The Last Steward

by Janelle Garrett

  Now. He slammed the end down and launched into the air as the wood bent and snapped up. Across his field of vision, the others did the same. Dozens of men flew straight for the palace.

  All too soon Clyfe rammed into the rocks nearly at the top of the cliff. Breath shattered, he managed to grip the sides. Several men slipped and fell, some stopping their fall partway down, some slipping and tumbling to the sand below. He couldn’t worry about that now. From his vantage point, he could see the longships banked on the eastern sands of the palace. The tide was about to come in... where were the warriors?

  Enough. Focus. He looked up and started to climb.

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Polbine Voltaire

  Pol gripped the Riftstone and waited. Branson stood behind him, feet shifting every so often. The portal groaned and pulled as the caluths tore open the veil. It didn’t scare him anymore. He was Soulbound. They obeyed him, because they obeyed the Prince of Chaos.

  Several finally pulled the portal open wide enough to step through. Pol grinned. “Take me to Brate Hightower.”

  “Wait—”

  Branson stopped as Pol raised his hand, looking over his shoulder at him. “Don’t worry. Do you trust me, warlock?”

  Branson nodded, eyes wide and sweat beading his brow. Pol turned back to the caluths, whose muscled, shadowed forms flickered in the red haze. One reached a hand forward.

  “Come!” Pol gestured for Branson to follow and then gripped the caluth’s hand. It led him into the portal.

  Red light flashed and pulled. Pol gasped as reality swirled past at dizzying speed. There was nothing, yet everything all at once. Black and red raced by, and overhead, the Deep shimmered. Somehow it was encompassed within a boundary yet wildly unrestrained. Something, or someone, was using it.

  Uncertainty wavered on the edges of Pol’s mind. The Deep was acting strange. The waves roared with a powerful surge and twisted into something resembling controlled chaos. The Rift shrank, and Pol screamed as the Riftstone burned hot against his chest. What was happening?

  The stone burst, and the scars on Pol’s arms turned ice-cold. Red fire seared his chest and vision, and vaguely he could hear someone screaming. Branson?

  The pulling stopped, and in the distance a man stood. Pol crouched, sweat freezing on his skin, chest bleeding and burned. The two realities didn’t converge, the Rift stayed below and Deep hovered above. But the man straddled both.

  His skin glowed green, much like a Dread. But as Pol slowly stood, the green faded to a deep tan.

  “Who is that?” Branson asked, stepping up to stand beside Pol. “And where in the Liar’s Teeth are we? Where did those caluth creatures go?”

  Pol ignored Branson as the man walked closer. Recognition crystalized. It was the warlock Isa. The one who had burned him.

  Against his will, fear lurched to clamp tight fingers against Pol’s lungs. But no. This was his territory. The Rift was subservient to the Liar, and the Liar empowered Pol’s soul.

  “Polbine Voltaire.” Isa stopped, raising his hand to grasp the underside of the Deep lingering above. He ran his hands through it, and the Deep responded with a small trickle. Isa pulled a ball of blue light into his hand and let it rest in his palm.

  “What do you want?” Pol growled through gritted teeth. If Isa wanted another fight—

  “I want nothing,” Isa said, raising an eyebrow and walking closer still. His nearness stirred the fear that was lurking, and before Pol knew it, he had taken a step back. Branson shifted and edged away, eyes darting from Pol to Isa. “All that I have wanted, I have accomplished.”

  “Then let us pass!” Pol said, standing tall. “You have no authority over me.”

  Isa paused, swirling the blue light through both his hands as if forming a ball of dough. The Deep groaned as if begging to be released, and inside Pol’s chest, the Rift responded. It shrank and then blazed, begging to be free from his tongue.

  Branson raised a hand and tried to pull the Deep in. It didn’t respond, instead swerving away and building ever stronger in Isa’s hands. “Fool!” Pol snapped. “Don’t do anything or say anything. Wait.”

  “Interesting, that you would speak of authority, little king.”

  Little King? It took all of Pol’s strength not to lash out with the Rift and strike Isa down. The thing keeping him rooted was the ball of light that Isa held. Pol had never seen anyone play with the Deep as if it were a toy. Such a thing should be draining Isa, yet as he tossed the light from one hand to the other, it only grew brighter.

  “I ask again. What do you want?” Pol tried to project as much indifference into his tone as possible. They were wasting time.

  Isa glanced up and pulled the ball of light apart. It stretched and burned, blazing white. Pol raised a hand to block his eyes, squinting. Isa sliced through the light, and something slammed into Pol so hard he was flung to his back. ,

  Something felt different. Somehow, Isa had sliced through the web that kept the Scrape Lands sequestered. It felt as if it were so. How did Pol know? He shoved up as Isa glanced down at him. “Remember this, little king. Pride makes you feel strong. Humility gives you strength.”

  Branson groaned somewhere to the side.

  What was Isa talking about? Before Pol could say anything, Isa dissolved in a flash of blue and white.

  Pol gasped as the pulling began again. He righted himself, turning to grab Branson and haul him up. What an odd encounter. No matter. They would—

  He slammed to a stop again, and a caluth appeared to tear open another portal. Pol took a calming breath and cracked his neck. This was going to be fun.

  ***

  Brate Hightower

  Only a dozen Sisters followed Brate into the Void. Anyia, Justice, and several others Brate didn’t know. Still, it was better than nothing.

  The tunnel shot out, transporting them at a frenzied pace until the window enlarged to a door. Brate stepped out to the Dreadwood.

  “Did you get them?” Malok asked but stopped as the Sisters filed out. Their eyes were wide and their mouths open.

  Anyia grasped Brate’s arm. “Are you sure this is safe?”

  “Yes,” he assured. “The Dreads are gone. I told you, Isa did something.”

  Malok’s eyes darted around the glade. His face was white, hair plastered to his neck and the sides of his face. “Where is he?”

  What was he talking about? “Where is who? Isa? You saw what happened.” Brate frowned as Malok rubbed a hand over his face. His arm shook. The Seer was terrified. And where were Ezra and Myra? Had they left? To go where?

  Had he Seen something?

  Before Brate could ask, a red haze sparked in the glade, and red and black smoke barreled out of a hole in the air. Strong, smoky hands ripped open the hole and it grew in size.

  He had seen this before, in the torture chamber at the Voltaire Palace. When Pol tried to kill him, and Constance had saved his life.

  Brate shoved Anyia back into the tunnel. “Everyone! Out!”

  No one answered, instead staring at the hole as it expanded. Brate pulled in the Deep and willed the hole to close.

  The Rift surged in his chest and suppressed his will. What was this? The Deep and Rift warred within him, as if fighting for supremacy. He fell to one knee as the Deep roared to life, but the Rift matched it. Star, his soul was going to be ripped apart! Brate raised his eyes to the hole in the air as Anyia knelt beside him.

  Polbine Voltaire stepped out of the portal, followed by the blonde-haired warlock. The King glanced about with a lazy eye, blood soaking the front of his shirt. When his gaze landed on Brate, he grinned. “Do you believe me now?”

  The Rift surged and overtook the Deep. Brate groaned as words formed in his mind, his tongue moving to repeat them. He bit down on his tongue, tasting blood. He couldn’t answer Voltaire, fearing the language in his mind would come forth if he opened his mouth.

  “Where are we?” the blonde warlock asked.

  “The
Dreadwood,” Voltaire responded. He eyed the Sisters and shook his head. “You are all far from home.” He raised a hand, and suddenly the Deep was swirling and convulsing as the witches scrambled to pull it in. “Calos,” the King muttered, and the Rift sprang from his hand to engulf the Sisters in a haze of red. Anyia gripped Brate’s arm as the Rift cut the Sisters off from the Deep. Yet she had not reached for the Deep as they had. Why?

  “Well done,” the blonde warlock said, grasping the Deep himself. His face was pale and pinched, and his hold on the Deep flickered before he grimaced and pulled it in harder. “What will we do with the Stewards?”

  Voltaire rubbed his chin as caluths formed a dark semicircle behind him. Brate clamped down harder on his tongue as the words tried to burst forth as if from his very being. Nausea rolled in his stomach, the effort to control the Rift causing the sickness. Brate tried to stand, reaching for the Deep. But it was useless. The Rift burned inside of him, the Deep all but vanishing. Anyia stood slowly, eyes never leaving the King’s face.

  “Your Highness,” she said, voice steady. “I must say I’m surprised to see you here. Last we heard you were headed east.”

  “Sister,” Voltaire responded, nodding. “The last I saw you, you were fighting against me on the side of the Stewards and that bricking carpenter.”

  Anyia scoffed. “I did no such thing. If memory serves me, I did not break my vows that day.”

  What was she doing? Brate tried again to stand, but the nausea was so intense he couldn’t. Bile rose into his throat.

  “Yet you did nothing to stop them from attacking me.” The King glared at her. “Who are you?”

  “The new Benefactress, Anyia Shallowgold of the Rollvear Coven.” She stepped forward, coming between Brate and the King. “As is the law, you cannot interfere with the Sisterhood’s business.”

  The King raised an eyebrow. “And how is this your business, Benefactress?”

  “The Stewards are always the Sisterhood’s business. As is anything to do with the Deep or the Rift.”

  It dawned on Brate what she was doing. Stalling the King. Was she trying to give him time to gain control of the Rift so he could fight Voltaire? If so, Brate wasn’t sure he could even grasp the Deep, let alone use it.

  Voltaire chuckled. “Those days are long gone.” He glanced over at the other Sisters, who had clumped close together with uncertainty. Justice was the only one who stood tall, hand on her blade hilt in a relaxed stance. “Look at them. Do you think they should be entrusted with the Stewards?”

  “We don’t need to be entrusted to anyone,” Malok said, voice low. He still trembled, but his face had regained some of its color. “I have Seen it, Your Highness. Nothing good will come of this confrontation.”

  The King’s face darkened as he turned his gaze to Malok. The blonde warlock inched forward as if he wanted to do something. Brate wasn’t sure why, but he thought he detected fear in the movement.

  “Seen it? For all I know, you speak lies. And after all I’ve done for you.” Voltaire shrugged, laying a hand on the warlock’s arm to stop his advance. “Leave him be, Branson. The visions he saw of you were false.”

  Branson? Where did Brate know that name? It hit him. This was Graissa’s friend, the one who had been captured by the domai. What was he doing on the side of the King?

  “I assure you, they were true. And here, in this moment, I have seen the outcome.” Malok’s eyes latched onto Branson. “You die here, warlock.”

  With a snarl, Branson pulled away from the King and grasped the Deep. Voltaire sighed and waved a hand, snatching the Deep from Branson and shutting him off from the waters. Branson grunted and turned a questioning eye to the King.

  “No, no. Let’s hear what he has to say.” The King nodded at Malok. “What have you seen, oh mighty Seer?” A smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. He didn’t seem bothered by the blood on his shirt. “This better be good.”

  What did the King think this was? A game? Anyia stiffened, glancing down at Brate. He grit his teeth, shaking his head. She frowned and turned back to the King. Whatever she thought he could do, she needed to know the war within him was not going to abate. The Rift seemed to expand the more he clamped down on the words in his head. It was going to be a losing battle. Already the bile was threatening to erupt from inside of him. He knew, beyond a doubt, that as soon as he opened his mouth the words would pour forth and he would be unable to stop them.

  Malok clenched his fists, body going taut. Something strange came into his eyes, as if he was seeing something that wasn’t there. Even the caluths behind the King stopped shifting and swaying. “Your fight is not with the Stewards. Your fight is not with your cousins. Your fight lies within you.”

  The King’s brows lowered. “How melodramatic.”

  “You turn your back on the Creator, Polbine Voltaire. And it will be your undoing.” Malok’s eyes shifted to Branson. “The threads of your life blaze bright, but you have chosen the path of least resistance. Your blood will soak the ground on which you stand.”

  Malok sagged, the light dimming from his eyes as he focused on the King.

  Voltaire snarled. “Enough.” He took a deep breath, but before he could say a word, Ezra Carp stepped into the glade and raised a hand. Blue light streaked forth, slamming into Branson. He flew back and out of sight.

  The glade erupted into chaos. Brate was flung to the side as Anyia shoved him over, grasping the Deep. Only one thing rang through his mind to shut out the words of the Rift.

  Why had Carp gone for Branson?

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Priva Car’abel

  The shift of the deltoid muscle of the warrior was all Priva needed. He sidestepped the blade he heard whistling in the air behind him, and it missed the skin of his neck by a hairsbreadth. He lunged to the right and cut through the muscle of the warrior’s upper blade arm, and the man screamed and dropped the weapon.

  He danced back to avoid a stab to his gut from a charging Jattalian, swinging his shortblade to lop off the man’s arm. Blood sprayed all directions as the warrior screamed, grasping the stump with his remaining hand.

  Where in the Liar’s teeth was backup? Jasper? Father? The other Bladewielders?

  Sweat dripped in Priva’s eye. He enhanced his hearing as his vision blurred, hearing the warriors on the side of the cliff climbing up. Longjumpers. Great.

  Another explosion rocked the ground beneath him. Someone was coming up through the cliff itself. But what type of weapon could do this? It wasn’t accessing. He would have sensed it.

  Shouts echoed out in the city. The opposing clansmen must have breached the walls and were coming for the Fortress. Which meant the Bladewielders had failed. Where were his siblings?

  The Hovering City was going to fall.

  Several more Jattalian warriors surged through the gate. There were too many. Priva’s heart fell. It didn’t matter how acute his hearing and eyesight were, there was no way he could fend them all off.

  Someone roared behind him. The battle call was unmistakable.

  King Arinbjorn was here.

  Priva rammed his longblade into a Jattalian warrior’s gut and twisted, getting a view of the Fortress gates behind his shoulder. The King ran forward, his honor guard on his heels. Jasper was nowhere in sight.

  The first of the longjumpers breached the hole and poured from the cliffs. The King’s forces engaged them.

  ***

  Clyfe Fleetfoot

  Clyfe grunted as he swung up onto the side of the Fortress. The crumbled stone where the hole stood made it difficult, but with a surge of energy, he made it the last several feet. Pulling into the gap behind his brothers, he scanned the area. His forces stood bottled at the entrance where a lone warrior held them back.

  Priva.

  The man moved as a biting viper. He seemed to hear and see things before they happened. Accessing, no doubt. Clyfe shook his head and turned to the battle at the Fortress itself. A giant of a man, with lo
ng, braided hair and bulging muscles battled with the first through the broken wall. An honor guard surrounded him, including two monstrous warriors taller than any he had ever seen, and both looking exactly like the other.

  The Flatland King. Hatred, hot and sweet, filled Clyfe’s mind. He had made it this far. He wouldn’t fail Athena. He reached to his back and drew his blade.

  A shout inside the Fortress was followed by screams and the sound of steel on steel. The others had made it through the cliff. Even as Clyfe watched, a surge of Jattalian and clansman guards flowed into the courtyard from the inside.

  The clansmen were bottled. Satisfaction rolled off Clyfe’s body in waves. The Fortress was his. And the King was surrounded.

  Priva must have sensed it, for he turned from the front entrance to streak across the courtyard toward the King, slicing through anyone who stood in his way. Clyfe gripped his blade and ran to head him off.

  The King roared as his honor guard closed in tight. But there were too many Jattalians. Priva tried to push through, but the Jattalians at the courtyard gates flew through and after him. Clyfe cut down a clansman, but it was his only kill.

  Priva disappeared under a crowd of warriors. Their cries of triumph sent a chill down Clyfe’s spine. He grinned as he raised his blade, and with a roar, shoved through his brothers to get to the King. They stepped aside as the last honor guard fell with a gash across his throat.

  Arinbjorn raised his blade and met Clyfe head on. The Jattalians pulled away to give them space. Clyfe noticed it idly, keeping his gaze on the King. Priva shouted, but his brothers kept him held fast.

  Clyfe snapped his wrist and brought the blade into an upward swing. The King slammed his longblade down to meet it.

  ***

  Priva Car’abel

  Priva couldn’t see, and not because there was sweat in his eyes. Jattalian flesh pushed in close, and their hands held him down. Rope was tied around his wrists and ankles. Exhaustion kept him from fighting as hard as he wished to.