Citadel of Fire (The Ronin Saga Book 2)

by Matthew Wolf

  She shook her head and approached.

  Finn and Meira emerged from the adjacent rampart, a dozen paces away. They came with a trailing entourage—she even saw Faye and Ezrah among them, as well as a group of Devari and powerful Reavers in their scarlet robes. They neared, but she ignored them, intent on Gray’s back, his cloak wavering from a slight breeze. With each step, she felt her heart thump. As she neared, she saw that his arm shook. She touched it—his coiled muscles were tense as rock. He twisted slowly, and she repressed a gasp.

  His eyes were white.

  “Gray?” she breathed, forcing herself to hold his gaze. “What’s wrong?”

  The others were at her side.

  “They’re coming…” he answered and pointed with Morrowil. “There.”

  Ayva looked up and beyond, into the desert and—what is that? she wondered, seeing a thin black line on the horizon like a dark forest. And then she realized it was moving, like an undulating wave of gloom, and dread flowed through her. Distantly, she felt the others have similar reactions of terror.

  “What is that?” Zane questioned.

  “Death,” a voice announced.

  Faye’s auburn eyes still glowed from within a bed of smoke. Her plated armor was bloodied from the fighting in the dungeons below the Citadel, but as her gaze held the dark moving mass, for the first time Ayva saw fear in the coldhearted woman. A wave of something washed over Ayva, and she turned to see Ezrah. He stood tall and imposing in his white robes, as if banishing or contrasting the darkness of Faye, the sun to her night. Reavers formed around him, powerful in their own right but looking like children at the Arbiter’s side. All save for Meira and Finn.

  “Darkwalkers,” Darius cursed with a shiver, gripping his leaf-blade tighter.

  “That and much more,” Faye answered.

  “Sithel is out there then,” Meira stated, face gleaming with hatred. Finn held her shoulder. “If Sithel is out there, then so is the voidstone.”

  “Don’t forget Darkeye,” Faye said, hand resting upon her crossbow.

  “Why is Darkeye at Sithel’s side?” Ayva asked.

  “The leader of the Underbelly sees this as a chance to seize an even greater hold of Farbs and the Citadel—whether at Sithel’s side, or in the wake of the chaos, like a scavenger bird picking at the flesh of the dead after it’s all said and done.”

  Ayva felt the chill morning air heat, and she saw Zane had unsheathed his blade, the flames along its surface blazing. “Darkeye’s head is mine,” the man declared quietly.

  A voice spoke from behind them, calm and powerful. “We must meet them.”

  Jian. Ayva had trouble judging the man. Whose side is he really on? Most of her felt hatred towards him for what he had put them through, not to mention for nearly killing Gray, but there was a side she knew he hid—the side that had proven good. He was a mystery. It didn’t help that he was the most handsome man she’d ever seen. Man, she thought with emphasis, distinguishing him from Darius and Gray who seemed like boys beside him. He was tall and brooding, with dark features, a sharp jaw and startling green eyes—rugged growth on his face only added to his rough nature.

  “What did you say?” Faye questioned.

  “We must march out as one and meet them upon the desert of Farbs,” Jian said again, calmly, as if he were ordering a fence to be built. “Our army against theirs.”

  Faye cackled, drawing all eyes. “Our army? Have you seen our army?” she pressed, pointing to the ragged throng in the courtyard below. “Men, women, and children all starved half to death from the Citadel’s charming dungeons. I’d be surprised if they can fight to stay awake, let alone wage a war.”

  “There are Devari and Reavers among us, many of them,” Jian answered. “By my estimates, we number nearly five-thousand strong—including my Sword-Forged, of which the enemy has none.”

  “Devari,” Faye scoffed, but Ayva had seen the admiration she gave Jian who stood like a statue, the perfect warrior.

  “…and we have an Arbiter,” Jian asserted.

  Ezrah had said nothing until now. The man seemed immortal. The Arbiter gave a deep sigh. “It is a strange thing to admit, but I’m afraid you overestimate my powers, for now. As I stand, my power is far from what it used to be. I will only be of so much use in this fight. Moreover, I fear I am not the only Arbiter to partake in this fight.”

  “Arbiter Fera?” Reaver Meira breathed.

  “I do not know,” he answered. “There is a darker presence of magic overseeing all this. But I have not seen Arbiter Fera in some time while the Patriarch has been abroad seeking help within Vaster.”

  “The Patriarch will save us,” said another Reaver—a tall woman with short-cropped. white hair. “He will be here! We are his children.” And she muttered beneath her breath, barely audible to Ayva’s ears, “Blessed is his name, as we are sheltered and protected beneath his eternal light.” The Patriarch, Ayva thought in awe—the most powerful Arbiter of all time.

  “No,” Reaver Finn interjected, shaking his head. He kept one hand to the hilt of his blade. His hair was spiked in a dark fray from a bandage across his forehead—a strip of red cloth. Reaver Meira stood at his side. Finn continued, “For a week now, we’ve attempted to slip messengers past Sithel to alert the Patriarch, who has been abroad seeking unity with the other Great Kingdoms. Every messenger has been found and killed. I’m afraid Ezrah is right, we must rely on ourselves.”

  Fear pounded as Ayva looked at the dark army advancing relentlessly forward. “And how exactly do you plan to kill a legion of Darkwalkers?” Faye asked. “For that is what is at their side.”

  “Darkwalkers would never follow the rule of mankind,” another Reaver said. “The stories say—”

  Faye sniffed contemptuously. “The stories are wrong. The two are lifeless nightmares, Darkwalkers and that pale worm. Darkeye informed me that Sithel, with his voidstone, can command the spark deprived beings. It’s clear he left the Citadel to gather his nightmare army and take this city. So unless you, Devari Leader, have a way of killing a thousand Darkwalkers, we will be fodder for that horde. Perhaps you have a full tribe of phoxes with a Matriarch at its head?”

  Jian’s eyes were cold and steely, silently watching.

  “No?” Faye asked, looking amused. “As I suspected. There’s no way. We are doomed.” Ayva felt something, a coldness, like an absence or the wind withering. She turned, looking around for Darius.

  “If they breach the walls of Farbs, there will be no hope of stopping them,” Jian said.

  “Then we fight from behind our walls,” said another Reaver.

  “Darkwalkers pay no heed to such edifices,” said Faye. “They will climb your walls like ants to an anthill.”

  Silence settled, and Ayva’s palms sweated, watching the roiling darkness. It looked leagues closer, but she knew it was her imagination.

  “We will meet them,” Gray announced. “It is time to face Sithel. If we can shatter the voidstone before he reaches Farbs, then perhaps we can break the command he has over the Darkwalkers.”

  Ezrah took to Gray’s side, as if backing his grandson’s word.

  “So be it,” Meira affirmed and looked to the others. “Give the command. Gather all who are able. We make for the gates to end Sithel’s reign once and for all.” The other Reavers and Devari gave solemn nods and turned away.

  Ayva watched Jian stride towards Gray.

  She felt her hand reach for the blade, but then it fell short as the man gripped Gray’s forearm. “Rekdala Forhas,” the man uttered, eyes gleaming with a fierce intensity. His hard features looked ready for blood, and yet there was a crease at the corners of his gaze like the beginning of a smile. The two might not have been friends, but it was clear a bond of sorts had been forged between them.

  “Till honor and death,” Gray replied.

  The Devari leader gave a thin smile.

  Jian moved past her, his men at his side, and she shivered—the air was frozen around
the man, as if he and his Devari carried a shroud of death. She felt a hand on her shoulder. Gray regarded her, calm and confident. Ezrah was at his side. Gray’s eyes had reverted back to their normal hue. The two looked related in that moment, both with their resolute gray-green gazes.

  “Where’s Darius?” Gray asked.

  “I don’t know,” she answered, worriedly, “He was just here.”

  Ezrah replied calmly, looking up. “He’s gone to do what must be done.”

  “And what is that?” Ayva asked.

  “His fate,” Ezrah replied.

  Puzzled, she opened her mouth to ask more when she felt the darkness wash over her. She turned to see the massing darkness only miles from their walls. She imagined she could hear the nightmare’s dark, inhumane sounds, claws and feet racing across the sandy stretch. “So close…” she breathed. “Do you really believe we can take them?”

  “No,” a female voice announced firmly, and Gray’s eyes narrowed, looking over his shoulder as Faye approached, joining their circle. “They will crush us like an ant beneath their boot. Madness doesn’t begin to describe this path you all have carved for yourselves.”

  “Then run,” Ayva snapped, “bury yourself in a hole or some dark hovel and leave us once and for all.”

  “There is no place safe now,” Faye answered, shrugging. “Besides, I won’t see Darkeye taint the clan further.”

  Ayva laughed. “You’re truly insane, aren’t you?”

  “Ayva…” Gray began, but she waved him off.

  “No, not this time, Gray,” she said, anger growing. “This woman deserves death. Can’t you see? She tried to sacrifice us to Darkeye, and now she claims to want to see him dead? She’s using us again—that’s who she is: a manipulator, a liar, and a murderer.”

  “And yet you wish to see me killed right here?” Faye questioned.

  “Don’t even try to switch this around,” Ayva replied, amused. “You left us to be killed by Darkeye. If anything, I simply have more guts than you to see the job done.”

  Faye sighed, shrugging dismissively, “If you say so.”

  “Tell us, why should we trust you?” Gray asked.

  “It doesn’t matter if you trust me or not anymore, dear Gray,” Faye answered. “I am coming. Darkeye has tainted the clan, turning men and women into a mindless mob that simply regurgitate his ideals of strength and weakness—a sudden change I’ve yet to understand.” Then she sniffed. “But I’ve no need to explain my motives to any of you, especially not my Diaon. To put it simply, I will see him dead or upon a spit for doing this to the clan. I am coming. If you wish to stop me, you will have to kill me here and now.”

  Ayva felt her anger reach a peak. “Gladly,” she answered and gripped her dagger, warmth blossoming inside her.

  She felt a hand upon her own and saw Ezrah’s face, warm but firm.

  “We need every sword possible,” said the man softly. “When it is over, I will ensure her punishment. I know what I ask is not easy, but I swear she will not avoid her fate.” Her fate? The way the man said it… At last Ayva breathed a thin, shaky sigh, letting go of her anger and her dagger.

  “Never call me Diaon again,” Ayva spat at Faye.

  Gray coughed, clearing the tension. “Well, if that’s settled…” He stood beside a block of stone that protruded from the rampart, a purple sphere expanding into the air. A transporter. “This should help us catch up with Jian and the others.”

  “How’d you know that was there?” Ayva questioned.

  “Memories,” he answered with a smirk.

  Suddenly a loud screech split the air. No, Ayva realized. It wasn’t the sound of one cry, but thousands, intertwined in a cacophony of shrieks. They echoed in the morning light, shuddering through the city.

  It was the sound of death.

  And the Arbiter intoned powerfully, “Come. We make for the gates to finish this once and for all.”

  A Rogue’s Task

  DARIUS ITCHED IN HIS FANCY CLOTHES as he maneuvered out of the courtyard, passing through those giant, jaw-dropping gates of black stone and into the city of Farbs. Here, it felt as if nothing had happened. He could scarcely believe it as he watched men and women in the bright early morning with smiling faces and purposeful strides, going about their day, unaware of the dark army at their doorstep.

  He shivered, trying not to think about it, for he had another mission at hand.

  He itched again, but it wasn’t his clothes that felt uncomfortable. Besides, he was growing used to the color green, even if it was so bright it hurt his eyes—he rather liked it.

  A woman—pretty, if a tad matronly—caught his eye as if sensing his nerves. He smiled disarmingly. She merely lifted a brow, looking back and handing a thick coin over for a basket of bread. Darius shrugged it off, catching snippets of their bland conversation about the weather.

  He had somewhere to go…

  What in the dice am I doing? he thought and shook his head, throwing his hood up as guards in glimmering plate rushed by him towards the Citadel, obviously joining the army. He laughed to himself. Better not to question. Think on it too long and you’ll come to your senses, Darius. Better just to keep moving, he decided. But why didn’t I tell anyone? Well, it didn’t seem right. They had their mission—to face that foul army.

  His was elsewhere.

  Suddenly, a gust of wind made him jump, and white wings flashed overhead. When he looked up, his gaze caught as the giant beast—a gryphon—flapped its way to the zenith of a distant tower. With a deep breath, he made his way, running as fast as he could, glad that he’d strapped his sword to his back for ease of movement. As he moved, he fingered something idly in his pocket, something sharp yet metallically smooth.

  He reached the top quicker than he’d expected—as if his feet were guided by purpose, by fate. Darius scoffed, and absently felt for the object in his pocket, but it was gone. He crested the wide stone rampart, reaching the top short of breath. He saw a man dismount from the giant beast.

  The tower’s summit was a stone platform, barely larger than Mistress Sophi’s common room. Beyond the crenulations was an empty expanse of blue sky, and he knew Farbs lay far below. But before even that, he saw a flock of the creatures, all in giant hay-filled baskets like oversized hens. He refrained from gasping. The rider who had just left the creature was speaking with another, a scrawny man in strange white-gold livery, obviously a trainer of the beasts. As the rider turned, he saw it was no man.

  An elf.

  Darius tried to duck back around the stone bend, but it was too late. Instead, he strode forward, owning his hair-brained idea. The trainer turned too, the man’s thin lips peeling to show mismatched teeth. “Greetings!” Darius bid, “I’ll be needing one of those… gryphons there, if you don’t mind. I’ve a long journey ahead of me, and very little time.”

  The trainer eyed him, blue eyes gauging Darius. The elf, however, could have taught a stone emotion. He was tall—Darius wasn’t exactly tall, he admitted, but this man was huge. Taller than Gray or Ezrah and even broader than Zane, but his waist was narrow, his torso cut like a ‘V’. Blond hair fell all the way to his brown, leather belt. Otherwise, he wore a plain green tunic and white pants, both torn and dirty. But that face… It was filled with such strange impassivity, like most elves Darius had seen but even more so. Darius knew that look. It was the face of a man with a dark secret. When the elf’s eyes fell upon him, he felt sweat break out along his skin—the man was powerful, like a Devari, but different.

  “Your badge!” the trainer demanded, shattering Darius’ trance. The man extended his bony hand. His other held the reins of the giant white and brown creature. It flapped its wings as if restless.

  He hesitated, trying to construct a lie. “You see, funny story ’bout that, I…”

  “Quickly,” the man barked, “Show me your badge or be on your way! No one leaves Farbs without proper consent, by order of the Citadel.”

  Darius sighed. Enough of this
. He grabbed his leaf-blade, unsheathing it in a ring. He raised it to the man’s scrawny throat. The green hue shone off the trainer’s pale skin. “I don’t like you, but I’m still sorry to do this. Move aside.”

  “No,” the trainer retorted.

  Darius gawked and thrust the sword closer, and the man gulped beneath the blade’s tip. “Really? I’ve a blade to your…” He waved the matter off with a hand. “Look, there’s a war coming, and well—ah, dicing hell, there’s no time to explain, man! Just give me the beast and we’ll call it even, all right?” He reached for his coin purse and threw it on the ground. “Take this too, just hand over those reins.”

  Until now, the elf hadn’t flinched. Darius saw he held a blade as well. The elf’s gaze seemed strange… There was something unsettling about him. He eyed Darius’ blade hungrily. Was the elf mad? Shaking his head as if waking, the elf questioned abruptly, “The war has reached your borders?”

  “Reached our borders?” Darius scoffed and pointed with his leaf-blade in frustration. “See for yourself.” The elf looked to the horizon and saw the dark, roiling horde, eyes widening slightly.

  “May the Eternal Spirit save us,” the elf whispered.

  The trainer laughed mockingly, drawing Darius’ gaze. “So you’ve seen Sithel’s ultimate plan then, have you? Well, no matter. It’s too late for you and for Farbs. He is coming to lay waste to it all and reward his servants. You’re all doomed.” He grabbed a strange red instrument that dangled around his neck and blew. A shrill whistle split the air, stinging Darius’ ears. He raised his sword, but abruptly the skinny man crumpled to the ground. When Darius looked over, he saw the elf held his own blade in hand. Calmly, the elf sheathed his sword and proffered the reins of his beast.

  “There’s no time to waste,” said the elf. “You best be quick, if I’m not mistaken, more like this one will be coming soon.”

  “Why help me?”

  “Do you truly think you have time to question my motives? Or do you want to save Farbs?”