Garett bit his lip. While he hated Lord Ragget for what he had done, if he spoke up and revealed the lord’s deeds against Lord Weatherall, he’d have to reveal his own insidious part in it too. Wouldn’t he? He needed a moment to think. If only Delila was here. She’d know what he should do.
“Garett! Come along. We must be off!”
The old man waved for him to join them in the river. The two boats sat low in the water, filled with four people each. The big smelly man waded into the water beside one boat, and he too gestured for Garett to join them. A few young boys, probably pages, were already swimming across to the other side.
Garett took another step back and shook his head. “I . . . I can’t . . .”
“Come along now. There’s no time to lose,” the old man said harshly. “The river will soon rise with all this rain and we must get across before-”
“No!” Garett shouted, and the resulting echo mocked him as he turned and ran back the way they had come. He didn’t know if the stone door would open from this side without a key, but he did know, without a doubt, he could absolutely, positively NOT go into the water!
Delila had always forbidden it.
“Someday, Garett my love, water will kill you.”
He shivered as he heard her dead voice echo the ominous warning in his mind.
“Someday, Garett my love, water WILL kill you!”
He raced up the torch-lit corridor until he reached the opposite end. He tried to pry the stone door open, but it wouldn’t budge. He kept trying until the tips of his fingers were raw. He slumped to the ground, exhausted. He was trapped!
“Oh, how the mighty have fallen . . .” Garett muttered. Somewhere, Delila was probably laughing at him. She had always enjoyed teasing him about his shortfalls. His inadequacies. Yes, well, he thought defiantly, water hasn’t killed ME yet, Delila!
She wouldn’t have tolerated him talking back to her like that, but the fact of the matter was he was right. Water had killed her, and he would now have to rely on himself to get out of this predicament. He took a deep breath and considered his options.
He would not go into the black underground river.
He turned around and stared at the rock wall. That left him only one other option and without Delila’s assistance, his chance of success was slim, and that was being optimistic. “Well, at least I’ll prove you wrong about the water killing me . . .”
Closing his eyes, Garett prepared a series of fire-traps inside him and when they were set, he called out to the nearest torch. He could feel the flame’s luxurious tentacles of heat snake toward him and wrap around his body. Stretching his arms out wide, he summoned the next torch, enticing the flames with his flesh.
“Come to me,” he whispered, “Come feast on my body.”
And like so many times before, the hungry flames came, only this time, Garett alone struggled to hold the untamed fire. Heat energy poured into the sixteen traps and immediately his body temperature rose. Sweat poured off his face and down his red-skinned back. The corridor dimmed as one-by-one the flames leapt from their torches and flew to him. He had always been good at using his persuasive magic to lure the fire into his body; it was keeping it contained safely within the traps he’d always had trouble with. Allow too much to leak out, and he’d roast himself alive.
As each trap filled with energy, Garett struggled to lock them down since there were sixteen of them and only one of him. He split his magical attention in half and then in half again. Four mental guardians against sixteen doors. The odds were not good. He split his attention in half again. The odds were better, but each guardian was weaker now. Doors that had been shut cracked open. His eight guardians raced throughout his body slamming trapdoors and containing fires. With his persuasive magic now fully engaged, huge balls of fire ripped down the corridor and bore into his chest. Garett staggered backwards but somehow managed to remain upright. The traps were near bursting and still the fire came. He needed to shut off the flow, to turn off the lure of his flesh, but he was already working beyond his skill. Never had he manned eight guardians by himself. This was a mistake! Garett gritted his teeth against the mounting pain. A moan escaped his lips. His eyeballs felt on the verge of bursting. His body reddened and swelled. The hall grew darker and darker. Bile rose in the back of his throat. Fear threatened to swamp his fevered mind.
A sliver of a memory flashed across the years from a lesson he’d learned on his first day at the Academy. His teacher had insisted every pupil learn how to create heat shields. It was a silly waste of time. With fire elementals inside them, they wouldn’t need to build any, but the teacher had insisted. Garett had created one in a matter of seconds.
“Are you quite sure it’s stable?” the teacher had asked him.
“Of course,” he had said with a roll of his eyes. “Anyone can-”
A column of flames engulfed his body. His hastily created shield had held, but just barely. He emerged from the attack with only a few minor burns. His teacher crossed his arms over his chest and shook his head. “Would you like to try this lesson again?”
Garett had spent weeks learning to create all sorts of shields, but that had been years ago. With Delila present, he hadn’t needed one. She could manage one hundred and twenty-eight fire traps with ease and twice that number in a pinch.
And here he was struggling to contain a mere sixteen!
Garett bled off just a touch of his magic and built a simple heat shield which he wrapped around his important organs. The pain subsided a bit, but two of the traps kept springing open. He would have to release the pent-up fire energy soon or even with the shield, he’d melt like candle wax.
As quickly as he could, he created a link from the traps to his hands and then knelt beside the stone door. The corridor was almost completely dark now, but this next part didn’t rely on sight. Just touch.
He pressed his fingers against the cold stone door and slid them back and forth until he felt the faintest of seams. Guessing the locking mechanism was somewhere about waist high he measured that out too and then braced himself for the release.
“Brul’ea in’cend’ea, se’fond’ea a’pe’a!”
A bright cherry red flame burst from each of his fingers and blasted into the stone. Sweat steamed off his fiery skin as he bled off more and more of the pent-up fire. His vision turned a brilliant shade of crimson. He was tiring. Two of the eight guardians vanished. The drain of all this magical use was tapping his last reserves and it quickly became apparent that he was running out of his own magic faster than he was emptying himself of the contained flames. If the rates continued unchanged, he would undoubtedly roast himself alive!
“Brul’ea in’cend’ea pluce’dea, se’fond’ea a’pe’a!”
The words spilled out of his chapped lips and the cherry red flames turned blue.
The stone blackened as the magical flames engulfed its surface. The air around Garett grew hot and dry, crackling with spent magic.
“Pluc’dea!” Garett pleaded. His internal temperature crept higher as he expended more of his magic. Two more guardians died. “Pluc’dea!”
Then through the red haze, he saw the change begin. A section of the rock door liquefied. His efforts were working! He didn’t need Delila after all!
As if reaching back from the dead and slapping him for his impertinence, he felt a tendril of fire sneak through his internal shield and lash him across his mind like Delila used to do when she was very angry.
Garett cringed, but held his position despite the spreading pain and the building headache. If he moved his fingers now, the spell would break. He only had to hold it for a moment or two longer.
“Se’fond’ea a’pe’a!” he cried. Three more guardians were swept up in the flames. He had to end the spell before the last guardian faded. He opened his mouth to form the final word. “Fin’ea!” he whispered.
The flames extinguished as the last of the heat fired through him. Garett fell away, exhausted and shivering. An icy
cold like he had never felt before invaded his core and he rolled into a ball on his side. “Delila,” he gasped, “I’m sorry.”
He could almost hear her snide laughter. She had always kept him warm after the magic had left him. She had kept him alive when no one else cared about him. She had given him everything, and yet the first time he had used his magic without her, he had . . . Blasphemed?
Delila, I’m so sorry.
She had not been very forgiving in life, and even in death, he could almost feel her disapproval. Still shivering, he opened his eyes long enough to stare at his messy handiwork.
A small section of the stone door was gone, melted away by his magic, but the edges were ragged and unclean. Delila would have laughed at this pitiful attempt.
But, he had an opening just wide enough to squeeze a hand through, and if he had guessed right about the location of the locking mechanism, he should now be able to reach through and pry the door open . . .
As soon as he could move off the floor.
Rubbing his frozen white hands together, Garett tried to bring the circulation back to his extremities. Once he was warm again, he could escape, but for now, he felt cold and raw and empty and tired and more then content to lie on his side for a while.
“Tyran!”
Garett cringed. Had the boy stubbornly jumped out of his boat and was the old man searching for him in the dark corridor behind him?
“Tyran!”
No . . . the voice wasn’t coming from this side.
“Tyran!”
Pain laced the caller’s voice. Was he one of the household guards looking for the wayward heir?
“Tyran!” The voice was drawing nearer.
No, Garett decided, the voice held too much emotion for it to be a guard. He struggled across the stone floor, still numb and frozen, and pulled himself up so he could peer through the narrow opening. It had to be a loved one searching . . .
Perhaps it was Lord Ian Weatherall, himself?
Beyond the voice, Garett heard something else as well. A faint clanging, as if large discordant bells were ringing. Was it noon? He had no idea the time. It must be midday if the bells were ringing, and yet, the tone was different. Normally, the carillon bells rang a pleasant melody. Occasionally, on exceptionally fine days, or on holidays, the bells chose a fanciful tune.
But this was a darker melody. A foreboding tone. Garett strained to hear them again. The bells spoke of death. Had war indeed broke out between Yordic and Gyunwar while he was trapped in the grey world?
“Tyran!”
From the dark hole in the wall, Garett watched as a man staggered into view. He was covered in mud and blood and . . . Garett wrinkled his nose at the pungent animal odor. The man had obviously just ridden a wet horse. Could that be the Gyunwarian Ambassador, Lord Weatherall?
“Where is everyone?” the man muttered to himself.
Garett very nearly called out to the distraught lord, to tell him about Tyran’s escape and about Lord Ragget’s vile plan when suddenly the lord removed two keys from his vest pocket and approached his vault.
“No . . .” Garett tried, but nothing much came out. His throat was red raw, burnt. Tears welled in his eyes from the pain. The foreign mage was trapped inside the vault. “Don’t . . . open . . . the . . . door . . .” His cracked voice sounded more like parchment crinkling in the hearth.
His keen ears picked up the sound of tromping footsteps overhead. They crossed the foyer and hurried down the stairs. Was it the lord’s guards or the royal wardens?
Lord Weatherall apparently did not hear their approach. Without hesitation, he turned both keys and opened his vault.
A muted gasp escaped his lips.
Garett wormed his face around so as to better see inside the vault, but the angle wasn’t quite right, and the giant vault door blocked most of his view. He waited. Had the wind mage somehow escaped with all of Lord Weatherall’s wealth?
Before he could discern the answer, the corridor filled with men. Garett shrank back when he saw royal wardens charge into the antechamber. Several injured guardsmen were shackled together and stood wearily behind them, watched over by a rear detail.
“Ni biswail, Ian!” Someone cursed. “You are the Thief of Belyne?!”
“This must be some sort of mistake . . .”
“You told me last week, no one but yourself could enter your vault!” the first voice roared.
“I didn’t burgle your vault!” Lord Weatherall cried out.
“No?” the first voice continued harshly. “This is mine . . . that is mine . . . that suit of armor over there belongs to Lumist . . . that chest is Cuci’s . . . this is mine . . .!”
“I didn’t do it.”
“Take the King-Slayer into custody,” a third voice commanded. Garett stiffened. He recognized that voice! It was his nemesis, the former Vice Lord of the Belyne Military Academy, now captain of the royal wardens, Wolfe Straegar.
“I didn’t kill the king!” Lord Weatherall shouted. “I didn’t burgle the vaults!”
The familiar metal-scrape of a sword being drawn echoed throughout the rooms. “I don’t want to hear another word out of you!” Wolfe Straegar ordered.
A tense silence filled the lower level. One of the royal wardens slapped iron shackles on Lord Weatherall’s wrists, but then nothing more happened. No one moved. No one spoke. Garett found himself holding his breath. What were they waiting for? A cramp started in the lower part of his leg. He grimaced and tried to ease himself into a more comfortable position, moving in time with the tolling of the distant bells, but there was no way for him to relax and keep an eye on the men standing outside the vault at the same time. His frustration mounted. What were they waiting for?!
As if reading his thoughts, Lord Weatherall voiced the same question. “Or,” he added, “Should I ask, ‘who are we waiting for?’”
Captain Straegar stepped in close to the Gyunwarian Ambassador. “I said I don’t want to hear another word out of you. Speak again, and I’ll cut your tongue out of your mouth.”
“Captain Straegar, put your sword away.”
Rage swelled in Garett’s heart. The cramp was forgotten.
Lord Devin Ragget.
Garett pressed his eye to the hole again. The blond Yordician lord strolled into view accompanied by his hulking bodyguard. Now was his chance! Garett focused his attention on one of the torches burning merrily in the hall just outside the antechamber. “Come to me . . .” he whispered.
Nothing happened. He tried again. Again, nothing happened.
His magic was spent! He had nothing left inside him. The fire continued to dance on the tip of the torch as the two lords exchanged words. Garett tried a third time, but the flames ignored him. He could almost hear them laughing at his ineptness.
Closing his eyes, he rested his forehead on the stone floor. He had created his escape, but it would be at least a day before his magic would return. Without Delila, he simply could not become the great and powerful fire mage he had always envisioned himself becoming.
Delila was gone. Never to return. His dreams were . . .
No, wait . . . Garett blinked and shook his head at his own dim thinking. All he needed was another fire elemental. True, they were not easily found, or contained, or even always compatible and if he inadvertently joined with an evil-minded one he risked losing his own identity and becoming a slave to the whims of the fire creature and its awesome powers but that was a risk he was willing to take. It had worked out fine the last time, and there was no reason to think it couldn’t happen again.
All he needed to do was find someone who had access to fire elementals . . . and . . . convince them to part with one . . .
Chapter 9
Owen’s massive right fist flew straight at Josephine’s unprotected chin. When it landed, he knew she’d be knocked out. There was no doubt in his mind. He’d thrown hundreds of punches before. Maybe even thousands. The jarring connections didn’t even register in his mind anymore. O
nly the thrill of dealing out pain did, and he knew exactly how much pain was required to produce unconsciousness. Some people in his past had said it was a gift. He didn’t know about that. All he knew was he was good with his fists.
Except this time, impossibly, he missed.
The girl swayed to one side and his fist slipped past her, sliding through the space where her chin had been and then before he could reverse his momentum, she caught his extended wrist in an iron grip and slammed her other hand into the back of his exposed shoulder. Caught off balance, he stumbled forward, lost his footing and found the road rushing up to greet him. He hit the ground hard and his face was driven into a puddle. His captured arm was wrenched behind his back and a heavy weight dropped onto his thick neck. Shock fired through him as he struggled to rise only to find that despite his great size and strength, he was unable to escape. Unable to breathe. He was pinned . . . by a girl!
Rage flooded through him, but even his fury-fueled strength could not free him. He could gain no leverage and his thrashing boots could find no purchase on the slippery wet cobblestones. His lungs begged for air, softly at first, but soon their pleas grew stronger as he grew weaker. A foreign emotion latched onto him and it took him a moment to figure out what it was. Helplessness. He’d seen it in others, oftentimes he’d created it in others, but he hadn’t felt this way before. He didn’t like it. He strained against the weight holding him down, but the more he struggled, the more his trapped arm was wrenched in the wrong direction until finally his shoulder joint popped. He cried out and muddy water filled his mouth and seeped into his lungs. Helplessness was replaced by fear. He was drowning . . . in a damn puddle!
Fingers gripped the hair at the back of his head and his face was yanked up just enough to clear the water.
“Why were you trying to hurt me?” a cold and dangerous voice growled in his ear.
Stolen Justice Page 6