Final Enchantment (Unbreakable Force Book 6)

by Kara Jaynes

“I . . . I don’t know,” Aaric admitted. He scratched his chin. Something was out there, but how could he know? He couldn’t see or hear anything amiss, but he could sense something. It sounded crazy though, and he knew he wouldn’t be able to explain it to the others.

  “We could send Roon out as a scout,” Sara suggested, and sniffed when Luna and Aaric laughed at her.

  “A donkey with a broken leg would make a better scout,” Luna chortled. She halted her mare and dismounted. “It’s been a long time since I’ve traveled, but I’ll go take a look and see what I can find.” She bit back a startled yelp when a spear of blue fire shot out of a clump of sagebrush to land less than a foot from her. “Shades alive!”

  Aaric then knew what it was he’d been sensing: magic.

  He felt it swell as three Twyli leapt out of the brush and charged at them, screaming. They’d summoned weapons of enchantment and brandished them above their heads as they charged Aaric and his companions, closing the gap with alarming quickness.

  Aaric drew a deep breath, trying to calm the surge of adrenaline that raced through him. He pulled on the magic, but what to do with it?

  He remembered Bran making the earth crumble under the feet of enemies, but Aaric wasn’t sure how the nomad had managed it. He had to try, though. Snatching at the magic, he slammed the force into the ground.

  Earth exploded from under the Twyli’s feet, throwing the ambushers into the air. One landed on his neck, ending his life, but the other two staggered to their feet, shaking their heads.

  Recalling his time with the dragon, Aaric summoned fire, slamming it into the two Twyli. The men screamed as they tried to put the enchanted fire out, but within moments, it was over.

  Aaric slid from his horse, landing on shaky feet. He felt sick to his stomach, either from killing or pulling on too much magic, he couldn’t tell. Probably both.

  “Rover’s luck,” Luna swore, staring at him. “You didn’t tell me you were a nomad, Aaric.” The two servants were looking at him like they expected horns to sprout from his head.

  “I’m not, Luna,” Aaric said. “But I am a magic user.”

  “Skies above,” Luna breathed. She rode her horse closer, peering at him. “You didn’t need to lie to me and the Guild.”

  “What do you mean?” Aaric asked wearily. He felt like he could sleep a week.

  “The magic. How did you hide it, Aaric?” Luna’s expression that of intense concentration as she studied his face. “I was so sure you didn’t wield enchantment. You fooled everyone.”

  “Perhaps it’d be best if we traveled on alone, Ms. Luna,” Roon said with a pointed glance in Aaric’s direction.

  “Shut up.” Luna flapped a hand at the servant. “Aaric just saved all our lives, you fool.”

  Aaric shook his head. “I didn’t have magic, Luna. It was given to me.”

  The silence that followed was deafening. Aaric shifted under Luna’s scrutinizing stare. “It’s the truth.”

  “Get on your horse,” Luna said, still watching him. She reminded Aaric of a bird of prey, and he, the mouse. “You have a lot to tell me.”

  24

  Bran

  “They went this way.” Fyrsil urged his horse into the trees at the edge of the forest, moving north. “I can sense the Twyli girl.”

  He peered doubtfully at the tangle of trees.

  “Are you sure it’s her?” Bran asked. He couldn’t sense anything, but like most magic users, Bran could only sense magic when it was being used. Fyrsil had the strange ability to sense the actual magic user, regardless of whether or not magic was being used.

  “Yes.”

  “We’ll need to go on foot from here.” Bran dismounted Star. “Maneuvering on foot will be easier.” Lord Flores and Fyrsil followed his example.

  The three men walked down a small deer path, the brigand king eying the magistrate somewhat doubtfully. “Are you sure it was a good idea to bring him along?” Fyrsil spoke to Bran, his voice barely above a mutter. He didn’t have to say who as there were only three of them.

  Bran shrugged without replying. Useful or not Lord Flores had insisted on coming. He felt responsible for his people, a feeling the nomad understood too well. He just hoped the Oppressor wasn’t too much of a hindrance.

  They walked in silence for several minutes before Fyrsil slowed. “She’s close.” He scanned the trees in front of them, as if his gaze could pierce the pine-needled boughs. “Very close. What’s the plan from here?”

  Bran chewed his lip, thinking. If the Twyli was up ahead, Donell would probably be there too. Adaryn had seen him with the female. The hot-headed nomad had made his choice. Bran would have to kill him. After the nomad had almost killed Grace, Bran couldn’t make himself feel much pity for the young man. The Twyli on the other hand . . . Bran didn’t want to kill a woman, but . . . His hand curled into fists, his jaw tightening. He would do what must be done.

  “I’ll go up ahead,” he told the others in a hushed whisper. “I’m going to bury their camp in dirt and stone.”

  Fyrsil nodded matter-of-factly, but the magistrate eyed him somewhat dubiously. “Can you do that?” he asked, smoothing his mustache. “I know you said the sky jewel is powerful, but . . .” He trailed off uncertainly.

  “You have no idea,” the brigand king snorted with disgust.

  Lord Flores glared at Fyrsil, opening his mouth to reply, but Bran shushed him with a sharp motion of his hand. “Enough. Now isn’t the time for arguing. I’m going to devastate their camp, you two take care of any stragglers I might miss. I haven’t seen anyone else, so I think it could just be the two of them, but I won’t know until I can see their camp. Any questions?”

  “I still think we should have brought more men,” the magistrate muttered.”

  “That’s not a question.” Fyrsil smirked at Grace’s father.

  Shaking his head, Bran moved away from them in the direction Fyrsil had told him the Twyli was located. He went alone; the other two men weren’t nearly as skilled in stealth as he was.

  He peered through the trees as he stalked forward, looking for nomad sentries. They could be anywhere: behind bushes, up in the forest trees, or inside thickets. That he didn’t see anyone didn’t mean no one was there. Any nomad worth his salt could hide himself without leaving a trace.

  There! Bran felt threads of magic. Now that he was so close to the source of it, he could sense what Fyrsil could; the enchantment was . . . wrong. Twisted.

  He broke into a run, scrambling up a slope. Stopping at the crest, he looked down into a small, wooded glade. What he saw sickened him to his core.

  Donell and the Twyli female stood shoulder-to-shoulder, their backs to him. In the center of the clearing were two slabs of stone pushed together. A boy lay on it, secured to the rock with rope. A thin wail escaped the child’s lips and he struggled unsuccessfully to free himself. Off the edge, by a large pine, a couple of children lay sprawled in a heap. They didn’t move.

  Bran stood frozen, transfixed by the terrible scene below him. The young woman, using her enchantment, summoned a thin tendril of light . . . from herself. Bran frowned. What was it?

  Deftly she spun it away from herself and toward the child. Bran didn’t understand how the woman did it, but his instinct told him if it reached the boy, he would die.

  With a roar, Bran called the enchantment, pulling it through the sky jewel. He was the magic. He had to change his plan though. He couldn’t bury the boy. He wove elements together, lightning crackling around him in its intensity. He formed a sheet of it and raising his hands, surged the burst of magic forward.

  The Twyli spun around, her arms held up defensively. The line of light winked out of existence as she brought up a wall of darkness, both her magic and Bran’s shuddering on impact. Both magic users stumbled back.

  “Bran!” Donell’s face was white, whether from fear or anger Bran couldn’t tell. “Get out of here! You have no idea who you’re trying to stir up trouble with.”

 
; “A nomad chief of nothing and his girl.” Bran’s voice dripped with scorn and he peered at the Twyli in mock puzzlement. “Presuming she’s actually female. She looks like a boy. A skinny one.” Bran’s mind raced. He needed to get the two away from the boy. Insulting them to the point of violence was the only idea that came to mind. Would it work? “You two have caused a lot of trouble in Ruis. I’m here to teach you a lesson.”

  Donell snarled, his face twisted in anger, but the girl threw back her head and laughed. It was a high-pitched, almost musical laugh. “He’s baiting you,” she said to Donell, her tone conversational. “No need to get angry. They’re just words.” She considered Bran, her yellow eyes thoughtful. “What he’s asking for without coming out and just saying it, is a fight. Why not give him what he wants? Show him how you’ve grown, Donell.”

  Bran sneered. Had Donell not told the girl about the sky jewel?

  But then the magic swelled from the red-headed nomad, and Bran stumbled back in his shock. Donell was at least four times stronger in his magic than his original strength. Forming a blade that gave off a yellowish flickering light, the younger man charged Bran, roaring in his rage. Bran barely had time to summon his own weapon before Donell slammed into him. The two men fought, blades parrying and blocking, both trying to find an opening.

  Donell’s face was soon flushed from exertion, but he grinned, his expression triumphant. “Do you sense it?” he asked, panting. “My magic is so much stronger than it once was. You could have it all, Bran! Don’t align yourself with the Oppressors.”

  “Did you have to murder children to do it?” Bran countered. “What was your woman trying to do to that child? What about the others?”

  “What does it matter?” Donell shot back. His sword cut through the air in a horizontal swipe and Bran brought his spear handle down, blocking the strike. “They’re Oppressors, blast it, Bran! They deserve anything they get!”

  “You’re killing children,” Bran spat. “Children, Donell. They aren’t responsible for the actions of their parents.”

  “You think the next generation will be any different?” Donell attacked with renewed vigor, his blows coming faster. “Once an Oppressor, always an Oppressor. They’ve stolen our children, and have made us suffer. It’s time they gave back.” He shifted, and Bran realized Donell’s eyes were yellow too.

  A thread of enchantment came from Bran’s left, and he yelled in pain as a surge of crackling yellow lightning hit him. He stumbled, nearly getting Donell’s blade through his chest. Pain. That bony girl had attacked him. She tried to circle around behind him.

  Bran pulled more magic through the sky jewel. He was going to end this, now. Earth crumbled away from under the girl and she leapt back with an angry cry.

  “He’s going to try and free the boy,” Donell shouted at her. “Kill him, quick!”

  The Twyli turned and sprinted for the child. Bran was going to be too late.

  A deafening crack sounded in the air and the Twyli screamed, falling to the earth. Blood blossomed from her shoulder. Lord Flores appeared at Bran’s shoulder. “Finish it, Bran.” He reloaded his gun. “Fyrsil has circled around to free the child.”

  “Eletha!” Donell’s face paled. He attacked Bran with such ferocity that Bran fell back against the onslaught. “You’ll pay for this, Bran!” Summoning a burst of energy, he threw the magic at his feet, hurtling them backward from each other. Scrambling to his feet, Donell sprinted over to the young woman. Scooping her up in his arms, he cradled her tenderly, heedless of the blood that soon soaked his shirt from her wound. “Eletha!”

  The Twyli lifted her good arm, her face twisted in pain and rage. Forming a thin javelin out of magic, she hurled it at the magistrate.

  Lord Flores cried out as the javelin punctured his chest. He dropped to his knees, gun dropping from nerveless fingers as he tried to stop the bleeding.

  “Fyrsil!” Bran yelled, running over to Grace’s father. “Fyrsil, quick!”

  Bran was only half aware of the two renegades fleeing into the forest together. Lord Flores’ breathing came in painful gasps, his face gray. So much blood. “Fyrsil!”

  “I’m here.” The brigand king appeared at Bran’s shoulder, kneeling down to inspect the magistrate. The freed child stood a little ways behind. He still looked frightened, but despite the few glances he shot toward the trees, didn’t run.

  “This is a serious wound.” Fyrsil pulled on the magic, deftly weaving faint, silver threads of magic around the hole in Lord Flores’ chest. “I don’t suppose you know how to merge.”

  “What do you mean?” Bran was only half listening, his focus on the terrible wound in his potential father-in-law’s chest. It looked awful. Would he make it?

  “It’s said to be the ability of . . . fusing your power with another magic user. It’s supposed to create a rebounding effect, for lack of a better explanation. It’d come in handy right now, as it makes the magic users extremely powerful. I’m doing my best, but he’s still going to need a long recovery time.” The once-king’s brow was furrowed in concentration. The bleeding had stopped, thankfully, but the magistrate’s eyes were closed, and every breath he took sounded like it could be his last.

  “I’ve never heard of that,” Bran admitted. “It sounds made-up.”

  “Possibly,” Fyrsil admitted. Finished with his healing, he sat back, running a hand over his face tiredly. “I don’t know how it works. I read about the concept in an old book in my royal library. It never said how, though, only that one could.”

  “Let’s get him back,” Bran said. “Grace is going to have my head if her father doesn’t pull through this.”

  “So good of you to be so concerned for the man’s well-being,” Fyrsil snorted, but he stood as well, and went to retrieve the horses. The boy, after casting a fearful glance at Bran, followed the brigand king.

  Within half an hour, they were on their way back to Ruis.

  25

  Aaric

  “Is that a book from the royal library?” Luna peered at the leather-bound tome in Aaric’s hands. “I could have sworn I saw it there.”

  Aaric shifted uncomfortably in his saddle. They were still riding north, and Aaric found riding as good a time as any to read. Was there ever a bad time to read?

  “Er . . . maybe. I thought I’d borrow it.”

  Luna smirked at him. “Does Sirius know you ‘borrowed’ it?”

  Aaric frowned, feeling defensive. “Who said it was his anyway? He’s not the king.” He vaguely remembered himself berating Adaryn for ‘borrowing’ a horse, and sternly banished it from his mind. A book was a very different thing from a horse. “I’ll give it to you when I’m done. You can return it.”

  “What are you reading about?”

  Aaric turned back to the pages. “Have you ever heard of a magical ability called ‘merging’?”

  Luna shook her head.

  “Blast it.” Aaric leafed through the pages, feeling frustrated. His reading spectacles slipped down his nose, and he pushed them back. “Blast it,” he repeated.

  “Why does it matter?” Luna was watching him, trying not to appear too curious.

  “I’m supposed to learn it,” he explained. “It’s supposed to be the key to defeating the Twyli.”

  Luna shrugged, patting her horse absently on the neck. “Well then you’d better keep reading.”

  Aaric didn’t bother to answer. He’d already read the book twice, and while it had a fair bit about merging, it didn’t say how it worked. For Ruis’ sake, he hoped he could learn it in time.

  26

  Aaric

  “There’s someone out there.” Aaric had fallen back to ride next to Luna. “I only saw him for a moment, but he’s there.”

  “A brigand?” Luna asked, her brow creasing with worry.

  Aaric shook his head. “A nomad. He was dressed like one anyway.” He peered ahead, his jaw firming. “I’m going to see if I can find him.”

  “And leave us here?” Lu
na glanced at the servants. “If something happens to you, I’ll be stuck taking care of those two.”

  “I’ll be fine.” Aaric heeled his horse to a trot. “Nomads don’t usually seek out violence without being provoked.”

  “Usually, being the key word there,” Luna grumbled, but didn’t press the matter.

  Aaric hadn’t ridden more than a hundred yards before several nomads appeared from a small copse of trees. They stared at him, their faces expressionless.

  Aaric lifted a hand in friendly greeting. “Hello!”

  They continued to stare. Their faces could’ve have been carved from stone for all the emotion they showed.

  “We’re weary travelers,” Aaric said. “Just passing through the area. We won’t bother you.”

  “Aaric?” A tall nomad pushed through the men, his blue eyes wide with shock. “Is that you?”

  “Kenroc.” Aaric nodded. “I didn’t know you had traveled this far south.”

  “We are on our way to Sen Altare.” Kenroc’s gaze moved to study the others, his jaw tightening. “Where’s my daughter?”

  “In Ruis.” Aaric slid from his horse. “Adaryn needs your help, Kenroc.”

  27

  Aaric

  Kenroc sighed. “Bran had mentioned children were disappearing in Ruis, but I didn’t know who was behind it or why.”

  “Well now you do,” Aaric replied. They’d finished a nomadic dinner of venison and foraged greens, and now sat beside the fading embers of a fire. “And the Twyli are bringing an army. They won’t stop until they’re defeated or they’ve won.”

  “Many would say Ruis deserves nothing less,” Kenroc grumbled. He kept his gaze on the embers though, not looking at Aaric.

  “Do you really believe that?” Aaric frowned at him. “That’s like saying Bran is just like his father. We both know that isn’t true.”

  Kenroc sighed. “Even if we wanted to help, do you really think Ruis would accept it? We’re nomads, Aaric.” He laughed. “Not that I would expect you to understand. You don’t know what it’s like to be different.”