Quinn struggled back to his feet, but his legs felt too weak to hold him up. He managed to scramble back without falling as Borrak rose slowly, wiping the blood from his eyes. The Skellmarian was covered in blood by the time he got to his feet. But his eyes were focused, and he bellowed as he raised the curved knife and charged forward. Like a flash, Quinn’s hand shot out. Suddenly a knife appeared in Borrak’s throat. The big Skellmarian chief fell dead and slid along the now bloody snow at Quinn’s feet.
Instantly the Skellmarian warriors jumped down into the snow that had collected on the frozen river and charged toward Quinn. The carpenter was running back toward the village side of the river, but his legs were too weak to carry him much further. Zollin stood and thrust his staff toward the river. He could feel the ice, several feet thick and as solid as an oak tree. He unleashed all the pent-up fear and anger within him and felt the ice on the river bend. He strained, and the ice gave a little more. He could feel the tiny cracks growing, but it wasn’t enough. He felt his heart racing and his head hurt. Then there was a crack that sounded like a broken twig, only the sound carried to the mountains and echoed back. The ice on the river suddenly broke apart, the solid pieces pitching up and tossing the Skellmarians into the icy depths below. Zollin slumped to the ground in exhaustion and managed to look up in time to see his father slip from the ice and disappear into the dark depths of the river.
Chapter 28
When Quinn’s body hit the icy water, his muscles contracted, pushing the air from his lungs and curling him into a ball. He struggled to move his arms to catch hold of the ice above him, but the river current had already pulled him past the opening. His fingers brushed against the ice that was above him now. He kicked out, trying to swim back upstream, but he was too weak. He knew he couldn’t make it. Still, there was a part of his mind that refused to give up. His lungs were on fire, his skin felt like it was made of stone, and every movement was agony, but still he thrashed and fought the current, struggling for life. Then he was hit by another thrashing man, one of the Skellmarian warriors, and Quinn’s body locked up. His mind was screaming to fight, but his body rose gently in the swift water, bumping against the ice.
Zollin had seen his father fall, and his first impulse was to leap up and save him, but when he tried, the world spun around and he fell onto the hard packed snow. The villagers and miners were cheering even as more Skellmarians ran toward the riverbank. Most of the warriors who had jumped onto the frozen river had fallen in and had been swept away, but a few had managed to climb back to the opposite bank.
Zollin closed his mind and reached out with the power inside of him. It felt weak and feeble, but still he reached. He could feel the men in the river, moving further and further away. He could feel some fighting and kicking, others drifting lifelessly. He searched each one, trying to find his father. Finally he found him, but Quinn wasn’t moving. Zollin pulled, but it felt like Quinn was just beyond his grasp. With one hand Zollin gripped his staff, and with the other he took hold of the willow belt around his waist, but the power wasn’t enough. He felt his father slipping away.
He stretched his entire body, the men around him stepping back, not knowing what was happening to the young wizard. He demanded the magic go further, but it was no use. There was nothing left of the magic he controlled. His father was too far away.
Then he felt a tremble from deep inside, at first a whisper, then a rumble, and then he felt power flood through his body. He jumped to his feet, his eyes blazing. The archers around him stumbled back. He could feel his father again, and this time he pulled him easily through the water, like a child landing a tiny fish. He pulled Quinn until he was under the gaping hole in the ice, and then he lifted the man. Quinn shot into the air and came rushing toward Zollin. Quinn’s wet clothes hardened into ice almost instantly in the frosty air, but Zollin poured heat into his father’s body. He felt the lungs deflated and struggling to open to the air the body desperately needed. The heart was beating sluggishly, the mind pulled so far into itself it seemly like only a tiny spark. Zollin could feel power rushing through his own body as if he were standing in the flames of magical power, but he was not consumed. He willed Quinn’s lungs to open and they did. He massaged the weak heart, imagining strength and vitality. Quinn’s mind opened like a flower toward the sun. Zollin sent radiating heat down onto his father until the older man’s clothes were dry and he lay on the brittle grass in a circle of melted snow.
Quinn opened his eyes. “What happened?” he asked.
“It’s not over,” was all Zollin said.
Zollin pulled Quinn to his feet and they walked toward the river. The Skellmarians, over a hundred strong, were shouting and gesturing at the villagers. Quinn turned to the archers and signaled for them to fire a volley at the barbarians. The arrows arced over the river and fell on the Skellmarians, who screamed in outrage but retreated back toward the trees.
“Will they attack again?” asked the stooped-shouldered elder who had come up behind Quinn.
“I don’t know.”
“Let me see your arm,” Zollin said.
He could feel the throbbing pain pulsing out from the jagged wound, but it would take time to mend the flesh and muscle the pick axe had torn.
“Where’s Trollic?” Quinn asked.
The city elders had gathered around Quinn and Zollin now, but none could say where the miner had gone to. Quinn turned to see Mansel and Brianna approaching, along with most of the miners and townsfolk who had witnessed the duel and resulting magic.
“We need to find the miner,” Quinn said to the elders. “Leave a guard along the river and send everyone else to their homes.”
Orders were given as Zollin and the others returned to the Valley Inn. The power inside of Zollin had always felt like a small flame, a candle illuminating a world that most could not see. Now he felt the raging fire burn low, but it was still kindled inside of him, not a neat little flame, but a radiating current that spread through his body. While the others shivered in the cold, heat poured off of Zollin. He couldn’t keep from smiling either—he had found the power inside that Kelvich had talked about, and he knew that things would never be the same.
When they reached the Valley Inn, they found everyone outside, including the innkeeper and his wife and daughter. Ellie lit up when she saw Zollin and ran toward him, but he lifted his hand to stop her. Just before she reached him, he saw her face turn pale and she looked frightened. He stalked past her and followed Quinn to speak to her father.
“What’s going on?” Quinn said.
“Trollic’s man carried him here and left him by the fire. Then he ordered us all out.”
“That’s all?” Quinn asked.
“No,” Buck said, talking to Quinn but looking at Zollin. “Several of the other miners followed him. There’s probably a dozen of them in there now, all armed.”
“We need to gather a few more men,” Quinn said. “We can come at them from both entrances.”
“No,” Zollin said. “I’ll go.”
“You can’t go in there alone, son,” Quinn said.
“I think he can,” Brianna said, laying her hand on Quinn’s arm.
Quinn looked at her, then followed her gaze to Zollin. His son looked the same, only there was something about him that radiated strength. Quinn was both drawn to him and frightened. He stared at his son and nodded.
Zollin stepped up to the doorway, and they all heard a crash inside, then the sound of two bodies flopping onto the floor.
“Try not to tear things up too bad,” the innkeeper’s wife said as Zollin opened the door. He ignored her and walked inside, stepping over the unconscious bodies of the two men guarding the door.
There were men standing along both sides of the room. Near the large stone fireplace, Trollic sat, and the pale assassin stood beside him. Trollic looked frightened, but the assassin just looked frustrated.
“Thought I’d killed you already,” said the man.
�
�You came close,” Zollin replied.
Three men came at Zollin from behind, but they ran headlong into an invisible wall. They bounced backward and fell to the floor, dazed. One sat up, but Zollin swung his staff in a whirling circle and slammed it into the man’s head.
“I’m here for him,” Zollin said, pointing to the pale assassin standing beside Trollic. “The rest of you can leave. Just drop your weapons and go out this door with your hands on your heads.”
One man started to move, and the assassin’s hand shot out, the throwing knife burying itself into the man’s chest. He gave a startled cry and slumped to the floor.
“You’re a handy man to have around,” said Trollic from his seat by the fire. “You can work for me if you like. I’ve decided to take over this crummy town. It’s better than they deserve, but for now it’ll do. All I need you to do is bring you father in here and have him beg me for his life. Then I’ll spare the town and make sure the Skellmarians don’t invade and kill us all. What do you say?”
Zollin didn’t answer, just gave a little push with his mind, and Trollic’s chair tipped backward and fell into the fireplace. The miner screamed, and his assassin scrambled to pull his boss from the flames. The other men either hurried to help or dropped their knives and ran for the door. There were five men left, counting Trollic, who had only some minor burns and smoldering clothes.
“I think you will either drop your weapons and lie face down on the floor,” Zollin said, “or I’ll kill you all.”
“Who do you think you are?” Trollic screamed.
“My name is Zollin, son of Quinn, son of Delmar, son of Salick. I’m the wizard of Brighton’s Gate, and I will suffer your arrogance no longer.”
Three of the men ran at Zollin, but he raised his staff and blasted them with blue energy. The blast knocked them off their feet and slammed them into the back wall, the magic crackling over their twitching bodies. Trollic stood and held his hands out in front of him. He was babbling something, but Zollin couldn’t hear him. The magic inside of him was churning and swirling like a tornado. He felt his emotions rising on the wind of its power. He wanted to kill these men, to blast them into dust. As he entertained the thought, he imagined laying Brighton’s Gate to waste, blasting apart the buildings and homes like toys beneath the feet of a toddler. He smiled and felt laughter rising up inside of him. All he had to do was let the magic take over, to give in and let himself feel this sense of giddy power always.
And then Brianna’s face appeared in his mind. He saw her hair falling softy around her shoulders. Her eyes were bright with excitement, her lips smiling, her laughter touching his heart. And then everything came back into focus. The fire inside him slipped back into the invisible reservoir that he could not feel or find. He felt his body sag with fatigue, his stomach churning with hunger. He no longer wanted to kill anyone. He didn’t want to blast anything or fight the men in front of him. He only wanted to rest, and to see Brianna again.
He felt stupid for having denied his feelings. There was a sharp prick of fear at the thought that perhaps it was too late. Perhaps she had given herself to Mansel. But he didn’t want to think about that now. He looked at the men in front of him. Trollic was still begging for his life, but the assassin had noticed the change. Zollin saw his hand sneak around his back, and then the knife was coming. It was as if time had slowed, and he could see the firelight glinting on the blade as it raced toward his heart. The assassin was taking no chances this time—the knife would kill him instantly. There was a flutter in Zollin’s mind and he saw the knife tumble to the floor. He looked up, but the man was already in motion, a short sword just like Quinn’s coming up to plunge into his stomach.
Zollin jumped aside and the assassin slid past. He sent a blast of energy toward the man, but he jumped out of the way. Zollin was about to finish the man when he sensed movement behind him. He thrust the butt of his staff up and out behind him and felt it ram home in the man’s chest. There was a gasp of air, and Zollin swung around and slammed his fist into the side of the man’s head. Trollic fell in a heap against the wall, but Zollin knew he was too slow. His mind was screaming a warning about the assassin who was now behind him. Zollin spun, but the sword sliced through the skin of his hip, grating against the bone, severing the willow belt. Zollin felt the willow branches’ power rush out of the supple limbs and he fell, dropping his staff. He was so weak, the pain on his hip like fire searing into his side. The assassin stood over him.
“Well, all good things must come to an end,” the pale man said.
“What’s your name?” Zollin asked.
“Is that important?” the man said.
“It is to me,” Zollin said. He knew he could rekindle the magic deep within him, but he was afraid he couldn’t control it. He was powerless, and that was okay. This way, he knew the people of Brighton’s Gate, and his family, would live. That was the most important thing.
“Stop!” came a voice from the kitchens.
Then Mansel was standing over Zollin, his sword longer than the assassin’s, double-edged and the steel a dark blue color. The assassin flicked his sword toward Mansel’s throat, but the boy batted it harmlessly aside and brought his blade whistling toward the man’s elbow. The assassin darted back. His tall, pale body was agile and fast. Zollin watched as the man darted back in, his sword flashing above him to meet Mansel’s. Mansel countered every attack the man tried. Then he tried throwing his last knife, but Zollin rallied enough power to stop the blade in midair. He had a flashback of Kelvich throwing beanbags at him while he was tied to the post in front of the old Sorcerer’s cottage.
Mansel stepped forward and swung his sword into the hovering knife. It flew back at the assassin, who tried to dodge out of the way, but it slashed into the side of his neck. The man screamed and jumped toward Mansel, but the boy held his ground. Their blades swung in a blinding fury, but Mansel held his defense, position after position, just as he had been taught. Blood was seeping through the man’s fingers as he held the wound in his neck, and soon his left side was drenched with blood. Mansel parried every strike but refused to attack. The assassin’s blows slowed as he lost strength, and eventually he sagged to the floor.
Then Quinn was beside his son. “Are you hurt, Zollin?”
“Not too bad,” the young wizard said.
Quinn helped Zollin to stand. The inn was filling with people. Mansel stood over the dying man, his sword raised and ready, but he had no interest in slaying the wounded assassin. Brianna stepped up and supported Zollin on his wounded side. He was in pain, the room filling with people and noise, his body aching for sleep, but all he could think about was how close Brianna was. He could feel her fingers on his arm, sense her body close to his. He wanted to turn and declare his love, but before he could speak, he heard the dying man.
“Allistair,” he rasped. “My name is Allistair. Forgive me, I made so many bad choices and I just could not stop.”
“Your maker will have to forgive you,” Quinn said. “That is not in our power. But we’ll put a marker on your grave. It shall say, Allistair, Royal Guard.”
The man smiled weakly and nodded his head. Then he slumped back, his breath rasped one last time, and he died.
“Why did you promise that?” cried the stooped-shouldered elder. “I say we throw him out for the wild animals.”
“That’s because you’ve never been given a second chance,” Quinn said. “Now, if you’ll excuse us, we have some wounds to see to.”
Quinn and Brianna led Zollin back to their rooms. Zollin was asleep before his head touched the pillow.
***
It was snowing in Osis City, which was a busy port town built around the edges of a natural harbor. There were lots of inns, mostly catering to merchants and seafarers, but Wytlethane had managed to find a quiet place among the hustle and bustle of city commerce and far away from the petty criminals and rowdy seamen. He was alone in a common room with a bright fire, eating a rich soup and drinking
wine. He had felt Branock approaching for some time. His fellow wizard felt as familiar to him as a favorite chair. He was certain the other wizard would find him, not because their tastes were similar, but because he knew Branock could feel him as well and would not stop searching until he found his fellow member of the Torr.
Branock had ridden quickly across the countryside, his new horse seeming only too happy to be out of the city and into the open land beyond. In Osis City, Branock had searched through three stuffy inns for Wytlethane. He knew that the older wizard would want a quiet place, far from any signs of life. Branock, on the other hand, would have enjoyed some company. He didn’t mind using his power to satisfy those around him, and it reminded him of his childhood so many years ago. But he had work to do. He needed to restore his relationship with Wytlethane. He was certain that the older wizard knew his plan was to get to Zollin before Cassis and Wytlethane; their striving for power within the Torr was not a secret, and creating alliances to strengthen their standing was standard practice among the wizards. Still, he needed help if his plan was to work.
He stopped at an ancient-looking structure. The sign over the door said Serenity Inn. Not an inviting place in a city full of merchants and sailors, all looking to make a profit and have a good time. Still, it was exactly the kind of place that Wytlethane would find appealing. He wrapped the horse’s reins around a low post and walked inside. He stomped his feet and brushed the snow from his shoulders. He had purchased a thick scarf at Orrock that he kept wrapped around his bald head. He took the garment off and shook the snow out of it. It took some time for his eyes to adjust to the dim room. There was only one patron, and the man was sitting beside the fire, his features hidden by the glare of the bright flames. Branock could see only a silhouette, but he could tell the patron was Wytlethane—the old wizard’s posture and proximity to the fire were all the clues he needed.
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