North Star Guide Me Home

by Jo Spurrier

  ‘We have everything under control, Blood-Mage. Or we will soon enough. The wench must be in poor shape. My men will deal with her easily enough. Her corpse will be hanging from the gates by sunrise.’

  ‘You really think so? You don’t think she’s been trained to push on through any pain? You don’t believe that she’d sooner run herself into the ground than let you have victory?’

  Pelloras narrowed his eyes. ‘Have a care of how you speak, Blood-Mage. You may —’ But he broke off, then, as the runner he’d sent upstairs returned, wide-eyed and pale. He crowded close to whisper something in Pelloras’ ear.

  The Akharian’s skin flushed to a deep crimson hue. He clenched and unclenched his jaw as though he was chewing upon his tongue, and turned to Rasten with a murderous gaze.

  ‘What’s gone wrong now?’ Rasten said, hooking his thumbs into his belt. ‘Have you let another prize slip through your fingers? You’re not doing well tonight, southerner. Four out of five prisoners, just vanished out of their cells. Perhaps you should check on the last of them, make sure you still have one hostage left. And here I thought you had a chance.’

  Rasten felt the other mage reach for his power, just as in his mind’s eye there came a flash of blue-white light, bright and blinding.

  The crack of thunder was deafening, an unearthly cacophony of noise, and power rose up within him, pure, sharp and crackling.

  The other mages were gathering their power, too, but Rasten ignored them, focusing on Pelloras. He lunged forward as the Akharian snapped up a shield, but Rasten was ready. He shaped his power into a spike and punched through the man’s shield. He was strong, this Akharian mage, and skilled, but he’d never fought a Blood-Mage.

  Pelloras stumbled back, but Rasten had spun a wall of power behind him. The Akharian was already building a second shield, but Rasten was on him, with a knife in his hand. Rasten drove it into his chest, and felt Pelloras’s heart trembling at the point.

  Even mortally wounded, blood draining from his body, Pelloras was still trying to raise power and fight. Rasten counted himself impressed. It was a hard discipline to instil in a student, unless the trainer was willing to take them to the edge again and again … although, he conceded, perhaps there were other ways of doing so than putting the student on the rack.

  He took down the wall at Pelloras’ back and held the man’s wide-eyed gaze as he slowly toppled over without its support, pulling himself off of Rasten’s knife as he collapsed. By the time his skull struck the stones with a resounding crack, the southerner was dead.

  ‘Now,’ he said, turning to the other mages. ‘Who’s next?’

  As he rounded a corner Isidro saw them ahead, their shields lighting up the hall as bright as day. Beyond, he could just make out the flicker of Sierra’s lightning.

  They were keeping their strength for the shield, letting Sierra burn through her power upon it. There were five of them, and they’d cast a rearward shield as well.

  Isidro headed for them at a run, spinning a shield as he went. The man watching their backs heard him coming. Isidro saw the Akharian brace himself, pouring more power into the shield.

  He reached for the power pulsing through him like liquid fire, and sent a spike through the Akharian shield, piercing it like a needle through cloth.

  The moment it broke through Isidro shifted his grip on the power, and with a wrench he stripped the power from the shield, drawing it into himself in a clean and crackling torrent. The wall of energy crumbled and the mage staggered, his knees buckling … he’d bound the shield into his own life-force.

  Isidro was still charging forward, but he felt more power stirring around him. He tensed, ready to counter as best he could. Isidro knew he had an odd way with power, but would it be enough to stand against the best Battle-Mages Akhara could field?

  But then, with the air growing thick as treacle around him, he heard Nirveli shouting his name.

  She’d fallen behind, but as the tar-thick power forced him to slow, she reached his side. ‘Stop!’ she cried. ‘Tell Sierra to shield!’

  Her right hand swung up, something clutched within her fist, and Isidro had just enough time to relay the message to Sierra before Nirveli hurled a missile into the knot of Akharians, who were only just realising their rearward shield had failed.

  It was a stone — a single stone, sailing a calm arc through the air, but after a few feet it broke apart. The stone disintegrated into fragments joined by a net of fine, glowing threads. The fragments flew apart, drawing their glowing filaments out as the device began to spin.

  As it flew it summoned a whirlwind, a blast of icy air that made Isidro shiver. Mist boiled out of the air, a thick white cloud that hid the glowing, hair-fine threads of the net.

  The moment the cloud engulfed the first of the mages, it turned a bright, bloody red.

  It covered the Akharian mages in the space of a few seconds, a brief moment of carnage and gore. There was a short scream, but the sound was swiftly cut off and in the sudden calm that followed the only noise was the gentle tinkling rain of stone fragments falling to the ground — that, and the painful, rasping wheeze as Sierra tried to draw breath.

  The red cloud cleared as swiftly as it had come, settling over the flagstones in a fine spray of blood and gore. It reminded Isidro of a wolf pack’s kill; a trampled circle in the snow, stained bright red in the winter’s chill. That’s what faced him now, just a perfect circle of blood, and, scattered across the floor, what was left of the five mages. Nothing that remained was bigger than his fist.

  Isidro glanced back as he crossed the blood-slick stones to Sierra. ‘What in the Black Sun’s name was that?’

  ‘We called it a Maelstrom,’ Nirveli said with a tight smile. ‘It’s something Vasi came up with during the war. Nasty little surprise.’

  Sierra had been right at the edge of the bloody mist and it had settled across her arm and the side of her face. She sprawled on the flagstones with her head hanging, panting open-mouthed. Isidro dropped to a crouch beside her as she coughed again. The spasms were too violent to let her speak, until at last she spat out a gob of blood and black slime.

  He swept a hank of sweat-streaked hair back from her face, and she turned red-rimmed eyes towards him. ‘Issey. Are you alright?’

  ‘I’m fine,’ he said. ‘It’s you I’m worried about. Are you hurt anywhere else?’

  She shook her head. ‘No, I just … can’t catch my breath.’ She started to cough again, her supporting arm slowly giving out. Isidro tried to hold her up, but she was a dead weight, trembling with weakness. Bright drops of blood glistened like rubies on the flagstones near her face.

  There was a movement in the hall ahead of them, a streak of light rippling in the gloom. Isidro glanced up, muscles tense, but that familiar flame-red light told him who it was.

  Rasten came striding out of the darkness. At the sight of Nirveli, he hesitated. ‘Who is she?’

  Nirveli backed away as he drew near, watching him come prowling towards them like a leopard in the night.

  ‘A friend,’ Isidro said.

  Rasten scowled, but after a moment he simply dropped to his knees at Sierra’s side.

  Sierra had one hand wrapped into the harness of Isidro’s false arm, gripping white-knuckled as though she was afraid she’d be pulled away from him. Her eyes drifted shut as she rested her forehead against Isidro’s shoulder, lips still parted and gasping for breath.

  Rasten ran his fingers over her head, then down her back and over her ribs, feeling for injuries. ‘This is bad. Sirri? Look at me, Little Crow.’

  She didn’t respond until he dug his fingers into her shoulder, pressing on tender nerves to make her stir with a soft groan. ‘Leave me alone! By all the Gods, I’m so weary …’

  ‘I know, but you can’t rest yet.’

  While Rasten bent his head, examining her with probing threads of power, Isidro surveyed the passage.

  There were more bodies on the flagstones behind Sierra —
half a dozen or so, as near as he could tell. He turned to Nirveli. ‘How many men do they have?’

  ‘Forty in total. Actually, thirty-nine, without me. Six were guarding the main doors, and two went down when the Wolf Clan took the king. She’s killed, what, eleven or twelve here, and there are another six guarding the women, though Pelloras will have sent for them by now.’

  ‘I killed Pelloras,’ Rasten said without looking up. ‘Along with a few others. His second went after Sierra. He must be one of these —’ He gestured to the bodies. ‘The rest are running scared, but what about the ones who took the prince?’

  ‘What?’ Isidro said. ‘They took Cade?’

  Nirveli frowned.

  ‘You didn’t know?’ Rasten said, glancing up at her.

  ‘No, I … it was discussed, but I never heard Pelloras give the go-ahead. I thought the plan was to give him to the Wolf Clan.’

  ‘But the Akharians reneged,’ Rasten said. ‘So the Wolves took Cam instead.’

  Isidro scrubbed a hand across his forehead. ‘Alright then. So they must have sent some mages with Cade — three or four, maybe. That leaves ten left. What will they do, Nirveli? Their leadership’s gone and Sierra’s loose. What’s their fallback?’

  ‘If they still have Mira and Delphine, they’ll use them as hostages —’

  ‘They don’t,’ Rasten growled.

  ‘Oh …’ Nirveli said. ‘Then their best bet is to catch up with the little prince.’

  ‘And we need to stop them,’ Isidro said, but he was frowning down at Sierra. She was in no state to fight and they couldn’t leave her alone with enemy mages still at large. Someone had to stay with her.

  Rasten met Isidro’s gaze. ‘I can get her on her feet. You two go and guard the entrance. We’ll drive the rest of them towards you.’

  Get her on her feet. He found himself remembering the first weeks with Sierra. He was still weak and recovering from torture when Sierra took him to her bed. Somehow she’d given him the strength for it, feeding the power she’d raised back through him to shore up his weary, damaged flesh. Rasten could do it, too — and he knew where Rasten would get it from. He caught the other man’s eye. ‘Can you handle this?’

  Rasten held his gaze for only an instant before pulling away again. ‘For her, I’ll do whatever it takes.’

  Nirveli glanced from one of them to the other with wide eyes. She had guessed what they were discussing. Isidro could feel the weight of her gaze boring into him like the heat of the midsummer sun.

  There was no time to argue, no time to think it over. ‘Be quick,’ Isidro said, and he pried Sierra’s hand from the shoulder-harness and shifted her to Rasten’s arms. Gesturing to Nirveli to follow, he strode away from them. Nirveli kept her gaze on Rasten for the first few paces before turning and hurrying to catch up to Isidro’s long stride.

  ‘You know what he means to do,’ she said, eyes wide. ‘He’s a cursed Blood-Mage!’

  ‘I know,’ he said. ‘What’s that phrase again? Oh yes … all’s fair in love and war.’

  Chapter 19

  Sharp specks of grit cut into her bare skin, and deep chill wrapped around her, but everything felt distant, unimportant. Eventually the world would stop spinning, or at least slow enough to let her rest.

  There was a noise nearby — scuffling feet, and the sound of someone breathing hard. Or was that just her own laboured breath? Sierra reached for Rasten. Did you find the one you were looking for?

  Yes, I found him.

  She could feel the men scattered through the halls, but she couldn’t lead him to his target, she lacked the will to form the words. Instead, she’d just let him into her mind, so he could use her senses to track the quarry himself.

  There was a sudden flare of pain in her hands, a searing shaft of fire through each palm, making her gasp and twitch on the stone. Nearby, someone cried out, a hoarse, strangled sound.

  The searing pain swiftly mellowed, shifting to a hot current of power. The floor seemed to grow hard and cold, its unyielding chill making her bones and muscles ache.

  Then, Rasten crouched beside her, slipping one arm under her shoulders as he scooped her up, ignoring her groan of protest. He set her down again with a wall at her back. ‘Don’t move, Little Crow. You’ll feel better in a few moments.’

  Her chest ached. It took all her strength just to breathe, and every breath threatened to send her into another coughing fit. But then she felt a wall of power go up around her.

  Her heart began to beat faster. That wall of power … she knew its touch. That was a ritual circle, the sort Kell had always cast to begin a working.

  Sierra reached for Rasten. What’s happening? He’s dead. I thought he was dead. Didn’t we kill him?

  Hush, Little Crow. Yes, Kell’s dead. Just lie still.

  The power welling up within her seemed to drive the weariness and confusion back. But it was only small, just a thin stream of energy. She clung to it like a storm-tossed sailor clutching a line.

  Then, she felt the knife go in, and screamed with all the fury of a storm.

  She rolled onto her back as it washed through her, a golden tide, lifting her high above this base realm of pain and dirt and weariness. The surge of energy swept it all away: the cold soaked into her flesh, the taste of soot and blood in her mouth, the ache of weary lungs and wrenched shoulders. As the power swelled, the strain of each breath lessened. In the space of a dozen heartbeats, the world seemed to snap back into focus, becoming solid and stable instead of a spinning delirium. When she opened her eyes, her vision was clear. The dark spots had flown, and a world that had grown dim and hazy was bright and crisp again.

  Sierra rolled over, heaving herself up. Her chest still didn’t feel right and there was something odd about the way she drew breath. The sound of it was wrong, this raspy wheeze like a blown bellows, but if her mind was clear, what did it matter?

  She rolled to her feet, and found Rasten studying her. In his hand he held a blood-streaked knife, while behind him … behind him was one of the Akharian mages, hands pinned above his head with a knife. Blood pooled at his feet, flowing from him like water from a spring — from his calves and thighs, his belly, his chest, his arms. His eyes were rolled back in his head as he gasped, open-mouthed. He was trying to scream, but Rasten had done something to his voice.

  Rasten glanced to the sacrifice and back to her, judging how much power she held. The well of her power was deep, these days. The life of one man could not come near to filling it, but she’d learnt discipline this last year. She knew how to hoard what power she had. ‘Finish it,’ she said.

  Rasten kept watching her. ‘Not yet.’

  The Akharian heard her. His eyes rolled her way, pleading. Death by a thousand cuts, it was called, though this was a quick and dirty version, not the full ritual that could last for days. ‘Rasten —’

  ‘Not yet!’

  She swept her hair back, the strands tangled and reeking of smoke. She ground her palms into her cheeks, feeling the coarse grains of soot against her skin. She was covered with ashes, like a creature born from the Fires Below. Perhaps she could get around Rasten to end it herself … or perhaps not. Even after all this time, all they’d been through, she didn’t want to pit herself against him. ‘By the Black Sun herself, Rasten, I never wanted this for you! I wanted it to be over!’

  He cocked his head to regard her, and looked down at his hands, sticky with blood. ‘Sirri … I’ve killed so many already. What difference does one more make? Do you pity him? Really? You should have heard them talking after they took you away. They meant to rape Delphine. Anoa, too, and they let me have Mira without a second thought. Don’t waste your pity on this wretch, he doesn’t deserve it.’

  ‘It’s not him I pity,’ Sierra said. ‘I wanted you to leave it behind, to shake off Kell’s chains.’

  He lifted his head at that, eyes wide with surprise, but after a moment the familiar coldness returned to his features. ‘I … I’m grateful, Sirr
i. I truly am. But this is my home too, now, and I’ll be cursed if I won’t defend it with everything I have. Don’t waste your pity on me, either. I no more deserve it than he does.’

  He turned away, and with a slash of the knife he parted skin and muscle beneath the mage’s sternum. Letting the knife fall, he pushed his hand into the man’s chest and, with a wrench, tore his heart out.

  The body went limp with one last sigh, and Rasten dropped the wet lump to the floor. ‘If you catch a tiger by the tail, you’d best be prepared to face its teeth. They knew what they were dealing with. Now, let’s move. Isidro’s waiting for us.’

  They killed another five mages on the way to the entry-hall, and found when they reached it that Isidro and Nirveli had dealt with three more.

  At the sight of Sierra, Isidro strode to her and threw his arms around her. ‘By all the Gods, Sirri …’

  He’d found a jacket somewhere along the line, and as he crushed her to his chest, Sierra closed her eyes to let herself be wrapped up in the scent of leather and his skin.

  After a moment Isidro straightened. ‘Someone bring her a coat.’

  The air felt prickling and cool, and she checked her store of power. Despite the discipline she’d learnt, she still burned through power faster than any other mage she knew.

  Someone dropped a fur around her shoulders. Isidro gave a nod of thanks, but it wasn’t until she heard the murmured reply that Sierra realised Rasten brought it. ‘How long will she last like this?’ Isidro asked him.

  ‘A few hours, maybe.’

  Sierra scowled and pulled away, shrugging herself into the coat properly. ‘What’s the situation, Issey?’

  ‘It looks like a few escaped, along with the mages who had the barracks locked down. Our men are making the place secure. Mira and Delphi both made it out. We’ve sent a score of men to escort them back. I’ve had word that Ardamon, Anoa and the others are unharmed and heading down to join us … ah, here they are.’

  Sierra followed his gaze as Ardamon, grim-faced, emerged flanked by a ragged troop of soldiers. ‘Isidro? I hear it’s all over bar the shouting.’ Anoa and Alameda were behind him, Alameda staring at Nirveli with a mixture of incredulity and suspicion.