Weight of the Crown

by A. C. Cobble

  “There are too damn many of them,” snarled Rhys.

  “You’ve said that,” responded the Sanctuary’s blademaster.

  Ben glanced over his shoulder to see if any of the mages were in position to assist, and he stopped, staring in confusion. Above the mages, hanging below the ceiling, was a dark, swirling cloud.

  “What is that?” he exclaimed.

  Before Rhys or the blademaster could turn to look, a wave of black-clad attackers hit them. Ben lost track of the magic brewing behind them. The battle in front pulled all of his concertation, but a creeping sense of danger crawled along his spine as he fought. He wondered whether it was the Veil or Avril who was forming the storm.

  “This is ridiculous!” growled Rhys, twirling his longsword and backing away from a pair of attackers.

  Ben darted at one, nicking the figure on the leg, but he couldn’t extend himself far enough to deliver a fatal blow without exposing his sides to the other assailants.

  “Fall back to the mages,” cried the Sanctuary’s blademaster. “There are too many of them for the three of us to face.”

  Ben couldn’t argue. Over a dozen of the assassins remained, and he knew it wouldn’t be long before they slipped a solid strike in against him or his companions. Keeping pace with the blademaster, Ben retreated. If the mages could join the fight, they’d have a chance. If the mages were stuck dealing with the storm, they were going to die.

  “What’s going on up there?” called Ben over his shoulder, his eyes fixed on the assassins swarming in front of him.

  “We don’t know,” shouted Amelie. “It’s not us, though, whatever it is.”

  “Oh.” Ben parried a thrust at his midsection and launched a furious counterattack, pushing the assassin back, but before he could press his advantage, another form tossed a short sword at him. Ben raised an arm to deflect the weapon and felt ice-cold steel slice his flesh.

  The sword bounced away, and blood poured down his wrist. He could barely feel it as the wound was numb from the brutally cold weapon. Ben gripped the hilt of his longsword, hoping he could hold onto it.

  Another attacker, trying to take advantage of Ben’s injury, lunged at him recklessly, and Ben was able to take a chunk out of the man’s shoulder before the figure retreated behind the other assassins.

  “This is not going well,” grumbled Rhys, wiping a stream of blood away from his eyes.

  Suddenly, as one, the attackers stopped and scampered back out striking distance.

  “Amelie,” warned Ben, thinking something was about to happen above them.

  Instead, a man drifted through the ranks of dark-clothed figures. When he reached the front, he pulled up the silk mask covering his face.

  “Humboldt!” snarled Rhys.

  The man’s eyes were icy blue, and a thin goatee on his chin was styled into a point, making his face look long and sharp. He winked at Rhys and then looked to the Veil.

  “I’ve been asked to request your surrender.”

  Lady Coatney snorted indelicately. “If that bitch wants to talk to me, she can come talk to my face.”

  The assassin stared at her, tilting his head to the side and waiting.

  Lady Coatney frowned. “What does she have planned?”

  Above them, the swirling black clouds of the thunderstorm grew darker and darker. The torches and braziers that lit the chamber danced in the rising wind. The light from outside was smothered to a dim glow, and Ben heard the ominous rumble of thunder rolling over the building.

  He risked a look over his shoulder at the huge, arched windows that lined one side of the throne room. The storm was not just brewing inside. A larger darkness was forming over the entire city of Whitehall.

  The assassin Humboldt inclined his head toward the windows, and Coatney, after whispered instructions to her mages, strode to look out the wall of glass.

  “She thinks to hold Whitehall hostage?” snapped Coatney, spinning to glare at the man. “What will she do if I do not surrender? Will she unleash this storm on the people below? What purpose does that serve! If she means to kill me, then I find it hard to believe that after so many years of planning this is the best she can come up with. My mages and I can protect ourselves against any storm she raises. It’s only the people of Whitehall who will suffer.”

  “A tragedy,” agreed Humboldt, one hand pulling at the tip of his goatee.

  “She means to pin it on the Veil!” exclaimed Amelie.

  The assassin smiled at her. “Yes, she does.”

  “That will never work,” said Lady Coatney slowly. “I don’t care what clues she’s laid, what traps she’s devised, no one will believe that I destroyed Whitehall while standing in the Citadel.”

  “No?” wondered Humboldt. “You of all people know that people will believe nearly anything if you tell them a compelling story. Remember how we told everyone Lady Avril was assassinated? I still recall that day, speaking over the dead body of an innocent girl in Avril’s study. People believed us then, remember? But really, it’s irrelevant if they believe Avril’s story or not. Are you willing to live your life while all of those people die?”

  Coatney stared at the assassin.

  “How many do you think are in town now?” asked the man. “More than usual because of the impending war. Close to a million, I would guess. A million souls is a lot to carry on your conscious.”

  “You think I will surrender up because of… guilt?”

  Humboldt shrugged. “I am merely the messenger, but when Avril asked me, I said I thought you might. You could start by tossing me that repository you’re holding.”

  “Don’t!” cried one of the Sanctuary mages. “She will kill you!”

  “Of course she’d kill me,” snapped Lady Coatney. She looked again out the window. Grim-faced, she raised a hand. With a push of her will, she blew the line of doors open, and swirling wind howled through the room, bringing with it heavy, moisture-laden air. Ben could hear the crashing roar of the clouds outside and felt the building static of an epic storm.

  “When it is done building, that storm will have enough power to destroy Whitehall,” explained Humboldt, speaking loudly to be heard over the sound of the wind. “This place will be an empty stretch of shattered rock and broken forest. Avril has spent decades building the force necessary to call this thing, building it outside of the shipping lanes between here and the South Continent. All she needed was for you to set foot in Whitehall.”

  Lady Coatney glared at the assassin.

  “Given several years,” added the man, “I am certain you could figure out how to safely dissipate this storm. We don’t have that kind of time, though.”

  A second Sanctuary mage stepped close to the Veil. “You cannot do this.”

  Lady Coatney glanced at the woman. “Avril will never take the Veil again, even if she resurfaces with some wild story about how I was behind this attack. No one will believe her… but is my life worth more than the lives of every man, woman, and child below us?”

  The Sanctuary mage swallowed, and Ben could see glistening tears in her eyes.

  Lady Coatney turned toward Humboldt and, over the growl of thunder, demanded, “How do I know Lady Avril will hold up her end of the bargain and release what she has caused?”

  Humboldt opened his mouth, but only a choking gasp escaped his lips.

  Ben blinked and saw the worn hilt of a long knife sticking from his chest. Around Humboldt, the assassins scrambled into defensive postures, their smoky weapons raised.

  “Avril can come tell us herself,” declared Rhys loudly.

  “What did you do?” screamed the Veil, turning on the rogue.

  “Lady Avril,” shouted Rhys, ignoring the red-haired woman, “show yourself! If you want to make an offer, you’ll have to do it in person. There’s no deal unless we get assurances from your lips.”

  A soft chuckle, barely audible over the growing storm, came from behind the throne. General Brinn jumped in surprise as a young woman stepped ou
t and brushed by him.

  “After all of these years, Rhys, you still know me well, or did you merely take an opportunity to murder Humboldt? You never did get along with him.”

  “I don’t care about Humboldt,” snarled the rogue. “I knew you wouldn’t set this bloody ambush and not watch it happen. Can you release this storm, Avril?”

  The girl’s red lips curled in a smile. “Why did you kill Humboldt instead of just calling for me?”

  “He was an asshole,” snapped Rhys. “Is that what you want me to say?”

  Lady Coatney stepped forward, and her mages formed a knot behind her. Even Ben could feel the growing power around the women, and he could see swirling energies forming. He stepped back, knowing that whatever they were building was beyond his ability to protect himself against.

  “If you kill me, or even try, I may lose control of what is building outside,” mentioned Lady Avril coolly, her eyes lingering lazily on the blood and bodies that littered the floor. “The blood of so many really would be on your hands then, Coatney. Besides, do you really think I would step into the open if I thought I was vulnerable to your attack?”

  From her belt, she drew a slender knife.

  “A repository,” hissed Towaal.

  A store of power. A lot of power, if Ben judged the look in the Veil’s eyes accurately. She appeared more nervous now than she had when she first opened the doors to look at the storm.

  “My offer still stands, Coatney,” said Avril. “Surrender, and the city shall be spared. Fight, and a million innocents will die. You might be right. It’s possible no one will believe you did this, though I’ve been working hard to build evidence showing you did. Even if the world does not believe it, you will know. You didn’t cause it, but you could have prevented it. You could have saved so, so many lives. Isn’t that why you stole power from me, to save lives?”

  “You are insane!” accused Lady Coatney.

  Ben was so entranced by the battle of words between the two Veils that he did not notice Amelie taking his side until she whispered in his ear, “Ben, the sandstorm in the desert. How did you do it?”

  He blinked and looked outside. “I directed it though the sword. I channeled the power away from the storm. I stole it’s strength. It wasn’t about manipulating the energy to do something, it was about pulling it away from what it had been doing. When I took the power from the wind, the storm died. Amelie, I don’t think I could—”

  “Not you, Ben. It’s the antithesis of what they taught in the Sanctuary. Instead of manipulation of energy to achieve a goal, it’s removing strength to achieve the goal,” said Amelie, and she began walking toward the open doors to the wide veranda where they’d attended Argren’s gala the year before.

  Avril noticed the movement, and her eyes flashed. She shouted at her assassins, “Kill her!”

  Suddenly, several things happened at once.

  The dark-clothed assassins surged forward.

  A bolt of scorching hot flame burst from Lady Coatney’s hands and streaked toward her rival, crackling and hissing with incredible heat that Ben could feel from twenty paces away.

  Towaal shouted, “Harden your will!”

  Rhys spun like a dervish, his mage-wrought longsword cleaving the air, smoke boiling in its wake as he met the charging assassins and decapitated the first one.

  And Ben was kicked between his legs.

  His world flashed bright-white for a moment, and a sharp spike of pain blew every other thought from his mind. His muscles turned to water, and he collapsed in a limp pile on the marble floor. His hands clasped around his injured manhood and he whimpered in agony. Blinking tears from his eyes, he struggled to look up.

  A black-clad assassin was standing above him. Smoke drifted off the man, doing little to hide him up close, but making him hazy and indistinct to Ben’s liquid-filled eyes.

  “Sorry about that, chap,” drawled a voice from behind the silk mask. “Lost my blade when I threw it at you. I want you to know it isn’t my normal way of doing things. I feel bad that this is the way you will die.”

  The figure stooped and collected Ben’s sword, raising it high and preparing to deliver a death blow. Ben wiggled, but the throbbing ache between his legs was too much. He couldn’t extend a leg and kick his attacker or even use his feet to push himself away.

  A silver streak flew over Ben and impacted the assassin’s chest with a sickening thunk. The man staggered away, dropping Ben’s sword in surprise. He stood, wavering for a moment, then fell.

  “Time to fight instead of lying around like a castrated goat,” chided Prem, darting by Ben and spinning into a cartwheel, one hand holding a long knife and supporting her while the other hand plucked her other knife from the dead assassin’s chest. She landed lightly on her feet and continued her momentum, charging into a group of assassins closing on Rhys.

  Groaning, Ben struggled to a sitting position.

  A score of Whitehall’s guards rushed by him. The men who had been chasing Prem were winded and red-faced from the run, but they threw themselves into the battle, quickly realizing that the black-masked men with the shadowy blades were definitely bad guys.

  One hand still gripping his groin, Ben scooted over to grab his longsword. He struggled to his feet and kicked the body of the man who had kicked him.

  General Brinn yelled over the tumult, directing the guardsmen into the fray, and the assassins were suddenly outnumbered. With Rhys, the Sanctuary’s blademaster, and Prem at the center, a wall of steel formed and began to push the black-clad men back.

  Ben limped after them, but with the reinforcements, his friends had the attackers bottled up. The assassins were quick and deadly, and they had the mage-wrought blades, but they were not blademasters. They trained for strikes from the shadows. Whitehall’s men were trained for this type of combat, and it was obvious as their units formed into coordinated blocks around Ben’s friends.

  A thunderous boom erupted from outside and shook the stone walls of the Citadel.

  “She’s unleashing the storm!” yelled Lady Coatney in warning, hands raised, still directing a brilliant cone of fire at Lady Avril.

  The former Veil marched forward like it wasn’t there, heat and flame blowing over her, around her, parting in gusts and billows to reveal her determined face as she strode through the inferno.

  Ignoring the conflagration, Amelie stepped outside, raising her hands toward the churning sky.

  “Protect her!” called Towaal, scrambling to stand between Amelie and Avril.

  Grim-faced, Lady Coatney and her detail of mages joined Towaal, and the women formed a wall of defensive magic, but Avril kept advancing. In one hand, she held the dagger. She raised the other, and the mages were shoved back, their feet sliding across the smooth, marble floor.

  Amelie was outside, flashes of lightning illuminating her and then casting the veranda into blackness when they flickered out.

  Avril kept coming, and Towaal, Coatney and the other mages were forced to step outside.

  Ben shuffled toward the veranda as well, swerving wide around the mages, hampered by the hollow ache between his legs. Lights flashed, temporarily blinding Ben, and waves of heat crested over him.

  “The Veil protecting Amelie,” muttered Rhys, appearing beside Ben, flicking blood from his longsword. “That’s a strange turn of events.”

  Ben grunted, struggling to move quickly to get outside and help Amelie do… what? He didn’t know, but he couldn’t let her fight this battle alone.

  Another blast of heat, like the doors of a furnace were thrown open, washed over Ben and Rhys. He heard a chorus of pain and terror behind them. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw Avril was still engulfed in fire, but from within that fire came streaks of heat and light that were thrown indiscriminately toward Towaal and Coatney. Half the blasts were striking the men battling across the floor of the throne room.

  “Those men don’t know how to harden their will. There’s no way they’ll survive this,” Be
n realized. To Rhys, he instructed, “Get Brinn, evacuate the room, and everyone else nearby that you can. Start getting people out of the Citadel if you have time. Direct them toward the mountains. This is only going to get worse.”

  “What will you do?” asked the rogue.

  “Help Amelie.”

  “How?”

  Ben didn’t answer. He forced down the pain between his legs and started to run, skirting around the battling mages and ducking outside.

  The wind whipped against him, pressing his clothing against his body and stinging his skin with violent drops of rain. The air exploded overhead in a massive network of branching electrical energy, raising the hairs on the back of his neck and threatening to shatter his eardrums with the incredible clap of thunder that rolled down after the lightning. The Citadel shook, the stones of the ancient fortress grinding against each other, threatening to topple down the hill, roll over the city, and fall all the way down to the harbor below.

  Ben made it to Amelie, nearly slipping on the rain-slick tile of the veranda, but he didn’t speak to her, and he didn’t touch her. She had her hands raised, her face tilted upward. Her wet hair blew in the wind, whipping around her face then flying free. Beads of water were on her brow and cheeks, reflecting the incredible light of the lightning bursting above them.

  Ben spun and saw the mages were falling back, unable to stop Avril and the incredible power she drew from her repository. In moments, the mages would be forced back to Amelie, and she would no longer be behind their protection. Unaware of the battle, she’d have no defense against Avril’s assault. Sword gripped uselessly in his hands, Ben shouted, his frustration lost in the scream of the wind. This fight was between the mages, and there was nothing he could do.

  Unless…

  Ben darted to the side, running quickly around the backs of Coatney, Towaal, and their wall of protective magic. When he rounded them, he felt a blast of heat across his face and suddenly questioned his choice, but it was too late.