Chronicles Of Aronshae (3 Book Omnibus)

by J. K. Barber

  Turning her attention back to the southern gate, Gretta became confused. First, by the target, or more appropriately, targets of the sorcerers. She had expected that they would have concentrated their efforts, trying to blow a hole in the middle of the gate for the approaching King’s Army to break through. This was not the case however. Instead, each of the sorcerers had chosen a separate corner of the door, dividing their efforts. As Gretta puzzled over the choice she noticed something else about the sorcerers’ lightning. It was not stopping. In the past, as her partner John had struck with his eldritch energies, there was a brief arc of electricity, the relatively quiet sound of a small peal of thunder, and then it was over. The lightning was not stopping now though. Arc after arc of energy continued to pulse forward, slamming against the fortified gate, each wave causing small chunks of wood to fall to the ground below. Gretta waited several heartbeats, expecting the attacks to cease, but they stretched impossibly on.

  She turned, prepared to yell at John and the others to stop, frightened by the toll the effort must be taking on their bodies, but was left speechless by what she saw.

  The four sorcerers stood rigid, almost motionless, with their arms outstretched. The only part of the blue-robed figures that was still moving was their mouths, continuing to chant the words of power that were the hallmark of their craft. Every muscle in their bodies was tensed in a painful looking rictus, as though they themselves had been struck by lightning. As Gretta watched, horrified, John’s hair began to smolder at the ends, sending a sickening smell into the air around them. The hem of his robe began to blacken, the soft blue velvet stiffening and charring as the man continued to channel energy through his body. Gretta looked down the line of sorcerers and saw the same effects beginning to show on the women as well. Abigale had small trickles of blood seeping from her ears, but still the small brown-haired sorceress continued to send arcs of lightning through her body into the gate. As Gretta looked at Nawyn, she was sickened to see tears of crimson flow from the woman’s eyes.

  Gretta knew the basics of sorcery. She knew that a sorcerer drew in enough energy to perform whatever spell they intended and then stopped; releasing the power, shaped by word and gesture to do the task intended. What she saw the sorcerers doing now, however, was not this process. They were continuing to draw the magic into their bodies while sending it out through their hands, shaped into bolts of lightning that slammed into the wood of the southern gate over and over again. The sorcerers were neither stopping the inflow of energy nor its outflow. They were using their bodies as living conduits, heedless of the damage it was doing to them.

  “Great Mother, John!” she cried. “Please, please don’t do this! It’s not worth it,” she screamed. Her words were barely audible above the din of the battle taking place behind the sorcerers and the continuous rolls of thunder that accompanied each pulse of lightning. Gretta felt wetness on her face and realized she was crying, her trademark stoicism shattered in the face of the tragic tableau before her.

  John spared her the quickest of glances, wordlessly communicating to her that he understood what he was doing, understood the cost and was at peace with it; all within the span of a heartbeat before he was forced to return his attention to the task at hand.

  The man beside Gretta exploded. There was really no other word for what had happened to the soldier. One moment he was there, the next he was not. Where he had once stood only a blacked patch of mud and snow remained. Just as her mind registered the man’s absence her ears were assaulted by a clap of thunder. Gretta looked to the wall above, seeing the lifeless face of the pale-skinned sorcerer, his mouth pouring thick black ichor. The dead man held a broken arrow in one hand and his other held his staff which still steamed from the bolt of lightning he had just used to obliterate the man beside her.

  Gretta had another moment to let the hopelessness of their situation sink in before the corrupted sorcerer gestured at her, black blood flecking from his mouth as he spoke. She saw a bright flash of light and then no more.

  By some cruel twist of fate the din of battle around Parinan ebbed for just a moment and he was able to hear Gretta’s scream of agony as she died. Though he could not turn to see for himself because of the sea of orcs he was fending off, deep in his breaking heart he knew. He also knew that he would never see Mashara again, the woman who had become so much more to him than his partner over the past few years; at least not as the same woman he knew, if at all. Memories of their first tender moments together rose unbidden to his mind, but he pushed them back down in the dark recesses of his head. His eyes had begun to water and blur with tears. He needed his vision clear if he was going to keep the orcs back and allow Mashara to finish what she was doing. Otherwise, all the deaths of Vlaric, Hal, Gretta and the other soldiers would have been in vain.

  Another scream of pain sounded behind Parinan and he was able to risk a look. Nawyn had fallen, a quarrel piercing her shoulder clean through. He could see the metal barbed tip of the crossbow bolt where it had ripped through her blue robe and silver mantle, protruding from her back as she fell to her knees and then finally pitched forward into the churned and bloody mud, her head turned to the side so that Parinan could see her face. As she lay unmoving, Parinan’s breath left his body. Her face was frozen in a mask of shock; steam wafted from her ears and now empty eye sockets. Where before flashing green eyes had stared out at the world, now only blackened holes remained. There was no blood, only thin tendrils of smoke like Nawyn’s spirit leaving her body. She had given every ounce of strength and power that she could and had literally burned her body out in the process.

  Parinan looked at the other sorcerers, fearing what he would see. Though half-expected, the sight hit him like a blow to the chest. The three remaining sorcerers were in different stages of the same process. John’s robe was charred black; the only color left was the silver trim of the mantle they all wore. His hair had now fully caught fire, the pain causing him to scream the incantations required to keep his spell going, but still he channeled. Arcs of lightning continued to pound the gate at exactly the same spot again and again. Parinan dared a glance beyond the diminishing shield wall that defended the sorcerers from the orcs above. Each of the blue-robed men and women had chosen a corner of the gate and unleashed an unending torrent of magical energy. With Nawyn gone, Parinan could now see what her effort had wrought. At the lower right corner of the door, there was the red hot glow of metal heated to incandescence, the wood around it beginning to catch fire. What progress the other sorcerers were having Parinan could not tell over the continuous flashes of lightning.

  Parinan deflected a blow aimed for the man next to him and then stabbed the attacking orc in the neck. As the blue-skinned creature fell backwards, his body became tangled in the feet of his comrades behind him, earning Parinan and the soldier to his right a brief reprieve. Far above, Parinan’s eye caught movement and his gaze was drawn to the vast shape of a great winged beast overhead. One of the dragons, the largest he had seen yet, flew over the besieged southern gate, dipping down low to release a torrent of lightning of its own on the men beyond. The King’s Army had arrived and the southern gate still stood. It was out of his hands now though. He could do nothing to hasten the barrier’s fall, only help those who could.

  As the dragon flew out of sight, Parinan’s eye fell to the black-robed figure on top of the southern gate. He was once again chanting, drawing his hand back to loose another bolt of lightning on the Illyanders below.

  Seeing the dead sorcerer’s intended target Parinan reacted without thought, breaking away from the other soldiers and the line they formed. He took half a dozen swift steps, praying his feet did not slip on the crimson-stained mud and leapt into the air. As he leapt, he turned, putting his back towards the gate, but more importantly turning to face Mashara. Pain ripped through Parinan’s body, his mouth gaping involuntarily as a scream of anguish flooded unstoppable from his lips. He did not remember hitting the ground, only pain, a bright flash o
f light and then he was looking up at Mashara. The sorceress’ face was rigid like the others, her lips moving though he could not hear the words coming from her mouth. In fact, he could not hear anything. The world had gone silent. Parinan put his hand to his ear and his leather glove came back covered in blood. His vision began to dim, but he could still see Mashara as her body crumpled, falling at first to her knees and then pitching forward as Nawyn had done. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Abigale and John do the same, their bodies falling to ground, all their energy spent.

  Parinan reached out with pain-ridden arms, his muscles continuing to spasm as he fought to bring them under control. Groping around for a moment, he was able to grab Mashara’s arm and pulled her body to him. Struggling against the pain in his limbs and his darkening vision, Parinan was able to bring Mashara’s face up to his. The young woman’s visage, once pretty, was now twisted and burnt, one of her eyes a ruined mess in its socket, the other staring blindly. As he made a final effort to bring her closer, Parinan felt a ragged breath shudder through her body. Somehow, she was still alive.

  Her lips moved, but Parinan in his deafened state could not hear her. Still he responded as best he could, telling her with his slurred words that they had succeeded. He knew that they had not, but he did not want her last thoughts to be those of disappointment. He pulled her close, pressing her head to his chest.

  Over her shoulder he saw the line of soldiers crumble, finally overcome by the shear mass and might of the orcish troops. Parinan let his head drop back into the mud and his vision mercifully faded to black.

  Chapter 15

  Ra’thet dodged to the left as the orc body tumbled past him down the spiral stairs. The captain extended his left arm, quickly drawing it back before his hand touched the now black crystal that ran the full height of the Sorcerer’s Tower. The Empress’ Tower, he mentally corrected himself. One of his lieutenants had made the mistake of referring to the structure by the old name it had before the Ice Queen’s forces had conquered Snowhaven. Salamasca had frozen the man’s tongue in his mouth, leaving only a blackened nub in its place.

  Ra’thet kept his balance, looking once more at his reflection in the crystal. At one time the gemstone spire had been clear, but slowly the Empress’ magics had corrupted it, veins of obsidian growing up its length until it had become completely black. There was no physical danger should he touch the crystal’s surface, but the dread feeling that accompanied contact was not something he wished to experience again. Ra’thet had placed his palm on the corrupted column before out of curiosity and the thoughts of hopelessness and despair that had troubled his mind for days afterwards had left him shaken. Given the horrors that he had seen in the employ of the Ice Queen, for something to affect him so made him wonder exactly to whom he had chosen to give his loyalty and with whom he had shared his bed.

  He pushed such thoughts aside. He was too far down his path to think about turning back now. Besides, he enjoyed all the benefits his position afforded him. A twisted grin crossed his lips as he resumed his climb upwards. Behind him, the orc’s corpse continued its descent.

  Before he reached the wooden door that led to the Empress’ quarters, Ra’thet heard her voice yelling in rage. As he stepped through the doorway, the wrought-iron gargoyle handle seemed to regard him with trepidation. In its locked position the grotesque head was smiling, holding the door’s ring in its misshapen teeth. Upside down as it was now, the gargoyle’s head was frowning as though trying to wordlessly warn those outside away from the wrath of the room’s mistress.

  A pair of orcs bumped into Ra’thet as he crossed the threshold. They had been backing out of the room, their hands held up in gestures of fear and subservience, and did not see the general enter the room. They stopped for a moment and turned, the terror on their faces as to what they might see clearly evident. A quick sigh of relief escaped their black lips before they dodged around Ra’thet, happily escaping the Ice Queen’s notice.

  A pair of bodies, one human and the other orcish, lay on the stone floor of the Administrator’s study. Ra’thet once again silently corrected his thinking before speaking. It was now the Ice Queen’s study and it would serve him well to remember the distinction.

  “My Empress,” he said, kneeling. “What is it that troubles you?”

  Slowly Salamasca turned, her glacial beauty twisted with rage, and looked at Ra’thet with eyes as black as the corrupted crystal at the center of her tower. “What troubles me?!” she screamed retrieving her black crystalline staff from where she had driven it into the stone floor. As she did so, white mist trailed along behind the jagged weapon as she strode across the room. Ra’thet clenched his jaw in anticipation of a blow that did not come. Instead he felt an ice cold finger hook under his chin and pull him up to stand at his full height. As he looked into the obsidian orbs of his Empress’ eyes he suppressed a shudder that had nothing to do with the Ice Queen’s frigid touch.

  “What troubles me,” she whispered, somehow managing to make her soft voice more menacing than the cries of rage he had heard before. “Is that the entire King’s Army is at my gate and they’re trying to beat their way inside SO THAT THEY CAN KILL ME, YOU DOLT!” The Ice Queen yelled, drawing her hand back as she did so. This time she did strike Ra’thet. The captain’s head snapped back, but he did not stagger. He had received stronger blows and some of them from the Empress herself.

  “I assure you, my Empress,” he said, refusing to rub his stinging jaw. “I have reinforced the southern gate. They will not be able to breach it without a prolonged siege and siege engines.” Ra’thet spoke with the confidence his many years of battle had afforded him. “Even if they were able to get a ram to the gates, by the time they even made a dent, my… excuse me,” he corrected quickly, “your troops would destroy them in the valley below. It’s a natural choke point and killing field. They will not enter the city. You have my word.”

  Just then the sound of feet running up the stairs of the tall tower came to Ra’thet’s ears. The captain turned, gesturing towards the still open doorway. “See my Empress?” he said, his voice brimming with confidence. “This is probably one of my runners now, coming to tell us that the Illyanders are retreating.”

  As the messenger passed over the threshold into the room Ra’thet’s heart dropped. The man was out of breath as he slid to a halt, promptly dropping to place one knee on the floor and one hand across his heart. Ra’thet could tell even before the runner began to speak that the news was not good. The man’s face was pale and its pallor had nothing to do with the long run up the tower’s steps.

  “Captain,” he said breathlessly. “My Empress,” he addressed each in turn. In her anger Salamasca did not seem to notice the man’s breach of protocol by acknowledging Ra’thet before the Ice Queen. He would have to correct the messenger later, away from the Empress’ ears, if only to help preserve the man’s life. The runner waited, his eyes staring intently at the floor as he labored to get his breathing under control.

  The Empress of Ice, however, was not in the mood to be patient. “Yes, yes,” she said, her tone frustrated. “Get up and speak while you still can.”

  The man rose, sparing a quick questioning glance for his captain. Ra’thet nodded covertly, inclining his head to the Ice Queen. Any message the man had should be given to her.

  The messenger took one more deep breath before delivering his news. “Your Majesty, we have enemies inside our walls.”

  “WHAT!?” Salamasca screamed. She rounded on Ra’thet. “I thought you said that the gates would hold.” The pale woman drove her staff once again into the floor in her anger. A thin coating of frost spider-webbed out from the point of impact for several inches. “You gave me your word,” the contempt in the Ice Queen’s voice was clearly evident.

  Before Ra’thet could reply, the messenger spoke once more. “Begging your pardon, Your Majesty, but the gates still hold.” The Empress turned her withering gaze on the runner and the man paled even further, ta
king a step backwards before the Ice Queen’s anger.

  “Explain,” she said, her voice calm and somehow more menacing for its lack of vehemence.

  The man gulped, his throat suddenly dry, but after clearing his throat he continued. “The gate is still intact, Your Majesty,” he said. “However, there is a small force inside the town. They have killed several of our men and are now assaulting the southern gate, from the inside.” The man paused once again, wetting his lips before he continued. “Lieutenant Largent sent me with word for the captain at once.”

  “The tunnel, Your Majesty,” Ra’thet offered in explanation.

  “Of course the tunnel, you idiot!” she said. “They must have gotten by your men and snuck in.” Ra’thet noticed that the Empress always referred to the men as his whenever they had failed her in some way, but he kept the observation to himself. “What I want to know is how these people made it through the city to the gates.”

  The messenger cleared his throat, indicating he may have some information on the matter.

  “Speak,” she demanded. Her grip tightened on her staff and something akin to the crackling of ice could be heard softly throughout the room.

  “Well your Majesty,” the runner said, his voice uncertain. “Apparently there was a thick fog that covered their movements through the city.”