Markal jumped back to let the acolytes down, then shouted across to Alyssa and Drevor above the opposite side of the gate. They were looking down beyond the walls, no doubt at another attempt to scale them.
“Get down from there!” he yelled.
A hand grabbed him, and he turned, alarmed. It was Nathaliey. She was alone; no sign of Narud and Chantmer.
“Tell me what to do,” she said. She looked up at the wall, and her eyes widened as she took in the figure standing on the wall and the wights pouring over the top.
“It’s a maurauder,” Markal said. “Burn off his cloak. It’s holding the magic.”
She nodded and rolled back her sleeves as Markal grabbed the two acolytes the marauder had driven down and gave them a shake to get their attention. The guards were faltering again, their lines on the verge of collapse.
“Listen to me. We need to throw them back now. Do you understand?”
Markal was feeding the acolytes the words of an incantation when Nathaliey’s powerful incantation rose up beside him. The acolytes barely got the words off before her spell cleared the air.
Fire erupted from Nathaliey’s hands and floated up the wall. It was the same scorch spell Markal had cast earlier, but this one was a single large ball of green fire—slower moving, and more powerful; the heat from it rolled down in a blistering wave.
The marauder tried to duck away, but Nathaliey moved her hands, and the fire followed, as if pushed from a distance. It engulfed the man in green flames, and he fell screaming. He hit hard and kept writhing as the fire devoured him. Unlike Markal’s enemy, this one did not escape.
Unfortunately, the wights didn’t revert to their natural mindless state. They kept pressing forward instead of wandering off in confusion as one of their captains was killed. More wights streamed over the wall and leaped down to join the battling throngs.
Markal found Nathaliey hunched over, gasping. She looked up at him. “Too much, more than I needed. I couldn’t hold it back, it all came out at once.”
On the one hand, her awesome display of power left no doubt which of them was the more powerful, the so-called wizard, even as Nathaliey remained merely an apprentice in the master’s eyes. On the other, the enemy’s dead body was still burning with green fire. If she’d controlled her magic, she’d still have power left to call up.
“You did what you needed to do.” Markal took his towel and wiped her hands clean of blood. “We can’t stay here. Come with me.”
He threw her arm over his shoulder and led her back through the faltering mass of Syrmarrian guards. At first, it was all he could do to keep her upright, but Nathaliey’s staggering gait straightened as she walked. Chantmer and Narud came hurrying up the path.
“Where is the master?” Nathaliey asked. She shrugged off Markal’s arm, as if embarrassed to be seen so weakened.
“Coming up behind,” Narud said. “He’ll be here in moments.”
Chantmer eyed Nathaliey. “What happened to you?”
“Killing enemies, what do you think? Where have you been?”
“I could hardly leave the south gate defenseless.” Chantmer waved his hand as Markal started to question him further. “No, there’s no attack from the south yet, but that won’t last. They’re out there, you can sense them. I saw to it that the Syrmarrians were awake and armed, the keepers and acolytes in place with instructions for throwing back any attempt to scale the walls. Ah, here is the master.”
Memnet the Great labored up the path, leaning on his stick and wheezing. He still had the thick, curly hair and smooth face of a younger man, but there was something old and exhausted in his expression that went beyond physical weakness. It was a glimpse of the centuries that weighed on his mind and spirit, if not his body.
Meanwhile, the fighting raged on in front of them. Markal’s acolytes had cast fresh spells on the men-at-arms, imbuing their weapons with the power to send the wights shrieking into the night. The enemy was a mindless mass, and fell in steady numbers, which further strengthened the resolve of the defenders. But the wights had not yet broken and fled from the battlefield.
Memnet studied this for several seconds without speaking. A cry had gone up from the keepers and acolytes at his appearance, and they turned to see what he would do or say. More than a few of them, including Markal, would be hoping to see the great wizard bare his palms and send out a fountain of magic to annihilate the enemy. It was impossible, of course.
“Chantmer and Narud,” Memnet said at last. “You will guide the retreat, make sure it doesn’t become a rout.”
“Yes, Master,” the two said in near unison.
“Retreat?” Markal said, stunned. “We’re on the verge of victory. The marauders are key—if we can destroy them, the wights will vanish. I don’t know how many remain, but—”
“No, Markal. We are on the verge of defeat, not victory. We must pull back at once. Take Nathaliey—the two of you will organize a defense at the walled gardens. It will form a bulwark while we assemble at the Golden Pavilion.” Memnet gestured for keepers and acolytes to come to him.
Markal and Nathaliey glanced at each other and shared a look of confusion. What was this? The wights hadn’t even broken fully through the north gate, and Memnet was talking about falling back to the walled gardens and the Golden Pavilion itself. Surely it wasn’t so dire as that.
Markal was about to object again, when shouts and renewed fighting drew his attention to the gate. There, pressing through the souls of the dead, were six more figures cloaked in gray, swords in hand. The moment they joined the fight, the defenders faltered.
And then, from the distance, a Veyrian war horn sounded. Another horn blared, this one closer, followed by a third, which must be no more than a hundred yards distant. Each horn represented a company of soldiers. There was a small army out there, approaching the gardens.
Memnet pinned Markal and Nathaliey with his gaze. “Hold the walled garden, but do not die in its defense. By the Brothers, I expect to see both of you at the shrine. Now go!”
Chapter Twenty-Four
Markal dragged Nathaliey deeper into the gardens. She was exhausted, wanted nothing more than to sink to the ground and gasp for breath, but he wouldn’t let her.
The shouts of men fighting and dying mingled with the shriek of wights at their backs as they left the battle behind. Eight others briefly joined them—three armed Syrmarrians Chantmer had plucked from the battle, Alyssa, the acolyte, and four keepers. But these quickly left Markal and Nathaliey behind.
“I don’t understand,” Nathaliey said when he finally let her stop and catch her breath. “You cast the same spell as I did, didn’t you? I can smell it on you.”
“More or less.”
“But I can barely walk, and you’re practically carrying me.”
“I’ve had more time to recover.”
“Not that much longer.”
He flashed a smile. “What would you expect? I’m a wizard, and you’re a mere apprentice.”
“Shut up, you. No, it’s because I called up too much magic. Why did I do that?”
“You did what you needed to do.”
But Nathaliey couldn’t let it go. So much wasted. “What good am I now? My magic is spent, and the battle has only just begun.”
“You’ll recover. You are home—the gardens will sustain you. And they will weaken the enemy with every step he takes.”
A brass horn sounded from the direction of the gate. Markal glanced back, then gave her an impatient look, but didn’t say anything. She forced herself to move.
“What if they don’t keep pushing in?” he asked a moment later.
“How do you mean?”
“Say we retreat, what is to stop them from tearing holes in the outer walls and encircling the gardens? The Veyrian army could bottle us in while King Toth himself leads the marauders and wights in a final attack.”
“You didn’t think so before. This was your plan all along, to let them in.”
“But what if I was wrong?”
“You’re not,” she said firmly. “You proposed a plan, and the master agreed. Memnet knows the enemy’s mind. They were brothers in magic for many years.”
“Yet Memnet missed the treachery to begin with. What if he’s wrong again?”
She remembered her father, slack-faced, eyes glazed as he hefted the dripping sword from the well. It had called to him, tried to seize control of his body so he would carry it to the enemy. If it had called to the vizier, why couldn’t it have called farther, to King Toth himself?
“There might be another reason for the enemy to attack,” she said reluctantly. “The red sword. It is crying out to be rescued.”
They reached the walled garden as she said this. Inside, one of the older keepers gave commands to the three Syrmarrian guards, while the other keepers pulled stones from a small retaining wall and placed them across the path near one of the strongest runes. The acolyte, Alyssa, sat cross-legged, eyes closed, gathering her focus.
Nathaliey leaned against the arched entryway and told Markal what had happened with her father, the sword, and the well. He stiffened in alarm, then relaxed when she explained how they’d regained control of the weapon.
“Kandibar is safe if he got Soultrup to the Golden Pavilion,” Markal said. He paused, chewing on his lower lip. “Of course, I would have thought it hidden and protected in the well.”
“But you agree with me?” she asked. “That it is calling to the sorcerer to be rescued?”
“You might be right. The allegiance of the sword was already turning, even before Bronwyn killed Pasha Malik. It wants to fight for King Toth. Only, I wonder . . .”
“What is it?”
“Nathaliey, what if it was all a trick from the beginning?”
“How do you mean?”
“The barbarian paladin got her hands on the weapon. It immediately set about trying to find the sorcerer again. It convinced her to go on a quest to kill him.”
“You’re saying it was the sword’s plan all along?” Nathaliey asked. “But she only got her hands on it because it threw itself from the marauder’s hands. Bronwyn picked it up and killed the captain with it. And then she still had to wrestle for control after the captain joined the evil forces inside. Isn’t that how you explained it all?”
“More or less. I know it certainly seems that she was in command of Soultrup all the way to the point where she killed Pasha Malik. But maybe the control was an illusion.”
Nathaliey was still confused. “How do you mean?”
“The sword is not a single entity, and never has been. It’s a dozen voices, a hundred, struggling for control. There’s a small war inside that never stops raging. Neither side can fully win. Sometimes, one side is stronger than the other, but that doesn’t mean the weaker side is helpless. Imagine if Bronwyn had a thought, to track down and kill the sorcerer. The good side agrees, the evil side sees an opportunity. It exerts just enough influence to be sure that she attacks at a certain time and in a certain way, knowing that she’ll face Pasha Malik. If she loses to Malik, the sorcerer gets his sword back. If she kills him, the sorcerer gets it back anyway.”
“It isn’t just strength that matters in a fight, it’s cunning,” Nathaliey said.
“Exactly. The evil in the sword was more cunning than the good. Now Pasha Malik is inside, and he might be the most cunning of all.”
“There’s no way to be sure it was the sword,” Nathaliey said at last, but she was troubled by the implications.
If Markal was right, how could they be sure of anything? Maybe it was part of the sword’s plan all along to get itself to the Golden Pavilion. Be there when the sorcerer attacked.
They joined the others in preparing the defenses. The magic was strong in the walled garden, almost overwhelming, as they dug up old stones and exposed the roots on trees. The ones who’d expended magic in the fight at the north gate—Nathaliey, Markal, and Alyssa—plucked and ate plums from the vines as they worked. With every passing moment Nathaliey felt more alert, more alive.
This garden was truly their fortress. How much faster could they recover here than beyond its walls? She’d drawn up blood in such quantities that her robes were stained with it, and her hands still sticky where it had dried. Outside, she might have needed a full day, maybe longer before she could draw from her magical well. Here, she might be ready to fight by the time the enemy arrived.
A horn blared, and she realized suddenly that it was within the walls. Another sounded its answer, this one farther away. When the wind shifted, it brought with it the sound of clashing weapons, of men shouting, dying. The Syrmarrian guards murmured among themselves. A keeper had placed them at the near entrance, but Markal ordered one of the three back to guard the rear entrance in case an enemy came from that direction.
Nathaliey made her way to Markal’s side and found herself standing on the mound of dirt where Memnet had spent several weeks buried.
“They’re coming quickly now,” Markal murmured. “I can feel them. Soon . . . any moment.”
One of the guards whirled toward Markal. “Wizard! Here they are!”
And there he was, an invader, a marauder in a gray cloak. He almost burst into the gardens, but stopped at the archway and looked overhead, suddenly wary. It was almost dawn, and his face looked especially pale in the thin light. His gaze flickered over Nathaliey, then fell on Markal, and he smiled.
Nathaliey was tensed, ready. They had a plan—let the walled garden defend them first, then follow up with some combination of magic and force of arms if the defenses failed. But now the man withdrew without attempting to force his way in. In a few seconds it became apparent that he’d disappeared.
“I’ve faced this one before,” Markal said. “He is cloaked again, rearmed. That disturbs me.”
She had more immediate concerns. “Where did he go? Are they bypassing us?”
“They won’t bypass the walled garden. The path, the walls, and the hedges are a funnel, like an ant lion’s burrow. They can never reach the Golden Pavilion without overrunning us first. He’ll be back, and soon.”
Markal proved right. Shouts came from the other side of the wall, harsh orders and curses. Two armed men in the crimson and black of Veyre came through the archway. The first wore a gash on his forehead which bled copiously, and the second held his non-sword arm tucked against his body as if it were broken. They were young men, little more than boys, and were wounded and frightened. Two more came in after them, but one of them staggered and fell.
Nathaliey didn’t have time to wonder what the attackers had already faced, or how many had made it through the gauntlet of defenses to reach this point. More men pressed through, the marauder among them, shouting at the soldiers to drive them forward.
“Now,” Markal said in a quiet voice.
One of the keepers lifted his hands. “Estrangula vides.”
There were runes carved into the stone over the archway, and they poured out their magic as the keeper awoke them. Vines as thick as a man’s wrist dropped from the brick, twisting like snakes. One fell onto the shoulders of a Veyrian. The instant it touched, it flung itself around the man’s neck, wrapping again and again and tightening. The vine choked off the man’s scream, and he flailed, eyes bulging.
Other vines snatched swords, yanked men from their feet, and dragged Veyrians against the wall, where they disappeared, writhing and struggling, into a mass of leaves and vines. One vine grabbed at the marauder, but when it touched his cloak, it withered, leaves curling and blackening.
At least six enemies fell to the initial attack, but several others made it through unscathed, including the marauder. More Veyrians pressed forward, and it seemed there were dozens trying to get into the small courtyard. They swung swords and scimitars to hack at the vines before they could be engulfed.
All three palace guards had come to face this threat, and now threw themselves at the enemy while they were distracted. A keeper raised a clou
d of dirt, which drove itself at the eyes of the attackers. Alyssa stood to one side, repeating words fed to her by the keepers to keep the vines lunging and twisting.
Nathaliey stood over one of the heavy stones they’d unearthed from the soil. An ancient etching lay exposed on its surface. It was in the shape of a cartouche, like the symbols carved in the columns outside the Tombs of the Kings in Syrmarria, with birds and animals in the center. How long had this stone been buried in the soil, waiting patiently until the day it would be needed? Decades?
She only needed a hint of magic to awaken it. “Leva et idola comminuite.”
The stone was massive, and had taken four keepers to heave it out of the soil. Now it lifted off the ground as if it were weightless and began to spin. Soon, it was moving so fast it was a blur. Nathaliey pushed it toward the struggling enemies.
Markal cried a warning to the others. “Stand aside!”
A keeper threw himself out of the way. The guards leaped aside just in time. The stone hurled past them and plowed into the mass of Veyrian soldiers still jammed at the entrance. It sent one man flying, knocked over a second man, smashed into the face of a third, and disappeared through the archway. Men cried out in pain as the stone disappeared out of sight, continuing to exact a toll.
The marauder wasn’t one of those hit. He hacked down one of the guards and broke free from the fighting. He spotted Markal and Nathaliey and sprang toward them. A keeper spoke incantations that made the flagstone path as smooth and slippery as ice, and enemies fell. The marauder almost lost his footing, but leaped from the path onto the grass and regained his balance.
But as he did, he came beneath the limbs of a peach tree. Nathaliey awakened the ward carved into its trunk, and a limb lowered and caught the enemy under the chin. He fell on his back. Markal spoke a few words, and a root tip broke the ground. It pushed aside dirt and rocks as it emerged, wrapped around the man’s ankle, and pinned him to the ground. The man cursed and hacked at the root with his sword but to little effect.
The Red Sword (The Red Sword Trilogy Book 1) Page 24