by Cara Witter
Jaeme angled his sword down and held up his free hand. “Gentlemen!” he called to the figures in the shadows. “I think there must have been some mistake.”
Nikaenor went still behind him, and Jaeme wondered if the boy had only just now realized they were surrounded.
And then Nikaenor lunged in front of him and threw a punch, his webbed fist catching Jaeme full in the face. Jaeme stumbled back, his eye throbbing.
“Nikaenor!” Saara cried out. “What are you doing?”
A second blow from the boy—who hit far harder than Jaeme would have given him credit for—knocked Jaeme back into the rails of one of the wooden pens. A shout followed from Saara, and Jaeme looked up in time to see the cloaks fall away and get a full view of Nikaenor’s soaked form.
The first glints of moonlight glistened off of Nikaenor’s full body of scales. His clothing stretched taut over slimy, textured skin, his hair condensed into an array of spines that jutted from the top of his head. Even his face had shifted, his skull narrowed, his lips swollen, his mouth gaping slightly.
Nikaenor had never said anything about becoming a danger to others when he turned into a fish. He’d known the boy dreaded it, but he’d gone full-fish before, and he hadn’t breathed a word about losing his mind.
Oh, gods. The mage must have taken his blood, and was now making Nikaenor a puppet.
They were being stalked by a blood mage.
Nikaenor hit Saara with both hands, sending her back into the wall. Jaeme barely had his feet under him when he saw the men from the shadows advancing on them—large thugs bristling with a variety of weapons.
Jaeme raised his sword, but as he pivoted to face the on-comers, Nikaenor advanced on him again. Jaeme kicked out, sweeping Nikaenor’s feet out from under him and toppling the boy back to the earth. He could strike with his sword easily enough and end the threat, but it was Nikaenor. Jaeme couldn’t turn his sword on him, especially not if the boy was being bodily controlled.
Jaeme stepped back, leaving Nikaenor scrambling in the mud, moving just in time to dodge the swing of a mace from one of the thugs who had passed by Saara to reach him. He slashed with his sword to push the burly man back, and another pressed in on his right, hefting a crossbow that looked to be loaded. Nikaenor was back on his feet now, and Jaeme stepped toward the nearest wall to keep any of his attackers from flanking him.
Gods. What was he supposed to do? And where had that damned mage gone to? What other horrors were about to rain down on them, now that the man had the blood of one of their own?
Saara lunged and hit Nikaenor in the gut with the handle of her dagger, but the blow didn’t faze him in the slightest. One of the men tossed Nikaenor a mace, which he plucked from the air and swung in one precise move. Jaeme dodged the blow but wasn’t able to block the club from a mustached man who came at him simultaneously. The club hit his left shoulder with a sickeningly painful pop, which sent him down to the ground again, his blade flying from his hand.
More men surrounded Saara, who fended off a few of them with only her dagger before one of the men grabbed her by the arms, lifting her clean off the ground. A flame lit in her hands, and the man shouted, launching her away from him, cradling his arm.
Saara landed and rolled, though she seemed to be favoring one of her legs as she ducked away, trying to avoid Nikaenor. Jaeme picked up his sword with his off hand and held it between them and the boy as he backed away after her. At least together, they stood a chance.
Another group of guards charged, and Jaeme found himself losing track of Saara as he parried their blows. Nikaenor attacked with alarming ferocity, and Jaeme found his instincts at war with each other—half telling him to protect the boy from himself and the other half screaming to take him down, fast.
As he fought, Jaeme caught sight of the mage on the far side of a paddock, his long fingers wrapped tightly around the vial that glinted in the moonlight. If Jaeme could get the vial away from him, would that break his hold on Nikaenor? Jaeme knew little of blood magic—and only enough about Vorgalians to know to steer clear of them and take magic-wielding targets out as quickly as possible. Jaeme circled around the paddock, parrying a blow from another oncoming thug, edging closer to the mage even as Nikaenor pursued him.
Before he could reach the mage, a brilliant silver light exploded between them, as if the stars themselves had descended to join the fight.
What was this? More blood magic? Vorgalian trickery? His eyes burned from the searing light, bright spots blocking his vision, and Jaeme summoned the presence of mind to keep his sword up, even as he sheltered his face with his free hand.
He waited for the next blow—the one he wouldn’t be able to see.
But he heard only shouts from the men around him and feet hitting the ground, pounding away.
Thirty-five
Kenton didn’t spare a beat after Sayvil’s light flared across the clearing in front of the livestock pens, causing yells of surprise from the attackers as well as their victims. He’d already determined his first target. Dashing out into the fray with his sword drawn, he reached one of the large men closing in on the girl with the dark skin.
The first man, still blinded by Sayvil’s light, didn’t see the blow coming. He screamed as Kenton’s sword plunged into his side, dropping him. The girl fell back with him, but scrambled from the dying man’s grasp.
The man with the burned arm reached for her again, but she kicked back at him, brandishing flame in her bare palm and causing him to recoil.
Kenton stared at the fire burning against her flesh, causing no harm.
The flame of Nerendal.
The cloaked person in the form of a fish was obviously of Mirilina—though Kenton didn’t remember the Banishment Chronicle mentioning anything so . . . scaly. Sayvil had been right—not one, but two bearers. Kenton desperately wanted the third person to be the bearer of Kotali, and the style of his sword was definitely Mortichean, but he could just as easily be only a bodyguard.
A bodyguard who was currently surrounded.
The advantage of surprise was already fading. The moon, only a faint sliver in the sky between parted clouds, had been enough to stun those whose eyes were already dark-adjusted, but little more.
The other attacker who cornered the girl let out a roar and charged at Kenton with a spiked cudgel. Kenton dislodged his sword and rolled back in time for the spike to pierce the ground where his head had been only seconds before.
Kenton used the opportunity to thrust forward, catching the man in the ribs with a sickening crunch. The man fell back in the mud, and Kenton left Nerendal’s bearer to deal with the one she’d already burned, bounding back into a strong fighting stance and moving toward the man with the Mortichean sword.
The Mortichean was doing quite well after being stunned by Sayvil’s blast of light, though he favored his left arm. Still, he felled two more of the attackers and was managing to hold Mirilina’s bearer at bay, circling backward around one of the cow pens, while several of the cows lowed and ran across the pen in fear. Kenton followed his path around and saw that he was edging toward Lukos on the far side—the one who held the fish-person’s blood in his hands.
It had been a brazen move—taking the boy’s blood in the alley. Kenton would have stopped him, but Lukos had been quick, circling around the building. And now, Kenton could see not only the blood in his hands but also a charm hanging from his wrist.
A thin rod of golden metal.
That damn paralysis charm. Did the man have to use both Vorgalian and blood magic against them?
From under his hood, Lukos met Kenton’s eyes and smirked at him. He seemed not at all concerned to see him, as if Kenton were merely an annoyance—another nuisance to be dealt with.
Kenton was about to prove him wrong.
The fish-person attempted to bash the mace down on the Mortichean, but missed
as the other man dodged away, his arms and legs now caked with mud. He turned his sword briefly on Kenton, but Kenton shook his head and grabbed the creature around the shoulders. He pushed the boy forward over a rickety wooden railing, landing him roughly in a pile of cow dung and wet straw.
The Mortichean stepped back into a defensive stance, surveying the bodies that Kenton had already felled.
Gods, they didn’t have time for this hesitation. “I’m here to help,” Kenton said. “Stay clear of the mage if you don’t want to be frozen in place.”
The man stared at Kenton for another half a heartbeat, then nodded.
Good enough. Kenton turned to face an attacker who had just picked up the spiked club from Kenton’s last victim. A slash at his head and a quick kick to the gut sent the man reeling back, but not down. Kenton could see another approaching, still out of range to attack with his sword.
The oncoming thug threw a knife that sailed about a foot wide of Kenton’s head. The man held his throwing arm and screamed a curse at someone behind Kenton.
Risking a look back, Kenton saw with a stopped breath that Perchaya had stepped out from the covering of a building, with another rock in one hand ready to throw and her long-knife in the other. He had no time to yell at her to get back before an unseen force like the invisible hand of a god knocked him back on the ground, gasping for breath.
Apparently that paralysis rod was also capable of throwing blows, even if it didn’t seem to be able to hold Kenton in place permanently at this distance.
Lukos must have decided Kenton was worth a little effort, after all.
Kenton scrambled to his feet as the thug with the spiked cudgel swung forward again, and Kenton ducked and slashed his sword across the man’s chest. It cut through leather, but Kenton wasn’t sure if it had scored flesh. The man stumbled forward and righted himself just as Kenton drove the pommel of his sword against the side of his head. The spiked cudgel dropped from numb fingers just heartbeats before the man’s heavy body followed.
Kenton glanced back at the place between the buildings where Perchaya had been and found her gone. He saw Daniella dart out from there, though, her hood pulled low over her face. She reached for something on the ground—a fallen crossbow—and picked it up, holding it awkwardly.
Gods, Kenton thought. Protect us from amateur archers. But she raised the bow with shaking hands, pointing it away from the fighting and toward a man who was moving away from the group. She loosed a bolt, and the man fell—though Kenton couldn’t see if the wound was mortal at this distance.
At least if she was going to shoot unsteadily, she chose a target far from her allies. And she’d hit. He had to give her that.
She looked back in Kenton’s direction, and her eyes caught on the Mortichean man, staring stupidly, like she’d never seen a man in a sopping wet shirt before.
Daniella fumbled with the crossbow, searching the ground for more bolts, as one of the attackers advanced on her, sword raised. Her frozen stance and wide, terrified eyes told Kenton in a blink that the girl would do nothing to defend herself.
Before he could grab one of his daggers to throw, he was forced to dodge a blow from another oncoming guard. He managed to dispatch him quickly, and turned back toward Daniella—
The Mortichean, his left arm still pulled tight against his body, threw himself against Daniella’s attacker, sending the sword thrust far off its target and the guard tumbling to the ground. As the Mortichean pushed himself off of the man, Kenton saw the strange rock-weapon sticking out the guard’s stomach—as if a stone had been squeezed haphazardly into a point.
Despite the circumstances, Kenton smiled.
Kotali.
Three bearers—four with Sayvil. By the godstones, they had to win this fight.
Kenton straightened, adjusting his stance against further attack, and met eyes with Lukos again. The tattooed man blinked, then shifted his gaze to the side of Kenton, stroking the vial of blood between his fingers. His lips moved slowly. Kenton grabbed a dagger from his boot and drew back. It was time to stop the real threat.
Kenton saw a bolt hiss past Lukos and turned to find Daniella aiming her crossbow again. The bolt missed the mage by a wide margin, thunking heavily into the wooden wall of the stable behind him. The Mortichean stared as stupidly at her as she’d stared at him.
“Daniella?” he said.
Kenton wanted to punch the both of them. Was there not one of the gods’ chosen who wasn’t somehow entangled with that woman?
Two of the attackers were fighting against Nerendal’s chosen, while she dodged and sliced with a short-sword she’d likely taken from one of the dead bodies. The number of attackers was thinning, and Lukos hadn’t missed it. His chanting grew louder as he tipped a few drops of the bearer’s blood into his hand. Kenton strode closer, using the cow pens—and the livestock panicking inside—as cover from the few remaining thugs.
Lukos clearly saw him coming, but he didn’t look worried. And why should he? No doubt he meant to use the paralysis rod when Kenton was in range.
Kenton lifted his dagger. He didn’t intend to get that close. He raised and threw it, then flinched at the blast of moonlight that blinded him just after the blade left his hand. Kenton reeled backward, colliding with one of the wooden posts, eliciting a deep moan from one of the bovine occupants.
As his vision returned, Kenton saw a sight that made blood rush in his ears. Perchaya darted from between the buildings in the direction Daniella’s felled man had been headed, attacking Lukos with a broken board she must have wrestled from one of the pens.
No. Not attacking him. Attacking his hands. Perchaya brought her board down hard on Lukos’ wrists, sending the vial into the dirt, splashing blood across Lukos’ hands. The mage, still blinded from the brunt of the moonlight, yelled in pain, reaching to his shoulder and digging out Kenton’s blade.
Sayvil stepped out, crushed what remained of the vial and the blood into the mud, then grabbed Perchaya and pulled them both back into the shadows again.
Lukos turned toward them, and Kenton reached for the other dagger in his boot. He moved forward more quickly now—Lukos saw Kenton coming and seemed to consider him the greater threat. Kenton expected him to raise the paralysis rod again.
But instead, he rubbed his palms together, his chanting growing louder, his thin voice producing a chill in the air.
What remained of the bearer’s blood on his hands seemed to absorb into his skin, until his hands were completely clean. Lukos’ body expanded, muscles bulging, skin thickening, body growing taller, ever taller, until he was a good two feet larger than Kenton. His robes stretched tight over his skin where before they had hung loose, showing the definition of the thick muscles beneath.
And then the mage advanced on him.
Kenton threw the dagger, and it embedded itself in Lukos’ chest, but the man only pulled it out again and kept coming. His lips moved again, spitting out words Kenton could barely hear, let alone understand.
Kenton scrambled backwards, all too aware he was leading Lukos toward the other bearers, though thankfully away from Sayvil and Perchaya.
The mage launched himself forward, grabbing Kenton by the collar and slamming him back into one of the wooden posts of a cow paddock. Lukos’ enormous fist tightened around Kenton’s throat, pulled him away from the post and slammed him back into it again. Kenton winced as the base of his skull met the edge of the wood, and his fingers lost their grip on his sword. He reached upward, grabbing at Lukos’ hands to loosen the mage’s grip, but to no avail.
Blood pounded in Kenton’s ears, drowning out all sound. He kicked furiously at Lukos’ shins, but the man didn’t so much as grunt in pain. Kenton’s vision began to tilt and blur—
And then he caught sight of a hand holding a silver blade, stained already with blood, edging around Lukos’ side, pushing the blade deep into the fle
sh below his ribs.
The mage still barely cringed, but he did release Kenton to swing at his attacker from behind.
Perchaya had already stumbled back, moving quickly to evade Lukos’ blow. Kenton grabbed the blade from the man’s side, wrenching it free with a twist. He stabbed it back in and out again, recapturing Lukos’ attention, and ducked away, gasping in painful breaths and backing quickly toward where the others were fighting.
Kenton heard a few more cries behind him, and then was joined on either side by the woman with the flame and the Mortichean. Bearers of Nerendal and Kotali. Still alive, both of them. And Sayvil in the alley behind Lukos, and the fish-person—
Gods, what had become of him?
Kenton cast a glance over his shoulder and found him stooped in the alleyway, cowering as if in fear, Kenton supposed with good reason. At least Sayvil and Perchaya had gotten his blood away from Lukos—
Another crossbow bolt embedded itself in Lukos’ arm, and Lukos at least had the decency to flinch as he pulled it out. The mage raised his fists and advanced on Kenton, who slipped backward again, slicing with his sword. The blade barely glanced off Lukos’ skin. He’d somehow absorbed the blood—a part of the bearer’s very soul—and used it as body armor.
Dark magic indeed.
Together, Kenton, the Mortichean and the Tirostaari woman circled Lukos, dodging blows from his meaty fists. Kenton was glad Perchaya had the sense to stay clear, grateful as he was for her quick work with the dagger.
The mage let out a guttural yell, spewing forth more harsh words that Kenton didn’t understand. And then his muscles began to deflate, his body slowly shrinking back to its normal size—still taller than Kenton, but by inches rather than feet.
The Mortichean used that opportunity to thrust his sword at the mage—a sword which Kenton now realized he was wielding with his off-hand—only to have it batted away.