by Devri Walls
Maybe.
He pulled the book out from under his arm and flipped to the page he needed. He’d chosen the section with the largest piece of the spell and written the missing words around it. Rowan began to read in the ancient dialect of Deasroc. These words were different than those he’d used to bring on the Fracture. They were more powerful.
Aja arched his back, emitting a guttural cry.
A breeze stirred, not from the Fracture, but from the new spell. It rapidly picked up speed until a whirlwind spun, encasing them all within its eye.
The chairs and tables that had been so haphazardly shoved against the walls scooted across the floor, following the path of the tornado. Even with the roar of the wind and the screech of wooden legs against stone, Rowan’s chanting rose above it all.
He could feel the magic working, and then a sharp pain caused him to flinch. He glanced down to see his skin slowly splitting across his collarbone as if someone sliced a dagger across it. Blood welled up and spilled down, soaking his shirt.
The window to his right shattered, and bits of glass joined the whirlwind, glinting as they spun. A tree limb sailed in, smashing into the ground before it was picked up as well. The faint sounds of screams reached his ears from somewhere in the village.
Let them scream. The more terror they felt, the more loyal they would be when he freed them from the fear.
The wind whistled in and rushed around the room, blowing around the fabric that covered the furniture like billowing ghosts.
His skin split near his sternum. It felt as if someone had shoved a knife into him—he could feel the phantom blade bite into bone. He crumbled, then screamed as a slice as long as his forearm opened from sternum to stomach. The book slid to the floor.
The pain was now equal to the indescribable exhaustion that was so all consuming. Even breathing had become a chore. If he were to continue this spell, he would have to end the Fracture.
With Aja at half capacity, there simply wasn’t enough to power both, and he’d been foolish to hope otherwise. It was a small defeat, but there was satisfaction in knowing that he’d surely killed a majority of the Hunters. But despite everything, Tybolt still lived and that infuriated him.
Rowan struggled back to his feet and released the spell for the Fracture. The draw on his magic diminished, and he found the renewed strength he would need to push through this onslaught. The whirlwind still spun around him, and it darkened as he returned to his spell.
Something unseen slashed across his cheek and forehead. He ignored it. He was nearing the end of the incantation. Something hit his chest, hard. A fist, though he couldn’t see it. Fingers pushed through the gash down his middle and gripped his lungs. He coughed, gagged, and continued with a ferocity, spitting out the last words into the wind.
The fingers released and withdrew. Rowan stood, panting, waiting for the power he’d planned and plotted so patiently for. Blue wisps started to rise from Aja, and the former king groaned. The power in its corporal form twisted up like brilliant serpents, acting separately from the currents of the whirlwind. They turned and started to move across the circle, heading for their new master.
It was so beautiful. A surge of emotion rose up, and his chest heaved with a sob made entirely of dreams realized.
Auriella ran through the village. She didn’t know where Tybolt was, which unnerved her. She blocked blow after blow from pathetic half-starved villagers who honestly thought they could stop her. Previously it would’ve made her furious, them going after her like that. But after what Tybolt had shown her, she was struck with compassion—however idiotic their current actions might be. She met each attack with mercy, ensuring her actions eliminated the threat without fatalities.
A house slid off its foundation and careened towards her. She dove to the side—it was all she had time to do. She hit the ground and rolled. When she pulled her head up, she found the peak of the roof inches from her nose.
After everything she’d been through, to almost be killed by a pile of bricks and wood was nearly insulting.
“Auriella!”
The voice was faint over the wind, and she searched for the source.
Asher stood on a rooftop, waving for her to come. His eyes narrowed, and he snatched an arrow, firing in one fluid motion. Auriella followed the shot, and a man dropped who had been sneaking up on her with a dagger glinting in his hand.
“We’re trying to save you, fools!” she shouted to everyone and no one at the same time.
Auriella scrambled to her feet and ran towards Asher, leaping to the first rooftop and then jumping from one to the next. Asher turned before she got there and bolted, leaping several houses over. She followed, watching as he fired at threats she hadn’t even seen yet. He was gifted with the bow, but she’d never realized just how much.
She slid to a stop next to him, and he pointed to the east side of the village.
Fire.
Auriella’s heart stuttered. “Heaven help us.”
Suddenly the Fracture stopped as if it’d never started. The winds dropped to nothing, the rains abated, and the clouds cleared with startling speed to reveal a starry sky.
With the second Fracture seemingly at an end, the unmuted sounds of the village floated up to their rooftop perch. There were wails and screams and the clash of swords. Flames danced across housetops and through windows and doors.
The quakes would’ve caused hearth fires to scatter across the dry and brittle floors, the lack of moisture rendering them incapable of withstanding the embers. The smoke grew thicker, and although the earth had finally stopped its attempt at eradication, the fires threatened to finish the job.
A villager leapt from the alleyway behind Alistair and ran at him with a pitchfork clutched in his bony hands. Asher rose and fired in one fluid motion—the villager collapsed. Alistair whirled in surprise and looked up to Asher, giving him a nod of gratitude. Asher leapt from the roof and landed in a deep crouch. Auriella followed.
“We have to get these fires out!” he shouted to Alistair.
“I know.” The wizard looked around at the lingering storm clouds. “I’d hoped the rains would be enough to stop the spread.”
“It didn’t wet the inside of these houses,” Auriella said. “It’s nothing but tinder. We need more rain.”
Alistair seemed to shrink. “That is beyond my abilities.”
“Beyond your abilities!” Auriella shouted. “That’s not good enough!”
“Tybolt,” Asher said.
“What?”
“Tybolt.” Asher turned and ran for the castle gates without any further explanation.
“Wait!” Alistair shouted.
And then Auriella understood. Tybolt was heir to the throne and therefore heir to the power, the power to bring back the rain. She turned to follow, but Alistair grabbed her arm.
“You have to listen.”
“There’s no time.” She jerked her arm free. “The entire city will be lost if Tybolt can’t generate a miracle.”
“It’s not a miracle, it’s magic,” Alistair shouted after her. “The likes of which he’s never learned how to control before.”
Auriella stopped and turned. “Can you help him?”
He looked immensely uncomfortable. “I think so.”
She sputtered, unable to form words to express her frustration. “You think so.”
Griffon ran up, huffing. He leaned over his knees, trying to catch his breath. “Word is spreading amongst the people that you three are here to help. We’re finding more and more loyal to the cause.”
“Good,” Auriella said. “Throw anyone you can’t convince in the Hold.”
“The Hold!”
“You don’t have to gag them!” she snapped. “Just get them safely out of the way until we handle Rowan.”
“You heard her,” Alistair said. “Hurry.”
Griffon bolted down a side street, and Auriella turned her attention back to Alistair. “Thinking isn’t good enough. Can you
help him or not?”
“I’ve never called weather—that was Aja’s gift. We spoke about it many times, so I should be able to guide Tybolt but…I’m no expert.”
“You’d better hope you can do something since Aja had his tongue removed. Let’s go.”
Tybolt tried to push open the double doors that led to the ballroom, but they didn’t budge. He threw his shoulder into one and gave it everything he could. The door inched open, releasing a wind that nearly knocked him down. His feet slid and he groaned, pushing harder until there was just enough space for him to dive into the room. The door slammed shut, nipping the tip of his shoes. The scene before him took his breath away.
A whirlwind spun in the center of the room. At its heart, the wizards from the Hold were chained around a stone circle engraved with the markings that allowed Rowan to harness their magic. All were unconscious with the exception of Aja who lay on the ground, fists clenched and every muscle taut in agony.
Rowan looked like a mad man, covered in blood and bathed in a red light that seemed to be coming from the whirlwind itself. The traitor shouted Aja’s name, and blue wisps rose from the old wizard king. They looked like smoke trails, the kind that drifted up after you’d extinguished the campfire, and they seeped from Aja’s skin. The largest wisp rolled and twisted, then paused midair. The top moved this way and that as if it were a head on a neck searching for the right path. It located its new master and headed for him. Rowan reached out with delight. The moment it touched the tip of his finger, he threw his head back and let loose a burst of high-pitched laughter.
A large branch spun past him, encased in the whirlwind. Rowan was completely lost in the moment. Now was Tybolt’s chance. He concentrated and shouted his desire. The log leapt from its prison and flew into the eye of the storm. It struck Rowan hard enough that he flew backwards and landed on one of the chained wizards.
The wisps emerging from Aja stuttered, and then retreated.
Rowan pushed and shoved, kicking at the unconscious wizard in his attempt to get back to his feet.
Tybolt tried to gain control of the glass in the wind, but he found it resistant to his will. He needed an incantation of some sort, which he didn’t know.
Something invisible slammed into him, and he was picked up and flung. He cracked his head against the stone wall so hard he saw stars. Magic wrapped around his neck and held him in place, the pressure increasing rapidly. Tybolt flailed his legs and kicked against the wall, but he was helpless to do anything but gag.
Rowan pushed through the wind with ease, striding towards him. “I destroyed half the island trying to kill you. How fortuitous that I won’t have to go looking for you to finish the job.”
Tybolt grappled for control but there was nothing to attack, no fingers to pry from his throat.
He’d pushed back against Alistair in the tree house, and he prepared to flex his magic. Behind Rowan, the door opened and Asher squeezed in. Tybolt gasped for air and tried to keep his eyes away from Asher so as not to betray his presence. He focused on Rowan. “You killed my family.”
He needed to buy Asher a few moments.
“Not your father—not yet. Goodbye, Tybolt.”
The fist of magic around his throat tightened. Asher had an arrow nocked and was taking deliberate steps across the room. He was trying to find the right wind current, Tybolt realized, to carry the arrow to its target. His vision was starting to darken around the edges. Asher let loose.
The silver tip of the arrow flashed, catching Rowan’s attention. He turned. Instead of a deadly strike through the spine, the arrow sank deep into his shoulder.
Rowan yelled and the magic released Tybolt. He crashed to the floor—his knees jammed into his stomach and shoved the air from his lungs. Standing was nearly impossible. He struggled, gasping, while the room swam in nauseating circles.
Rowan jerked the arrow from his shoulder with little more than a grimace and threw it to the floor with a growl.
Asher darted to the side, nocking another arrow. Rowan spat out a string of incantations and waved a hand above his head. There was a creaking and a loud snap. Tybolt looked up to see the large circular candelabra falling. Asher yelped and dove, but he wasn’t fast enough. The giant iron fixture smashed into his leg. The cry was animal-like, and Tybolt didn’t need to look to know the leg was broken.
Rowan was still shouting out commands in words Tybolt had never heard. The ancient language of Deasroc no doubt. The tables and chairs around the room shifted and then screeched as their legs pulled across the floor on a direct path to Asher.
Tybolt had to do something—no Hunter could survive the beating that was on its way. From the window, branches of a tree waved at him.
Of course.
He pulled with everything he had, demanding they capture Rowan. The branches surged into the room.
Rowan scrambled backwards, pushing magic in defense and dropping the attack on Asher. The tree refused to acknowledge Rowan’s superior power, obeying only Tybolt. Rowan’s eyes grew wide, worry visible for the first time.
Tybolt bolted to free Asher. He slid across the floor on his knees, grasping the edge of the chandelier.
“Stop!” Asher cried, holding out his hand.
“We have to get you out.”
“My leg is broken at best. I won’t be any use to you. Leave me.”
The limbs of the tree were woefully too short for what Tybolt had asked of them. They stopped, straining, while the trunk banged uselessly against the window frame over and over again, trying to do as it was commanded. Tybolt got to his feet and stepped closer to Rowan, putting himself between the mad king and Asher.
Rowan quickly realized he was safe. He evaluated the waving branches with narrow eyes. “That is a very interesting trick,” he shouted. “But do you know any others? Magic takes years to learn, Tybolt. You’ve only had a few days.”
“I have half of Aja’s power,” Tybolt countered.
“Not the good half.” Rowan flung his arm out, and Tybolt dove to the side to avoid the attack.
Tybolt tried to retaliate, commanding the chairs that Rowan had sent after Asher to take out Rowan. But all it took was one word from Rowan and the furniture shattered. The next second he was flying through the air again and slamming to the ground.
“Stop fighting like a wizard!” Asher shouted. “You’re a Hunter!”
He was right—Tybolt had no idea what he was doing when magic was in play. As he hit the floor, Tybolt felt a pull from beneath him. He couldn’t have explained to anyone how he knew, but beneath this floor he felt a thick root system. The same root system that existed in the tunnels. Thousands of them, big and small. It was exactly what he needed.
He pulled at the organic ropes and willed them to rise. He felt nature respond—but nothing happened. They were blocked by the thick stone and lacked the strength to burst through. Yet another blast slammed into his chest, and Tybolt rolled backwards.
Rowan’s laugh rose. “You’re so pathetic. The heir to Eriroc,” he mocked. “Useless.”
Tybolt landed on his hands and knees. His chest ached from the blow, and he slowly raised his head. He focused in on the circle behind Rowan and whispered another command to the roots below. For this they could do their work quietly beneath the surface.
He could feel them moving, but as Rowan stalked forward, he was struck with a helplessness unlike anything he’d ever experienced. The idea was good, but there was no telling how long the roots would take. And by then he could be dead. He simply wasn’t a good enough wizard to compete with Rowan.
“Tybolt!” Asher yelled again. “Hunter!”
“Enough of this game.” Rowan grabbed the book of spells from the floor. The chanting resumed and a wind filled the room, pulling in the smell of smoke from outside. Something in the village was burning.
The wisps again emerged from Aja’s back. Tybolt had to assume it was magic being ripped from Aja and transferred to Rowan.
Asher was righ
t—it was time to be a Hunter. Tybolt turned and ran straight at the wall. He took several steps straight up and flipped backwards onto the upper tree branches that had entered the room at his bidding. He ran across the limb like a squirrel and leapt into midair, grabbing the end of the chain that had once held the candelabra. He swung, letting go at the height of his arc, and sailed towards the center of the room. Landing a few feet from the ring of wizards, he unsheathed his sword. He nearly charged, then noticed the glowing, interlocking circles engraved into the floor.
Tybolt dropped to a knee, slammed the point of his sword into the stone, and cut a clean line through the symbol. The effect was immediate. Rowan slumped over, gasping.
Tybolt charged forward. He lowered his shoulders and pounded him to the ground. Tybolt straddled the thrashing wizard and raised his sword.
The man smiled—moments away from death and he smiled. Rowan flicked a wrist, and Tybolt was picked up and thrown backwards.
He was growing incredibly weary of that trick.
He landed next to Aja. The blue cloud of magic slipped away from Rowan and settled back into its rightful owner.
“You think that will stop me?” Rowan shouted.
Tybolt got to his feet, sword at the ready, and charged. Rowan reached out a hand and yanked Tybolt’s feet out with a swipe of magic. “You and that damn sword. I’m disappointed in you, Tybolt. Truly, I am. Heir to the greatest power in the land, and you come at me with a sword.”
Tybolt’s weapon was ripped from his grasp and taken under Rowan’s control. It rose in the air and turned, point down. Tybolt tried to back away, but the sword dropped rapidly. He reached up and grabbed the blade, stretching his neck back. It lowered again, slicing through the skin of his palms slowly, and smearing the blade in blood. The tip touched skin. Pain seared though his hands and arms but he refused to let go—better his hands than his throat.
The tree frantically tried to reach him, banging its trunk against the window again. Below him he could feel the roots responding to his distress.