers of the mat.
At last, Xiana nodded and went silent, bowing her head. Then she said, “Sensho Domeda asks, if we let you live, how do we know you will not become the demon your father was?”
It was a ridiculous question. Rylan said, “Darien Lauchlin might have been my father, but I never knew him. He had no influence on me whatsoever. He was a Servant of Xerys. And I’m not….”
His voice trailed off.
Oh, gods…
The oath in the cornfield. When that awful man had forced him to swear his allegiance to the God of Chaos. Had that made him a Servant, as well? Was he already following in his father’s footsteps, without even knowing it? Staring at the floor, Rylan swallowed the bile that rose in his throat. Like his father before him, he had sworn his soul to Xerys. He was already the demon these people feared. He felt physically ill.
He deserved to die, he decided. But not until after he found Amina. Until then, they couldn’t know. No one could know. He’d go along with them, just long enough to rescue his daughter. Then they could make an end of him. His arms tested the strength of his bonds, his fingers trembling.
Xiana said with a graceful motion of her hands, “The Sensho says you may live, as long as you are able to keep the evil of your bloodline at bay. You will learn to the best of your abilities. You will work very hard and apply all your mind and effort. And when you are ready, we will unleash you upon the Turan Khar. You will burn their Warlord to ashes and bring their Empire to its knees.” She lifted a finger. “But the Word of Command I placed on your heart will remain. If at any time I feel your intentions betray us, I will speak the Word and end your life. Do you understand clearly all that I’ve said?”
“Aye. I do.” His voice shook.
Xiana continued, “You will remain in my company every moment of the day, and never leave my side unless I ask. I will be your teacher in all things, and you will obey me in all things. Do you understand?”
“Aye.”
She turned and conferred with the Sensho. Rylan tried to ignore their words, but he couldn’t help wondering what they were saying. At last, Domeda barked an order. One of the guards stood up and, drawing a long dagger from his belt, moved forward and sawed through the ropes binding Rylan’s wrists and legs. The rest of the guards stood and bowed. Then they formed a line and strode out of the room.
18
The Last Bridge
Quin tossed him his staff. “What do you think?”
Gil examined the staff in his hand. It was a long piece of dense wood, possibly ironwood or mahogany. It was polished to a smoothness that felt like satin beneath his palms, and yet was ribbed with dark knots. It had a good amount of heft to it. He could feel the charged power stored within the artifact, warm and soothing to his mind. He fed a small amount of power into it. The staff glowed eagerly in response, giving off a golden radiance.
He looked at Quin in appreciation, knowing the Warden had crafted it with his own hands. “Is it a light staff?”
“It is,” Quin said with a proud smile. “If something happens to me, you can have it.”
“Thank you,” Gil said, the offer making him uncomfortable. “I just hope it doesn’t come to that.”
“Let’s hope it doesn’t,” Quin agreed. “Because if something does happen to me, you’re going to be left with the job of running this war.”
“Me?” Gil asked, surprised to hear Quin say such a thing. His hand tightened reflexively on the staff as if trying to fend off the man’s words.
The Grand Master grinned wryly. “Warden Dalton was always next in the long and lofty chain of command. Unfortunately, Dalton’s only contribution to last night’s battle was getting himself killed. Now, after Dalton, it was always a toss-up between you and Payden, at least in terms of ability. But now you’ve gone and made yourself the shiny, golden hero who saved the Waterfront. There’s that. And there’s also the unfortunate fact that Payden got himself captured an hour and a half ago.”
Gil stared at him, jaw slack, his mind reeling. Dalton had been the Warden of Battlemages, the head of his own Order, and Payden had been in all his classes at the Lyceum. They weren’t the best of friends, but they were more than just acquaintances. He scowled in regret, breathing a heavy sigh.
Quin extended his hand. “May I have my staff back?”
Gil nodded, handing it over. He’d forgotten he’d been holding it. He looked up into the Grand Master’s eyes and saw understanding there. Out of all the Masters of the Lyceum, Quin had always been his favorite, and it was moments like this one that reminded him why. After his own father had died, he’d been raised by priests in the Temple of Wisdom. He’d spent his entire childhood in their vaults, reading all manners of arguments and philosophies. And yet, in all his life, Quin was the only man Gil thought was truly wise.
The Grand Master clapped him on the shoulder, then jerked his chin in the direction of the water. “Shall we, then?”
Quin set off down the cobbled road, Gil falling in at his side. The day was growing dim around them. Thunder rumbled in the distance. He glanced up at the clouds that hung low over the North City. They looked even darker, for some reason. Quin led him to the broken remains of the nearest bridge. Only the footings of the pillars remained above the waterline. One short section of the bridge was left intact, jutting out into the canal before ending abruptly.
“I’m going out there,” Quin said, nodding at the truncated bridge. “I want you to stay here and ward me. We don’t know what they’re capable of, so be prepared for anything.”
Gil glanced at the end of the span, a good hundred yards away. “I don’t know. That’s quite a distance.”
Absorption shields took a lot of energy to sustain. Casting a web at that distance would strain him badly, especially if Quin met heavy resistance. It was a whole lot easier to attack with magic than it was to defend against it.
But the Grand Master only shrugged. “If we stand together, then we’re a single target. Let’s not make killing us too easy for them, shall we?”
Gil nodded reluctantly, even though he didn’t feel good about it. He was looking at the far shore of the canal, where another pair of mages had joined the first four. They stood all in one line, holding hands, as the ranks of their army formed up behind them.
“They’re coming,” he said.
Quin turned to have a look. “Yes, indeed.” He dredged up a somber smile. “You can do this. Your father would have been proud of you, you know.”
With that, he clapped Gil on the arm and then turned toward the stone ramp leading onto the bridge. Gil wove an absorption web around Quin, his eyes tracking the Grand Master as he walked out onto the span of the bridge, the wind flapping his coat. Holding his light staff, Quin took up position at the end of the broken span. The canal’s black waters stretched away to either side, smooth and flat like glass.
On the other side of the canal, a thick fog was gathering. It billowed like smoke, swallowing the ranks of enemy soldiers one by one, until only the line of mages on the shore remained visible. The fog groped at their feet, trailing past them over the ground. The mist was conjured. It had to be; no true fog could ever rise that quickly. It clung there for long, silent moments while the air grew steadily colder. Then it crept forward over the water, inch by inch, until the entire canal was consumed, and Quin appeared to be standing in the middle of a
storm-gray ocean.
Across the water, the lights of hundreds of torches bloomed, hazy ochre blotches glowing from within the fogbank in a line that stretched the length of the Promenade. The lights of the torches remained stationary, steady reference points against the swirling gray mist. Gil's eyes went to the sea of fog that hung over the water, making the entire area of the canal look like a flat expanse of solid ground that stretched far into the distance. If he hadn’t known it already, he wouldn’t have guessed there was water below them.
From somewhere not too far away, he heard distinct splashing sounds. They were barely audible and, at first, didn’t really capture his attention. But then he realized what they meant and, when he did, his blood grew chill. The fog was cover. Beneath it, the enemy was advancing across the canal.
“Quin!” he shouted.
The Grand Master glanced back at him. He nodded slightly, then turned away. Slowly, he spread his arms, staff in hand, and bowed his head. The air grew cold as Quin drew energy from his surroundings into himself. Gil looked on in amazement. He could feel the enormity of the reservoir of power Quin was amassing. His body began to glow, his skin saturated with raw energies too great to contain. They bled out of him in a red aura that thickened around him, swelling in intensity.
In one great motion, he swept the staff through the air.
A pool of flames sprang into being on both sides of the bridge, blazing and crackling. The flames quickly burned off the mist, waves of heat distorting the air above them. The pools of fire started spreading, trailing across the surface of the canal, bisecting it completely in both directions. The unnatural fog flinched back as if scorched, revealing a wide swath of water teeming with rafts loaded with soldiers.
Gil’s throat clenched at the sight of them. He raised his hands and tightened his shield around Quin. Behind him, he heard shouts and the rattling of weapons as the Malikari bowmen prepared their first volley.
There was a moment of pause.
Then the air was filled with the twangs of bowstrings and the screams of dying men. Up and down the canal, rafts began exploding, the men on them hurled into the water. The dark waters churned white and then red as men flailed and struggled, lurching toward the shoreline, only to be repulsed by foot soldiers guarding the edge of the canal. Bodies began collecting in the water, floating obstacles that further slowed the frenzied men desperate to gain the shoreline.
Gil thickened his absorption web, letting it settle tightly around Quin. It was made of thin filaments of energy; nothing much. But it was strong enough to repel the few spears and arrows that were tossed at Quin from the water. And it could absorb massive amounts of energy, as much as Gil could channel. That would be the struggle. Every drop of energy the shield absorbed would have to be redirected somewhere else.
A brilliant red glow erupted from Quin’s body as he arced his staff through the air, flinging water and bodies away from the shoreline. A sparkling trail of magic ribboned the air around him, shed from the glowing end of his staff. He threw his hands up, and a great gust of wind slapped the water with the force of a hurricane, capsizing the remaining rafts and dumping their human payloads into the water.
Gil glanced up just in time to see a crackling fire balls screaming through the air toward them. He intensified the shield around Quin, throwing everything he had into it. Just in time – the blazing ball of flames struck the end of the bridge with a thunderous explosion.
Gil cried out as he was hurled backward and slammed into the street with a force that almost knocked the absorption shield away from him. Shaking, he picked himself off the ground, struggling to maintain the shield. Fear gripped his chest as he walked back to the railing.
Thick gray smoke engulfed the center of the canal. It took a moment to clear, and when it did, Gil sagged in relief when he saw that Quin was unharmed. The end of the bridge remained intact. Quin pushed himself up, dusted off his clothes and, with an irritated look, raised his staff to renew his assault.
Across the canal, the line of Khar mages moved closer to the edge of the shoreline, stopping just short of the water. Together, they raised their hands. The clouds above the city roiled with thunder and flickering light. Then another flaming missile shot down from the bank of clouds, slamming into the bridge with a dragon’s roar. Gil scrambled to hold his shield; it took everything he had. The amount of raw power absorbed by the shield almost overpowered him. Not knowing what else to do, he fed the excess energy into the water. Terrible, piercing screams erupted from the canal as the water nearest the bridge started boiling. Soldiers screamed and flailed, lurching toward shore. But very few reached it. They died well short of the bank, boiled to death in the bubbling water.
Lightning forked down from the sky, stabbing into the shield, sparks and filaments of light spraying out over the water. Quin raised his staff in both hands, drawing a tremendous amount of power through it, enough to make the hairs on the back of Gil’s neck stand up. The staff glowed in Quin’s hands, the charged energies crackling ferociously. His body drank in energy until ripples of light coruscated over him.
Then he unleashed his wrath upon the Promenade. Explosions of flames erupted up and down the far shoreline, hurling enemy soldiers and mages in all directions. The air filled with shrieks and screams.
Overhead, the skies thundered their retaliation. The clouds opened up and disgorged a barrage of lightning concentrated on the end of the bridge. Gil cried out as he felt his shield begin to fail. It was absorbing too much energy, and he couldn’t channel it away fast enough. The waters of the canal boiled and bubbled, the air filling with steam. But it was too much. He couldn’t handle any more.
Another crackling fireball hurled toward them from the sky.
Panicked, he shouted at Quin, “I can’t hold it any longer! Run!”
But either Quin didn’t hear him or didn’t react. He stood with his arms spread, staff in hand, eyes closed in concentration. Thunder split the heavens as the smoking fireball tumbled toward them.
“RUN!” Gil bellowed.
He didn’t have time to do anything but scream as the flaming missile slammed into the end of the bridge, overwhelming his shield. Flames from the explosion consumed the air around him, and he was hurled backward, his body slammed against the wall of a building. He sank to the ground, the molten air searing his throat. His vision started to dim. Feeling his consciousness fade, Gil fought against it. He gritted his teeth and pushed himself off the ground. Staggering toward the bridge, he drew up short.
The bridge was gone.
All that remained were fragments of smoldering rocks strewn across the bank. Rolling clouds of smoke devoured the air where the bridge had just been. Burning debris floated on the surface of the water, dispersed among the hundreds of bodies being borne away by the slow current.
Gil screamed in rage and grief. But all the screaming in the world wouldn’t bring Quin back. He stood there for a moment trembling. Then the sounds of war cries slapped his attention back into focus. A number of Khar soldiers had gained the bank and were charging toward him.
He turned and ran, fleeing down the closest side street while, behind him, the Sultan’s men engaged the enemy. The harsh noise of battle resounded as he fled through the empty streets, running until the sounds faded. Breathing hard, he staggered to a stop, bending forward with his hands on his knees.
He stood there like that for a long time, gasping and panting, his mind reeling. Slowly, he righted himself, staggering like a drunken man. He couldn’t run, he realized. Couldn’t retreat. He didn’t know what had happened to all the others, the other battlemages. All he knew was that they weren’t there, and he was all they had.
He had a duty to attend to. Even if it was the last duty he performed.
Gathering his strength and courage, Gil turned and started back the way he had come. His legs felt like lead, resisting his effort. He willed himself to move faster, until he was jogging, and then faster still, until he was running toward the sound
s of battle. He rounded the last corner, emerging into the thick of the melee. Reaching out from within, he hurled the first group of soldiers out of his way, clearing a path ahead of him.
He paused for just a moment to get his bearings. Then he worked his way forward, flinging men back away from him and dropping them where they stood. He strode slowly along the edge of the Waterfront, wrapped in a fog of concentration, sweat streaming down his face. Every man who rushed him collapsed within footsteps. All along his path, soldiers erupted in flames, while others staggered away, blood running from their ears and mouths. Gil hardly noticed. They weren’t men. They were just shapes, shadowy figures meant to be wrenched and distorted. He didn’t pause, even when the enemy soldiers stopped attacking and started running.
The Sultan’s men spilled forward, cutting down the slowest as the enemy was routed back into the water. Gil lumbered on, dazed, until it occurred to him that there was no one left to kill. He staggered to a stop and stood blinking, gazing blearily around.
Everywhere, he saw bodies. Bodies and blood. His breath hitched in his chest, his insides going numb. He turned slowly in a circle, blinking, his gaze struggling over the blood-washed street that was littered with dead. He turned toward the canal and found its waters colored red, filled with floating corpses and burning flotsam. He felt suddenly weak, his knees buckling. He caught himself on a lamp post and squeezed his eyes shut, trying to calm his ragged breath.
He stood there for a long time, perhaps minutes, waiting for his hands to stop trembling. Then, hanging his head, he strode wearily up the street in the direction of the square, to where the Sultan had established his command center. He stared at the ground as he stumbled through the streets. It was all he could do to keep his feet moving. Exhaustion bore down on his shoulders and unbidden tears stung his eyes. He had never felt more tired in his life. Even as he struggled forward, his eyelids kept sliding shut. The city around him was gray and remote, its sounds and colors muted. He observed the world as if from a distance, as though staring at reality through a shroud.
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