by Jo Spurrier
They knew she was injured, they knew she was weak. And they knew they’d never get out of this place alive. In their shoes, she’d do her best to take her enemy down with her.
Her eyes were still adjusting to the gloom. The fort was full of deep shadows, and she felt half-blind as she searched through halls and chambers.
When one of the mages finally decided to show himself, Sierra didn’t see him until it was too late.
The dark hall grew suddenly bright, awash with orange-hued light. Sierra grabbed Ardamon by the arm and cast a hasty shield, turning to find a wave of flame crashing down upon them. She reached for Isidro and found him already there with power waiting. Ah, he said, they’ve found you.
One of them. She pulled Ardamon down with her as she dropped into a crouch, as though her shields were threatening to give way. I want to see them both before I strike. They think I’m on my last legs. I —
The ground beneath her began to tremble, then, and Sierra broke off the thought.
What was that? Isidro said.
I … I don’t know. A shower of grit rained down, and the walls gave voice to a rumbling groan.
A second wave of flame crashed over them, fiercer than the first. Whatever it was, the mage hadn’t been taken by surprise.
Inside her head there came a flash of vertigo, the sensation of falling, and then a sharp pain in her left leg, as though she’d been stabbed. She fell to her knees with a hiss of pain, even as the shaft of fire striking through her melted away into a golden stream of power. She could feel Rasten lying winded on sharp stone, every inch of him aching.
She started to reach for him when another figure strode out of the darkness, wrapped in a shield fashioned to look like armour, glowing as pure and brilliant white as snow.
Sierra tightened her grip on Ardamon’s arm. Issey? I see him.
She felt him behind her eyes as the men approached, one from either side, and she huddled on the ground like a slave cowed and helpless.
There came a fresh rush of pain and power in her leg, and Sierra squeezed her eyes closed. Rasten! You’re hurt?
At once, she felt Isidro’s attention turn Rasten’s way as he shoved his power towards her. I’ll help him, Sirri. Focus on the two you’re facing.
She couldn’t argue. There was no time for it. The one in the ice-white shield was standing over her now.
Sierra gathered the power into a single, blazing shaft and sat up on her heels. She might lack in subtlety and finesse compared to other mages, but she made up for it in brute strength. In one swift movement, she thrust the shaft into the mage’s chest, shattering his shields, which came apart in a storm of power, spawning small whirlwinds of lightning and fire that scattered through the deserted hall. With his shields gone Sierra converted her spike into a claw, wrapping it around his chest and squeezing until she felt his ribs crack. Then she released him, and stood slowly, carefully, while the mage lay gasping on the floor, his chest crushed and skewered on shards of bone.
Those few seconds had burned through half the power she held, but Sierra paid it little mind. Her chest was already bathed in a delicious, luxurious warmth, a comfort since the would-be assassin had driven a knife into her chest in the temple courtyard. While the mage on the ground writhed, gasping with his rib-cage shattered and his lungs collapsed, her breath came without effort, for the moment, at least.
She turned her back on the dying man, and when Ardamon hesitated, she beckoned him to follow her with an imperious gesture.
The first of the mages had given his location away with those waves of flame. He’d thought her weak and he hadn’t bothered to hide his position. Now, it was too late, but he tried to run anyway.
Sierra snared him with a thread of power, sending a flickering strand of lightning to catch his feet and send him sprawling on the flagstones. Once he fell, she pinned him there with a net of power.
The fortress was still shaking, the tremors growing more violent, as though the structure had been built on the back of a great beast that was trying to shake them off. With the mage still pinned, Sierra turned her attention back to Rasten — only to find him in the dark, clinging to a broken slab of stone.
Rasten, where’s Cam? What’s going on?
He’s heading for you. Go find him, and then get out. Hurry. I don’t know how much longer I can keep this place together.
What? But … Issey, are you there?
I’m here, Sirri. I’m feeding him power, but he’s wounded.
Sierra checked on the enemy mages. The first was nearly dead, the other unharmed except for the headlong fall that had rattled his skull. When her gaze fell upon him he spat a curse in his own tongue, though Sierra couldn’t hear him well enough to understand it.
She lifted her gaze to the roof. Grit and dust rained from the levels above, and it seemed the floor was listing, sinking like rotten beams under the weight of ice and snow.
Then, somewhere very near, she heard Cam shout her name.
Sierra reached for the ceiling with a thread of power, and brought it crashing down onto the enemy mage.
She felt every moment of it, every thump of stone, every chipped and cracked bone, the great weight of the rubble pressing him down onto the flagstones, the sudden hot seep of blood from torn skin. She was already turning away, heading towards the shout, and at first she stumbled. For the space of ten or twelve heartbeats she thought she was dying … but then it eased, carried away on a rising tide of power, and her faltering steps grew steady. ‘Cam?’ she shouted, putting a touch of power into her voice to let it be heard above the roar of the convulsing stone.
‘Sirri? Here!’
She ran with Ardamon on her heels, past the body of the Akharian mage, lying twisted on the stone with blood trickling from his mouth.
As soon as she turned a corner, she found him together with a woman and a little girl, their faces oddly familiar. Sierra threw her arms around his neck, and he returned the embrace with one hand.
‘What happened to Rasten?’
Cam was covered with dust and grit, splatters of blood drying on his face. ‘He … the stairs collapsed. I couldn’t reach him, Sirri. I promised we’d come back.’ Cam started to turn away, but Ardamon grabbed him by the shoulder.
‘By the Black Sun, no. You’re getting out of here, both of you.’
‘But —’ Sierra started.
Ardamon cut her off. ‘Listen! This whole cursed place is coming down, and I’m not losing a king or queen on my watch. Move! You two, as well,’ he said to the woman with the girl clutched to her hip.
Cam shook himself, and sheathed his sword. ‘I made a promise,’ he muttered to himself, but he let Ardamon pull him away.
The trembling of the fort never ceased, and as they turned back, the crumbling fragments of stone grew larger, from grit and gravel to cobbles and jagged boulders tumbling down around them. Sierra cast a shield to catch the falling chunks and bounce them away, but no sooner had she’d cast it than the rain of rubble grew thicker, pounding down so fiercely that she had to pour more power into the shield with every step.
Someone wrapped an arm around her to hurry her along. The floor had grown treacherous with rubble, jagged chunks of stone that shifted and turned under her feet. Sierra could pay it little mind, however, for the choking dust was making her breath short and her chest tight, and Isidro’s awareness came crackling into her mind once more. Sirri, your shields — the last mage is still alive down there, and your shields are drawing him to you.
She stumbled, but strong hands kept her from falling. I can’t take it down, Issey. The cursed roof is caving in.
I know, I know. We need to kill him.
How? I don’t even know where he is.
Rasten has found him. I can drain his shields and leave him vulnerable, but we need you to crush him. I’ll tell you where, but first you need to get Cam and the others clear.
But Rasten’s still trapped!
It’ll be alright, Sirri. I can give him po
wer to shield himself. Once it’s over, we’ll dig him out.
We?
I’m riding to join you, and I’ll bring Nirveli and Rhia with me. We’re a hundred and fifty miles away as the crow flies, and with fresh mounts we’ll be there by sunrise. Are you clear?
She lifted her head, squinting bleary-eyed through the stinging dust. Cam was talking to her, but she couldn’t understand him. Her head was spinning for want of air. The second mage had died, and Rasten … the power she was taking from him was growing weaker.
There was daylight ahead, a clear and brilliant blue sky. The spitting rain of earlier had all blown away. Summer was almost here. Almost, she told him.
The men had cleared the courtyard — the only one remaining was Hespero, lying facedown on filthy cobbles with his hands bound behind his back and Ardamon’s second standing over him with a crossbow. Ardamon veered off to haul his elder brother to his feet and drag him through the gates.
As Cam guided her out, Sierra belatedly took down her shields, and as the veil of flickering lightning fell, Ardamon’s men erupted in cheers at the sight of their king. Cam raised his sword in answer, but Sierra could tell he didn’t dare release his grip on her. She felt as shaky as a newborn foal, and she struggled to draw breath.
Sirri, are you clear?
Yes, she replied, we’re clear, but … but I need more power. Issey, I can’t breathe.
It seeped through her, not the vast flood of before, but a gentle trickle. Enough to ease the tightness of her lungs, though not the airless, dizzy pounding within her skull. That’s the last of it. I tried to set some aside, but … well, let’s just deal with the matter at hand. Here, come with me.
He reached into her mind with an insubstantial hand, and drew her towards him. Sierra didn’t resist and, even if she’d wanted to, she lacked the strength.
She couldn’t feel the enemy mage, not at first. There was power everywhere, tendrils curling through the crumbling walls like a fungus. She couldn’t have found their source if she had days to search, but Isidro carried her straight to it, and to the mage huddled within the bowels of the subterranean fortress.
He was near the hidden entrance, where only a short time ago she’d sent Rasten into the damp, dark tunnels. He could still escape, she realised as she gritted her teeth. The passage had been spared the ruin consuming the rest of the fortress. Rasten was trapped in the midst of it, but this last, lingering enemy could simply slip away when his destruction was finished.
No, she said to herself, no, you son of a cur dog, you’ll never walk away from this. I’ll crush you!
Wait, Isidro said, calm despite the sharp note of command. Just wait … She felt his power ripple as the shields the mage had placed to keep the destruction from spreading to his section of the passage winked out.
Now! he told her.
Sierra struck. The rocks fell.
Power streamed briefly, then died away.
She snapped back to her body. The brief flush of power as the mage died gave her a small respite, but she knew it wouldn’t last long. Rasten? she said. Rasten? Can you hear me?
He can hear you, Isidro replied, his voice soft. He’s just … He trailed off, but Sierra needed no explanation. She knew what Rasten was like when pain had him in its claws. Please, stay with him, she said. And Issey? Please tell him … tell him, thank you.
His broken leg throbbed, but Rasten didn’t dare shift his weight on the flimsy slab of stone. He was gripping the jagged edges of the fractured tread hard enough to make his knuckles ache. Why? he asked himself, and made his hands relax.
With an effort, he lifted his head, gazing down into the void below. It called to him with a siren song. There was nothing to be afraid of down there. In the darkness was stillness, and peace.
He slipped, a fraction of an inch. Instinct almost made him snatch at the stone again, but he’d spent long years mastering his instincts, and kept his hands free.
Something shifted inside his head. Isidro. Again. Rasten, he said, his voice measured and cool. What are you doing?
His broken leg was hanging off the fractured slab. The rest of the spiral stair had fallen away. What remained were a few broken sections of tread anchored in the wall, jutting into the shaft like splintered teeth. Unsupported over the void, the weight of his leg was pulling on the break, and it blazed with pain. Rasten gritted his teeth against it. It was sapping his strength; building up in his mind. Sooner or later, it would overwhelm him and drive him to do anything to escape it … even let himself slip off this narrow platform and plummet into the pit.
Rasten, Isidro said again.
I’m sorry, Rasten said. For what I did to you. I’m sorry.
There was a pause. You don’t have to do this.
I … I used to think it was pointless. Insulting. What good are words after something like that? They’re worthless, it takes no effort to say them. Any man can speak a lie.
But you didn’t lie, did you? Not to Sierra. She always said that you only told her the truth.
Yes, I needed to. I knew what it would do to her … what I’d do to her, what I’d take from her. It was the only thing I could give her in return.
But I mean it, Rasten. You don’t have to do this.
Rasten laid his cheek again on the cold, rough stone. He couldn’t explain why the words needed to be said now, when before he’d always shied away from them. Perhaps it was because he’d never get another chance. It’s the truth, he said.
No, I mean, you don’t have to let yourself die.
A sob rose in his throat. Rasten tried to swallow it, but it burst through all the same, echoing down the hollow shaft.
Then, as though triggered by the sound, there came a low groan through the ruin of the fortress, and the ledge shuddered. It seemed to Rasten as though the cylinder of the ruined staircase was tipping slowly to one side. Once again, his hands twitched, aching to grip the edges of the rough stone and hold on for dear life. Once again, he fought the instinct and won.
Isidro was still inside his head, quiet and watchful. Perhaps it would be better to drive him out, but in his current state Rasten wasn’t sure he could best him. I’m so weary, he said at last. I just want to go home.
It had come back to him in snatches. A scarred and ancient table laid out with wooden bowls and spoons that were carved by his fathers during the dark days of winter. They’d given him a little whittling knife and begun teaching him how. He’d forgotten, over the years, why holding a knife gave him such comfort. He remembered fresh bannock, rich with butter. Smoked bacon, fried to crispness in the pan. Syrup, boiled for hours until it became thick and unctuous. They cooked it in the spring while the snow was still thick on the ground, and threw long strands down onto the ice to turn stiff and chewy. He remembered making sure the youngest of his siblings got their fair share, and that the older ones or the dogs didn’t steal their sweets away.
Rasten squeezed his eyes shut against stinging tears, and pressed his cheek harder into the stone. I don’t want to remember. It hurts too much. Every snatched recollection led to the same memory, the one he’d spent years trying to bury and forget. The night of blood and smoke and screaming, the night of slaughter and pain.
Rasten. You don’t have to do this.
Rasten said nothing. Isidro was riding, Rasten could feel the horse beneath him, stretching out in long strides.
It’s the only way I’ll ever find peace.
Frustration was starting to seep through Isidro’s surface calm. That’s not true. You found it before. At Lathayan, even after Sierra was wounded —
It didn’t last. Nothing good ever does. They killed the dogs! I can still hear them crying! They’d whimpered like children after the bolts struck, blood seeping into their white fur.
They did. I’m sorry. But we avenged them.
What good is vengeance? It doesn’t take back what was done. Rasten swallowed hard, and felt the stone shift beneath him once more. I’d take it back if I could. All of
it.
He remembered the way Mira had looked at him, when he’d thrown her down in Delphine’s chambers. The sudden fear in her eyes. No one had ever treated her that way before. He’d struck that fear into her, and now it would never leave. He’d seen shadows of it afterwards, the way she shied from his gaze.
He’d not truly slept since that night. Every time he closed his eyes, it played through his mind again. The dogs, dying on the floor. Cam, with a knife to his eye. Isidro, bound and restrained. Sierra, hooded for execution, strung up and helpless while they left her in the dark to die.
Rasten shifted again, and felt something wet against his arm. Blood, seeping through from the wound on his side. There was more of it on his hands and stiffening the cuffs of his sleeves. So much blood.
He remembered how Sierra had lain twisted on the floor at his feet, gasping for breath through lungs choked with smoke. He remembered a night in the desert half a year ago, when he’d wrapped his arms around her as she’d slept, and sworn a solemn vow to leave the Blood Path behind him, to cast off the shackles Kell had bound him with and turn his back on the old man’s poisonous teachings.
And how long did that vow last? he asked himself. Days?
He’d lost count of the number of times he’d broken it. The girl Greska was the first. But he could see to it that the night Sierra gasped and wheezed at his feet would be the last.
He hadn’t even hesitated. Didn’t question it for a moment, not as he tracked down the nearest enemy, not as he dragged him back to where Sierra lay, unconscious and sinking fast. The others, perhaps, could be excused, the folk he’d freed from slavery, those desperate souls who’d give anything to be freed from their chains and go home, to gather up the shards of their shattered lives. But that Akharian … he’d thought nothing of pinning his hands to a post and carving the flesh from his bones. Every time I think I’ve put it behind me, I stumble and find myself back there again. I’ll never be free of him. Sirri … it’s bad enough for her, and she wasn’t in his grasp for long. I know what we did to her, first Kell and then me. It’s right there in her face, in her voice. It’s there in her power. We took the girl she was and made her hard and cold and brutal. Don’t lie to me, Isidro, I know you see it, too. She’ll never be the same as she was. And as for me … I’ll always be a Blood-Mage. The taint runs bone-deep, too deep to carve it out.