The Blood King

by Gail Z. Martin

  Kiara spat and the mage grabbed her chin roughly, forcing her eyes to meet his. "By ancient law, a royal betrothal is as binding as wedding vows," he said in a low, cold voice. "Treason and adultery are both punishable by death. But there is an alternative." He jerked her closer to the orb.

  "Before he can emerge, the Obsidian King must feed," Arontala said, his fingers brushing against the orb that was only inches from Kiara's face. "I've sent many spirits into the orb for him to draw upon, until they're too spent to be of use. Your will, your spirit, and that arrogant pride will do quite nicely. Oh, he'll leave a remnant, enough that Jared can sire his brats by you, enough to remember what you once were. Enough to suffer for the rest of your natural life. And perhaps, I shall extend that life forever so that you can ponder your loss for eternity."

  Arontala seized Kiara by the hair, forcing her to stare into the orb. She shut her eyes, and the mage muttered words in a language that sounded like wind against sand. Against her will, Kiara's eyes slowly opened, unable to avoid the orb's glow. "Enter the abyss," Arontala said, as the miasma within the orb swirled and brightened. "The time has come to feed the master."

  "They're in the king's livery," Carroway observed tersely. Hundreds of horsemen were now at the gates, forcing their way through into the crowd. The insurrectionists stood their ground.

  "Stop them before they escape!" shouted the beleaguered garrison commander. "We've got an uprising!"

  The captain of the mounted troops lifted his helm and archers leveled their weapons, their aim on the soot-streaked garrison instead of the panicked mob. "There's an uprising all right," Ban Soterius said. "We ride in the name of Martris Drayke of Margolan. Surrender, and we'll guarantee your safety. Otherwise, we're prepared to fight you to the last man." Beside him, Mikhail lowered his hood and drew back his lips to show his eye teeth, making it plain just what a fight that would be.

  A cheer went up from the crowd. Carroway swept Carina up in his arms, dancing in a little circle and planting a kiss on her forehead. The garrison commander, his provisions and guardhouses in flames, looked from the drunken crowd to the horsemen, and then to his weary command. With an oath, he gestured for surrender. Soterius' soldiers rushed forward to secure their prisoners.

  Carroway grabbed Carina's hand and began to fight his way through the unruly crowd, intent on reaching Soterius.

  "Ban!" he shouted above the din. "Ban, Mikhail-over here!"

  Soterius began to search the crowd. At the sight of them, he swung down from his horse and ran to greet them, clapping them both into a hearty embrace. Mikhail joined them, grinning broadly. When Alyzza reached them, the old hedge witch looked approvingly at Soterius.

  "Well, well," she said. "So this is what you are. Tent rigger indeed. You wear that armor as if it were made for you."

  "Stolen, actually," Soterius said with a lopsided smile. "Stole the whole lot-horses, weapons, soldiers, and livery. Learned it from Jonmarc. Nice touch, don't you think?"

  "I gather you found some discontented troops?" Carroway asked. He, Carina, and Soterius stood arm in arm, watching Soterius' soldiers secure the last of the garrison prisoners.

  "More than I imagined," Soterius said. "I'll tell you all about it later." He glanced toward Shekerishet. "Tris is up there?"

  "With Jonmarc and Kiara," Carina said. "And Gabriel."

  "Where now?" Carroway asked as Soterius swung back up on his mount.

  "To Shekerishet," Soterius replied, reining in his horse. "Between the soldiers and the mob, we should give the palace guard something to think about."

  "To Shekerishet!" The mob took up the cry. The garrison commander looked on haplessly. Soterius' horsemen urged their mounts forward, through the boisterous crowd that cheered their passing and closed ranks behind them. Up the hill toward the palace the mob followed, torches aloft.

  At the palace gates the soldiers stopped. Behind them, the mob came to a halt.

  "Open the gates!" Soterius shouted, the banner of the Royal House of Margolan fluttering above him in the breeze. "We come in the name of Prince Martris, to overthrow the tyrant!"

  To their amazement, the gates swung open. Soldiers and servants poured out, waving white cloths in makeshift flags of surrender. The palace soldiers threw down their arms, and the fear-stricken servants surged toward the mob.

  "Save us!" they cried, yielding willingly.

  "There's demons loose in there!" one man cried, white-faced in panic. "Naught but the Dark Lady can save you if you go there."

  "At least we know Gabriel's been hard at work," Carroway observed dryly. Carina looked around for Alyzza, but the hearth witch had disappeared into the crowd.

  "Let's take the castle, men!" Soterius shouted, gesturing forward with his sword. "Prince Martris is in there. Are we with him?"

  A resounding chorus of "aye" echoed from the stone walls of the bailey. The crowd surged forward in a cloud of torch smoke, smelling of sweat and horses and ale. The rear guard attempted to quiet the mob and set them to work securing the outbuildings and the outer bailey, leaving the true night's work for the trained soldiers. Some soldiers remained behind to keep the mob under control, while the others began to infiltrate the palace.

  "You're safest here," Soterius said, turning back to Carina and Carroway. He held up a hand to still Carina's ready protest. "I know Kiara and Jonmarc are in there, and that both you and Carroway have seen more battles that many a seasoned fighter. But if it's a trick, if Jared and Arontala are waiting for us... " He paused, looking toward the upper floors of the castle cautiously and shook his head. "I'd rather know you two were down here, to lead the last charge."

  Carina looked as if she intended to argue with him, but then relented. "All right," she conceded. "Just warn your bow-happy archers that the vayash moru are on our side, huh?"

  Outside, the village bells began to toll midnight.

  Carina and Carroway exchanged worried glances. "Time's up," she whispered. "We've either won or lost... everything."

  Chapter Thirty-eight

  With a burst of magic to smash the binding spells, Tris slammed open the doors to Arontala's workroom.

  "Turn them loose."

  Arontala only turned a fraction, as if the intrusion did not merit his interest. Gabriel slipped into the workroom behind Tris.

  "I've been waiting for you to join us." Arontala jerked Kiara's head up. "You're just in time. My offering will be given to the Master for one last meal before his reemergence. It's over," he said triumphantly. "We've won."

  Tris advanced on the mage, his sword held ready, his eyes only on Arontala. "By the Lady, I won't let you do this." The orb was between Tris and Arontala, with Kiara to one side and Vahanian on the other, against the wall. Tris had no clear shot. Anything he did stood a good chance of hitting the orb or one of his friends, and the wormroot made him doubt the precision of his aim.

  "The Lady has nothing to do with this," Arontala laughed. "I am the supreme power in Margolan. My will controls its destiny."

  Tris searched with his mage sense. Arontala was well shielded, and Tris knew his own strength was fading quickly. He searched for a weapon, anything he could use to turn an advantage, and he felt a glimmer of power radiating from a wax tablet on Arontala's worktable. The tablet was on a stand, covered with a glass dome. Carved into its surface were runes and glyphs traced in fire. Tris stretched out his power and knew the tablet for what it was-the anchor of Arontala's spell to banish the ghosts of Shekerishet. Never taking his eyes off Arontala, Tris sent a burst of power toward the tablet, shattering the glass and igniting the wax. The tablet exploded into flame.

  Arontala cursed and sent a streak of red fire sizzling in Tris's direction. Tris hurled himself out of the way before the red fire struck. The temperature in the room suddenly plummeted, cold enough for him to see his breath. With a gust so powerful that it slammed the window open, the banished ghosts of Shekerishet streamed home, released from Arontala's spell. The windows shattered, sending sha
rds of glass flying against the stone walls. In the fireplace, the flames guttered and danced crazily as the freezing wind swept through the room.

  Angry at their banishment, the exiled ghosts of Shekerishet streamed back into the room in a torrent, thick as the spirits in the Ruune Videya forest. Tris struggled to his feet, trying to hold onto his control as the spirits swept over him and through him.

  A... ron... ta... la! the spirits howled, knowing the one who banished them from their home. Tris knew that Kiara and the others could see the spirits; Arontala's face twisted in a hateful grimace. The ghosts swirled around the red robed mage in a wild vortex.

  Tris seized the chance while Arontala was distracted and drew on Mageslayer's power. As he had done in the citadel when he fought Alaine Tris sought the soul within the dark mage, using all of his power to capture and extinguish that spark. But where Alaine had been mortal, Arontala's undead soul had no blue life thread. On the Plains of Spirit, Tris could feel the dark wizard's soul as he reached for it. But within the undead body, animated by the Dark Gift, the soul was shielded by powerful magic. He stretched out, sure that he could grasp the fleeting spark, and felt a wave of cold raw power throw him back, physically and psychically. Tris slammed against the wall, his head reeling, his senses screaming from the assault.

  Arontala's shielding glowed so brightly that Tris's eyes hurt to look at the mage. The angry ghosts threw themselves against Arontala's shields to no avail. Arontala's lips worked, casting a spell that wrote itself in fiery letters on the rock of the castle wall.

  Tris could sense the power of the banishment spell; he sent his waning power to counter it. As the spirits howled around them the letters of fire wavered, etching into the ancient stones, burning without smoke or ash. With a terrible smile, Arontala met Tris's eyes. Tris knew that Arontala was gauging how much more he could take.

  Arontala gestured and the orb flared with a red light that enveloped Kiara. She arched backward and screamed.

  With Arontala's attention focused on the ghosts and the orb, Vahanian's left hand slipped to the knives on his belt. He palmed them, and in quick succession sent three daggers flying toward Arontala. Arontala's attention wavered just for an instant as he struck down the daggers, buying Tris a slim opening.

  Blue fire streaked from Tris's left hand to intercept the red glow of Arontala's spell. Tris's aim wavered with the wormroot; instead of striking Arontala, his mage fire struck the growing aura of the orb. The orb pulsed once, almost too bright to behold. Tris had scarcely enough time to dive between the orb and Kiara. He flung up his battered shielding to protect them both as the orb flared like a crimson sun and with a roar, exploded into a thousand scarlet fragments.

  Gabriel shielded Vahanian from the explosion that seemed to rock the foundation of Shekerishet itself. Tris held on to Mageslayer, fighting the wormroot in his blood to hold his shielding over himself and Kiara. The blast took him off his feet, and the psychic recoil almost blacked him out. Fresh blood started from beneath his cuirass, and Tris's broken ribs made it difficult for him to breathe as he dragged himself to his feet. Kiara, suddenly released from Arontala's control, slumped to the floor.

  Tris felt his shields strain dangerously beneath the waves of power that surged from the shattered orb. Old, raw power washed over him, tainted by Arontala's blood magic. Tris could feel the press of spirits rushing toward freedom-Arontala's victims and the Obsidian King himself-joining the angry palace ghosts that swirled around them.

  Arontala cried out. Closer to the orb, he staggered from the blast. The fire of the explosion drove Arontala backward. As he redirected his power to contain the spirits of the orb, his shielding wavered. Tris seized the advantage, striking with Mageslayer.

  The blade thrummed with power as it hit Arontala's shielding. Tris hung on with all his strength, gasping as his broken ribs protested. Arontala screamed as the blade reached him, blasting his power against Tris's shields. Tris staggered, his strength fading from the wormroot and the warm rush of blood that oozed from his side.

  Instinctively, Tris brought his full power to bear on the sword, drawing on the wavering blue life thread within him, holding on as the pommel of the sword became searingly hot. Suddenly the blade broke free. Tris poured all of his will and strength and magic into the sword's downward motion, cleaving Arontala from shoulder to hip through the heart.

  An inhuman shriek tore from Arontala's throat. The mage's body burst into flame. Mageslayer began to melt and Tris dropped the pommel, his hands burned and red. The fire was gone as quickly as it came, leaving a cindered corpse and blackened, twisted sword. Bells began to toll the midnight hour. One... two... three...

  Hundreds of shadows swirled in a whirlwind around Arontala's corpse. Spectral visages gathered in the darkness around Arontala's spirit open-mouthed and angry, their gaping eyes and toothy jaws eager for vengeance.

  This time the Formless One came as a vortex, a maelstrom that plunged down into infinity beneath Arontala's charred body. Tris felt the pull of its winds and heard its roar. A gust of power raged from the heart of the abyss, seizing Arontala's soul in its inexorable grasp and drawing it into the darkness. The last thing Tris glimpsed was the abyss, folding in upon itself. Then it snapped shut and disappeared into thin air.

  Tris struggled to stay conscious. He dropped to his knees, his shielding wavering without Mageslayer's power. He saw the spirits stream from the shattered globe, swirling thickly as heavy fog descended around him. The spirits washed over him, grateful for release, brushing against his mind. By Vahanian's gasp, Tris knew that the spirits were visible beyond his mage sight. Kiara caught her breath sharply as the Orb lost its hold on her and her own shields snapped into place.

  From the still-glowing shards of the Orb came a spirit of red flame so bright Tris had to shield his eyes and dampen his mage sight. The Obsidian King rose from the splintered glass. Tris could sense its triumph in release, its anger at being denied its chosen vehicle, its desperation to find a host. He knew that the spirit must have a mage's body to inhabit or die. Tris remembered the vision of the dark sending, of what it would mean should he be taken. He sent all his waning power into his wardings, resolved not to permit that vision to come to pass.

  The Obsidian King's power slammed against Tris's shielding. It was a bet, Tris knew, as to which of them was the closest to death. Tris threw all of his power into his shields, resolved to die rather than be possessed. He drew power from the blue glow of his own life thread, though it flickered dangerously; he knew that the Obsidian King was weakening fast. Tris could feel the Obsidian King's panic.

  Just when Tris thought that his opponent was at the breaking point, the Obsidian King streaked toward Kiara. Weakened from her ordeal within the Orb, Kiara's shields buckled and dissolved. Tris could hear her soul cry out as the invader forced himself into her mind.

  "I... am... back!" a voice rasped from Kiara's body, a mixture of wonder and hideous satisfaction molding her features into a visage not quite her own. Four... five... six... The bells continued their mournful toll, announcing that all had been lost.

  Tris staggered as he summoned his power for a final salvo. The struggle with Arontala had drained him badly. Without Mageslayer, the wormroot's poison went unabated. In moments his power would be beyond his control. Blood loss made him lightheaded. He knew that the blue thread of his own life energy was dimming. He looked at Kiara, her face twisted by the spirit that possessed her body, her eyes desperate, and he remembered the torment Alaine and Lemuel endured when their bodies had been seized against their will. The vision of his own possible fate foretold by the dark sending, of a blank-eyed and crippled shell twisted to the will of the Obsidian King, made up his mind. He knew that there was only one way to free Kiara.

  You must do what I could not, because you have what I did not.

  Bava K'aa's words rang in Tris's mind and he dove toward Kiara, snatching up her fallen spelled dagger. The spell to separate a spirit from the body from the
hidden journal of the Obsidian King was clear in his mind. Tris murmured the spell of separation as he hurtled forward, knowing that he could not-must not-think about what he had to do. Tris felt Kiara's soul wrench free from her body and he sheltered it within himself, plaiting her life thread with his own. Weakened as they both were, he could not sustain them both long. Tris listened, heartsick, to the toll of the bells. Seven... eight... nine...

  "Forgive me," he whispered as he turned the knife in his hand, and as tears streaked down his face, he sank the blade deep into Kiara's chest.

  Dimly, he heard Vahanian cry out and Gabriel gasp. Tris threw all of his remaining power into his shields, holding on to the blade as Kiara's blood soaked his hand and her body sagged against him. It was her scream that pierced the night, as her body convulsed in his arms. The spelled blade, wielded by a mage against both a mage's body and a mage's spirit, struck at the only soul remaining within-the soul of the Obsidian King. In the Plains of Spirit, Tris heard the death scream of the Obsidian King as the dagger rent the soul. Tris felt the ancient life force sunder, saw the dying soul tear free from Kiara's open mouth as her head fell back.

  In one last burst of magic, the Obsidian King enveloped them in flames. Tris flung his shields around himself and Kiara, his power and life force strained to the breaking point. An acrid stench rose as the stone floor blackened in a circle around his shields. Gabriel, still shielding Vahanian, cried out as the flare burned his cloak. Then the remnants of the Obsidian King's soul dimmed and went dark, destroyed beyond even the vengeance of the Formless One. Tris sank to his knees, cradling Kiara's body.

  Tris sagged forward, too drained to move. Sure he was dying, Tris heard a voice in his mind, close by, as if someone leaned down to his ear. I will sustain you, he heard a man's voice say, and he glimpsed the image of a tall man with golden hair and green eyes like his own. Tris felt no fear; he was too weakened from the fight to argue. He gratefully accepted the stream of life energy that made it possible to move again.