by P B Hughes
“We can fight our way out,” said Marcus. “Everyone knows that a single Imperial soldier is worth ten of these Irachnian curs. Look at them! I’ll knock those conical helmets right off their pinheads. Besides, we’ve got Jude.”
Jude barely heard Marcus; his mind was awhirl: If my closest friends can’t be trusted, why should I trust Ryker and Samara? What if they’re in league with Oldguard? What if Caden is right, and I’m just another piece in some twisted game?
“Don’t be a fool,” Ryker replied to Marcus. “These soldiers are not pig farmer volunteers—they’re trained killers, Oldguard’s personal entourage. Even with the Alpha at our backs, charging into fifty armed men is a recipe for defeat. We’d have to dismount, fight our way up the stairs, get to the guardroom, turn the wench, fight our way back down, get our horses, and then get out the open gate. Not to mention, you don’t have a weapon.”
“I don’t see a better option at this point,” Marcus fumed. “Do we just run away and hide?”
“I’m saying we need to regroup,” said Ryker.
“What do you say, Alpha?” Samara probed. “Do we fight our way through or retreat?”
I cannot trust anyone, thought Jude, aiming his staff at Ryker. If anyone is going to hang, this man will be first. He unbuckled his pouch and took hold of a seed.
Samara reached out and shook Jude’s arm. “Alpha, speak up!”
Her touch was startling. Jude dropped the seed back into his pouch. What is wrong with me, he thought, shaking his head. He opened his mouth to speak, but he never got the chance.
“IMPRISON US, WILL YOU? WRETCHED IRACHNIAN SCUM—NOW YOU SHALL DIE!” cried a voice from behind them.
Jude whirled around. A band of twenty ragged men, all on horseback, exploded past them, shouting, cursing like madmen—hurtling toward the guards with a fury in their eyes that pulled at Jude’s soul. A wild man, bearded and gaunt, led them. He held high a glimmering sword, while those behind him brandished clubs and knives.
“It’s the prisoners we released!” Samara exclaimed.
The soldiers below were thrown into chaos, some sounding the alarm, some shouting to form ranks. They managed to form a thin wall just as the vagabonds slammed against them. Irachnian spears met unarmored, malnourished bodies, crumpling them like paper. Still, some survived and fought on. Fish swung his sword, knocking spears aside, driving his blade mercilessly into any enemy he could find, while his comrades cracked skulls with clubs and leapt from their horses to plunge their knives between armor folds.
“This is our chance,” said Ryker. “Samara, you and Marcus get to the guardroom and turn the wench. Jude and I will cover you.”
Ryker let out a cry and thundered down the hill. Samara and Marcus exchanged worried looks, and then took off behind him.
Jude struggled as they rode away. A moment ago, he had been ready to turn on his companions, and now he had to fight with them—to fight for them. He shook his head again, his reason returning. He was being ridiculous, overcome by a fit of insanity. Ryker and Samara were not traitors. If they were, they would have turned him over to Oldguard long ago. And now they were risking their lives for the good of them all. He watched the battle below—the poor, weak prisoners clashing with Oldguard’s trained soldiers. Already, the number of prisoners had been cut in half.
But I can level the playing field, he realized. I can save the rest.
He dug his boots into his horse. The beast reared and whinnied sharply, and Jude raised his shining staff overhead. He tore down the hill, a fistful of seeds clutched in his left hand.
“It’s the Miraclist assassin!” a soldier shouted. “He’s here!” He and three others broke away from their ranks and aimed their spears at Jude.
Suddenly, Jude’s body drained of energy and he slouched against his horse’s neck. What’s happening to me? he thought, his vision blurred. He fell, hitting the ground hard and scattering his seeds. With a triumphant shout, the four soldiers rushed at him.
Jude staggered to his feet and swung his staff. “Get back!” he cried, his vision going in and out of focus. “Get back, fools!”
The soldiers pulled up short, clearly afraid. But then, seeing that Jude swayed like a drunkard, they regained their courage and thrust their spears. Jude staggered backward to avoid the deadly points. One spearhead met its mark, sinking into Jude’s chest. He let out a gasp as sharp pain lanced through his body, and jerked his staff upward. A vine shot up from the ground, whipped around the soldier’s spear, and yanked it from his grasp.
“Take another step and your lives are forfeit,” Jude said, clutching his wound, turning the spear to face them. He hoped against hope that they would yield. He felt their fear, all except the one whose spear he had taken. He was older—a battle-tested officer, it seemed, by the crest on his right shoulder and the scar running down the length of his cheek. But what worried Jude most was the pride in his eyes. He meant to kill Jude or die trying.
“Surrender,” barked the officer, pulling a knife from his belt. “All Imperial dogs must face justice.”
“You’re so weak,” whispered a voice in Jude’s ear. “Use your powers and do to these men what you did to the sheleg.”
“You!” cried Jude. “What have you done to me?”
The guards looked to one another, confused.
“That’s the thanks I get for saving your life? Come now, Jude. You really need to learn to be more grateful.”
“I don’t want your help. I want to be the way I was!”
“Your old self was weak. Your old self could save no one.”
“Kill this lunatic!” cried the officer.
The guard next to him lunged. Instinctively, Jude sidestepped and swung his staff against the spear’s shaft, splintering it with a mighty crack. The guard stumbled past Jude, and Jude kicked the man’s exposed back, sending him sprawling.
The rest of the guards backed away, including the officer.
Jude stared at his staff, dumbfounded by his own display of strength. Again, the orb was swirling with dark smoke.
“I didn’t ask for that,” he seethed.
“Don’t you see? You and I are one. I have always been here, only now, I am awake. Let me help you.”
Jude looked up the stairway leading to the guardhouse. Marcus had picked up a sword and was crossing blades with two guards on the steps while Samara defended their flank against a line of warriors. They were surrounded. They would not reach the wench. The gate would stay closed, and they would all be captured and killed.
More lives would be lost.
“Give in, Jude. Give in to the darkness.”
Jude shook his head. “I…I can’t…You’re evil.”
“Evil does not exist. Observe the leaders of the world. They do what they must to survive—to thrive. They have seized power. There is no such thing as good or evil—only power.”
“Only power,” Jude repeated.
“Test me, Jude. You think it would be slavery, but you would be set free. Give in. You will become your truest self. You will reach your fullest potential.”
Jude raised his staff, his throat dry, his lips cracked. “I’ve come too far to die now,” he whispered, purple veins crawling up his neck. And then, he felt the dark energy bloom through body, and he no longer felt the pain of his wound.
A wicked smile formed on his lips.
Black vines exploded from the earth, snapping around the soldier’s limbs and yanking them to the ground. Their bones cracked beneath the force. Jude stepped over their crumpled bodies, noting the horrible fear in their eyes.
He leaned over and spoke into the officer’s strained face. “No one will be arrested today,” he said with cool nonchalance, the vines around him snapping and yanking, snapping and yanking. “However, it will be a long time before any of you can walk properly again.”
With a satisfied smile, Jude rose and measured the battlefield. Only eight of the prisoners remained, including Fish. They had all dismounted and were fig
hting ferociously, Ryker among them. But they were pressed with their backs against the wall and heavily outnumbered.
Jude popped his neck.
A slew of vines erupted from the earth like a geyser, flying at the enemy assailants and snapping around their bodies. Terrified shouts filled the air as they realized they were rooted in place before their foes.
Jude waved his staff. The guards flew backward and hit the ground, bound hand and foot to the earth. Jude pointed his staff at the staircase. Black vines slinked up the stone like snakes, snatching the soldiers by their feet and pulling them into the air, away from Marcus and Samara.
“What in blazes is happening to you, lad?” cried Ryker. The fellow slumped back against the wall, breathing hard.
Jude ignored the question, admiring his handiwork. In that moment, he was reminded of the first time he had tapped into the Nosfertu during the games, how he had incapacitated every single Emerald Miraclist during his battle in the arena. Again his foes were defeated, some dangling in the air before him, some pinned to the ground. Only this time, he did not feel the least bit tired.
A horn rang out in the night. Jude swiveled around. Atop the hill, reinforcements were gathering—dragoons, one-hundred strong, all on horseback. The battle, it seemed, was only just beginning. He eyed the soldiers curiously. They looked foreign, donned in black armor and barbuta-style helmets. A woman led them, sitting astride a great white steed. As he peered up at her, he realized it was not just any woman. This woman carried herself with the fierce dignity of royalty, and was crowned by a thin diadem adorned with black pearls. Jude realized that she was none other than Queen Maria Fontana of the Southern Isles.
Chapter 36
The Irachnian Queen wore no protection, but was dressed in crimson silks that dripped over her body like blood. Only this time, her head was uncovered, setting loose a cascade of long white hair. Her nose and mouth were still concealed by a scarf.
Hector Alvarez was at her side, flying the Irachnian battle flag. He was dressed for combat in the traditional Irachnian armor—chainmail covered by a leather breastplate, and a red-and-white checkered cape denoting his rank.
Jude felt the commander’s hateful gaze boring into him, and he met it with equal malice. The queen, however, looked almost serene as she ordered the dragoons about with a wave of her hand and a nod of her head.
Hector lowered the battle flag, signaling a desire to parlay with Jude.
A strange request, Jude thought. Perhaps they know that a battle with me would be futile.
Jude turned to his companions. He wanted them out of harm’s way. One hundred soldiers would take time to defeat, even with his enhanced powers.
Ryker was still against the wall, catching his breath, while Marcus and Samara stood at the top of the staircase leading to the guardhouse. Fish had joined the eight remaining vagabonds by the portcullis.
“Raise the gate and go,” Jude cried to Samara and Marcus. “I’ll take care of these dragoons.”
“We can’t leave you to fight that many men alone,” Ryker rasped. “If you die, Chancellor Bubbs will hunt us down.”
Jude raised an eyebrow, nodding to the Irachnian soldiers he had tied to the ground. “The melee with these dragoons will be one-sided, I assure you,” he said. “Now, go!”
“You heard the lad,” barked Fish, waving his sword at Samara and Marcus. “Turn the wench!”
Samara nodded and sprang into action, darting to the guardhouse. Marcus limped after her.
Jude lowered his staff and turned to Hector. He gave the commander a nod. He would hear what the Irachnians had to say, if only to buy time for his companions to escape.
Queen Maria led the way down the hill, Hector at the rear. They reined in before Jude, the queen’s hands relaxed on her reins while Hector white-knuckled his own.
“Have you come to beg for mercy?” Jude asked. He heard the portcullis begin to rise behind him.
Hector’s lip curled, and Jude could see that he wanted to spew all the hateful curses his tongue could muster. Instead, he delivered a canned speech for all to hear: “Jude Elm, Alpha of the Guardians! Marcus Kincaid, Imperial Cadet! Ryker Pendragon, traitor and spy! Samara Fernandez, traitor and spy! You are under arrest for conspiracy and treachery. Surrender yourselves, along with the prisoners you set loose, and you will be given a fair trial under Irachnian law. However, should you continue to resist, it will be my pleasure to kill you right here and leave your carcasses to rot.”
Jude scoffed and spread his arms out wide. “Look around you. Do you not see what I can do? Or are you so eager to join these guards in their humiliation?”
Hector’s gaze swept over the Irachnian men pinned to the ground beneath Jude’s thorny vines, his cheeks aflame with fury. “Miraclist swine! The pride of Irachnia cannot be squelched by the likes of you—”
Queen Maria raised a hand, silencing Hector. She looked directly into Jude’s eyes, drawing him in. “Come, Jude, let us reason together. As I said before, I want peace. And so, I have come to offer you what your heart most desires.”
Jude stared back at her, feeling the darkness swirl within him, alert to the oddity of such a statement. “And what do I most desire, Your Majesty?”
“Answers. To your past and future.”
Jude tensed. How could she possibly know about my past? he wondered.
“My Lady, forgive me, but that’s impossible,” Hector protested. “The king has ordered this assassin be hanged, and hang he shall!”
Queen Maria turned to Hector with cool disdain. “My orders come from the dark one. If Jude joins us, he will be given great honor. Or do you wish to disobey my master?”
Fury flashed across Hector’s face. It was clear that these orders from the dark one had not been communicated to him. Still, at the mention of her master, he bit his lip and bowed his head in compliance.
“What do you know?” Jude asked sharply, collecting the queen’s attention.
Queen Maria searched Jude with a gaze full of understanding. “I told you that I know you, Jude Elm,” she replied. “I know everything.”
The sincerity in her voice tugged at Jude’s heart. A wave of longing swept over him.
“I know your soul is tortured,” she continued. “I know your origins—your mother and father, your brother; your life before all this. I know of the voice inside your head; of your power and potential. Above all, I know why. I know why you were chosen. I know you were set aside from the dawn of shadow, destined for greatness.” She leaned in and looked at him intently. “I know why all those people had to die in the arena, and that if you knew the truth, your guilt would disappear.”
Tears stung Jude’s eyes, but he held them at bay, wary of such claims. He looked away from her. So many of his trusted friends had deceived him before. Why should he believe this woman?
She read his reluctance, his doubt. “You have always been surrounded by liars, those who would use your powers for themselves. But I tell you the truth: all I want is for you to know who you really are. Yes, you sense it. You know we are connected.” She reached out her hand to him.
Jude’s eyes rose to meet hers. After everything that happened, he wanted to believe her. He wanted to trust her, yearned to have someone—anyone—who would not betray him.
“Come with me, Jude,” she pressed. “You have nothing to fear. All will be made known. You will finally be able to rest your head, free from the nightmares.”
Instinctively, Jude raised his hand to take hers.
Nightmares? he thought, faltering. How does she know of my nightmares?
“Come home,” Queen Maria pressed.
Come home, Jude repeated in his mind. Come home, come home, come home. That phrase. It was so familiar. Her voice…he knew it.
Jude’s blood chilled as the truth washed over him. For a long moment, he could do nothing but gawk at her, his lip trembling. He had been enthralled, spellbound—ready to recklessly toss aside his inhibitions and join her. Of course�
��of course I cannot trust her! Oh, what I fool I am! It was all so unfair that the world suddenly seemed clownish and absurd. Mocking laughter escaped him. “You almost had me,” he exclaimed, hatred mingling with his mirth. He shook his head in disbelief. “Bravo! Excellent performance. I was close to believing you. You should have changed your lines up a bit. They are the same you spoke to me outside my window. They gave you away.”
Slowly, the queen reached up and pulled the scarf from her mouth, revealing the face of Lady Lugat. And though Jude despised her, she was still beautiful to behold. She watched Jude for several long seconds, and as she did, rage built inside of him. After everything she had said, she had made him feel like a buffoon. She had tricked him.
“I feel your hate, Jude Elm,” said Lady Lugat. “But have you ever asked yourself why? Why did I come to you, night after night? Why do I beg you to join us?”
“I know exactly why,” Jude spat. “You’re just like everyone else. You want to harness my power for yourself.”
She closed her eyes and shook her head. “I have power enough. I do not crave yours. I crave you. For we are family.”
“I have no family,” Jude replied bitterly. “Death found them long ago. The Cythes killed them. And I have only animosity for that demented wretch who calls himself my brother.”
“Death,” Lady Lugat repeated, as if tasting the word on her tongue. “Death. What a strange concept. No one truly dies. They only change. Indeed, your family is very much alive.”
Jude swallowed a knot rising in his throat. “No,” he murmured. “They’re gone. No more of your lies.”
“You desire proof,” she said. “That is to be expected. If you will but listen, you will know that what I say is true.”
Though Jude wanted to scream, his exterior remained collected. “Speak then,” he said. “But I warn you, if I am not satisfied with your story, you will die for your lies.”
Hector reached for his sword, but Lady Lugat stayed him with a hand gesture. She closed her eyes and sighed. “I am one with many names. Those of the Southern Isles named me after their first Queen, Mariah Fontana, for I bring them liberation from their enemies. The goblins, they prefer the name Shelot Daz, or Spider Witch. And the Cythes gave me the name Lugat—or blood drinker. But my birth name is Delia. I am the daughter of a snake-worshiper chieftain from the southern continent.”