Chantmer nodded. “I’ve worked on that rune several times—I know the words.”
“The other three you’ll recognize from various incantations. Put them together, and they form the desiccation spell. You understand what that does, right?”
“I do, and it’s perfect. Well done, Archivist.”
“Good,” Jethro said. “I don’t want you to say it all, not yet. Spoken together, they might draw the attention of our enemies, whether you’re bringing up your power or not.”
“Yes, I know all of this,” Chantmer said. “Will you give them to me?”
Narud stood to his right, holding the edge of their concealment spell against the crowds pushing through the night market. There were so many visitors now that they pressed in on them, and soon it would be too hard to hold the concealment in place, and it would slip.
Which of the two acolytes was working in front of them? If it was Zartosht, and they managed to kill him before he could counterattack, they’d land a critical blow against the enemy’s forces in the palace. He didn’t know how powerful Jasmeen was, but she might well be equal to or greater than her companion.
“Before I give you the words,” Jethro said, “remember that desiccation will only incapacitate the enemy, it won’t kill him. What is your follow-up spell?”
“Volans malleis.”
The archivist raised an eyebrow.
“Yes, I know,” Chantmer added irritably. “It’s hammers once again. But I know that spell, and know it well. Calling up desiccation is going to cost me—I might not be able to summon much else of use.”
“Actually, I was thinking that your hammers are a perfect choice in this situation.”
“Ah, yes, of course.” Chantmer nodded, mollified. “Once I throw the hammers, I’ll be spent, and forced to fall back. Give Narud whatever assistance he requires. I expect the second enemy to come running.”
“Are you ready? Listen the first time, say them silently, but not aloud. Ab eo excoquatur.”
Chantmer repeated them silently, or tried to. Such simple words, yet they were slippery and tried to escape his memory. “Again.”
Jethro spoke them again, and this time, Chantmer repeated the three words aloud. There was some fumbling, mostly due to nerves, but it wasn’t terrible; all three of the words he’d said before, although he couldn’t remember the context. Jethro offered some suggestions on pronunciation, then calmly repeated them himself. This time, when Chantmer spoke them, they sounded right to his ear, and the archivist nodded approvingly.
“Now give me the first three words,” Jethro said. “I understand that you know them, but I need to hear. If they come out wrong . . .”
Jethro didn’t need to explain further. Many a spell died through improper execution, and Chantmer needed this one to be right. Fortunately, Jethro seemed satisfied with his rendition. He waited a few seconds, then said the last of it one more time to make sure he hadn’t forgotten them already.
“Ready, Narud?”
“Yes, I’m ready. Bring glory to the Crimson Path, my friend.”
Chantmer flipped his hands over, closed his eyes, and felt for his power. It was rippling beneath the surface, a nearly full well of it, but he couldn’t draw it all. A small reserve must remain to let fly the hammers.
Chantmer said the whole incantation in his head first. Then, a deep breath, a reach for the power lying below the surface, and he spoke aloud. As the words emerged, he felt his blood flowing, and he sent the magic flowing toward the dark acolyte.
Narud moved toward the empty space as Chantmer cast his spell. People melted out of his way and left a clear path toward their enemy. Chantmer’s spell hit the enemy’s buffer and punctured it like a dagger through a wineskin. The enemy’s illusion burst and drained away, revealing the dark acolyte squatting on the ground with his robes drawn about him.
The dark acolyte gripped a black crow’s feather in one hand, the tip sharpened into a point, and a clear glass bottle in the other. He’d just dipped the quill into the bottle and was drawing the substance to trace his markings yet again. He was muttering, too—with the concealing spell punctured, his voice was clear enough to hear.
The dark acolyte was so intent on his work that he didn’t look up, even as Chantmer’s spell washed over him. There was no response, and his quill continued scratching. Chantmer blinked, fear rising in his belly that the incantation had failed.
And then the dark acolyte coughed. Once, twice, then a barking, wheezing fit. He threw back his hood and clawed at his throat. His tongue lolled like a dying dog’s, and he gasped for air. The quill fell, and the glass bottle dropped and broke. The man scooped dust from the paving stones and shoveled it desperately toward his mouth as if he were standing in a pool of water.
The water was an illusion, but the thirst wasn’t; the spell had sucked the moisture from his body, and he would be burning up like a man crossing the sandy wastelands.
“Hammers, Chantmer!” Jethro said.
Chantmer had already wiped dripping blood from his hands, and now he groped at his supply of power. He felt weak and wobbly, and if it had been a lesser-known incantation, he might not have had enough to manage, but this was volans malleis.
He reached deep, pulled hard, and his power came out even as he was speaking the words. A pair of spectral hammers materialized in front of him. They began to spin in the air in front of his face, growing brighter and stronger with every passing instant.
Meanwhile, the dark acolyte was recovering from the shock of the desiccation spell. He looked shaky, as if he were on the verge of dry heaving, but he’d clearly recognized what had happened to him. He looked around, spotted Chantmer, Narud, and Jethro, and snarled a curse, even as he lifted his own hands. Chantmer threw the hammers. They struck the enemy and threw him violently to the ground.
The man lay on his back with his forehead caved in and blood pooling from his mouth. His eyes stared blankly at the sky, and something oily slithered from his mouth and dissolved in the air—the man’s wight, escaping his corpse.
Chantmer’s triumph vanished when he got a good look at his opponent. It was neither Zartosht nor Jasmeen, but some unknown dark acolyte. The man’s hair was shot with alternating streaks of black, white, and gray, but he had a young, almost boyish face. Thin lips, a thick nose—not a handsome individual, that was for sure.
The fight had drawn attention, and men and women surrounded the dead body. Narud pushed through to Chantmer’s side and pulled him back. The crowd parted around them. A pair of Veyrian soldiers on patrol approached. One poked the corpse with his spear, while the other scanned the crowd with a sharp, searching gaze. Thank the Brothers for the concealing spell. It kept them hidden until they reached Jethro.
Chantmer suppressed a curse. “Who was that?”
“A new enemy,” Narud said. “But more importantly, are Jasmeen and Zartosht both still here?”
Chantmer wobbled, legs trembling. “I’m spent. We have to go back.”
“What about the second rune circle?” Jethro said.
“Damn the runes. We have to regroup and rethink this.”
The crowd parted in the direction of the other circle, and Jasmeen pushed through, throwing back the hood on her robe and letting her concealment slip. She grabbed the shoulder of a man standing over the dead acolyte’s body, and he screamed and fell, blood squirting from his ears. Power crackled along Jasmeen’s body as she absorbed the man’s pain.
Others cried out and tried to flee, until there was a near riot of people running in all directions. Someone knocked over one of the braziers cooking spits of lamb meat, and it collapsed in a cloud of sparks and flames. A woman stumbled or was pushed into burning coals, and the hem of her robe caught fire. More screams, and the panic spread.
The two Veyrian soldiers pushed along with the crowd, trying to separate fights breaking out over collapsed stalls and canopies. Jasmeen ignored them, ignored the panicking crowd, and stalked toward the companions from the Crims
on Path, radiating fury.
“Stay clear,” Narud told Chantmer and Jethro. “I’ll deal with this.”
Another pair of Veyrian soldiers came pushing in from the rear, even as the panic continued to spread through the crowd. It was almost out of hand already.
One of them spotted Chantmer, one of the few not running or shouting. “You! What’s this about?”
Chantmer drew himself to his full height. “I’m the pasha’s vizier. That woman is a wizard, an enemy of the high king. One of the ones the pasha has been looking for.”
The soldiers took in the dark acolyte, and their eyes widened. Narud, as yet, had not dropped all of his concealment, even though Jasmeen was facing him now from twenty paces away, clearly seeing through his magic.
“Go!” Chantmer urged the soldiers. “I demand that you stop her.”
His ruse worked. The men stared, clearly seeing the death swirling like dark, oily shadows around the woman, but they lowered their spears and advanced on her warily. Jasmeen was so focused on Narud, who was now gathering his own power, that she didn’t see the soldiers until they broke into a charge.
Jasmeen turned toward them and brushed her hands in front of her from right to left. The smoking charcoal from the overturned brazier flamed to life, and she swept up the mass of fire and coals and hurled it at the soldiers. Each individual piece exploded as it struck, and the soldiers went down engulfed in flames and screaming.
Jasmeen had expelled her power to attack the soldiers, but her weakness wouldn’t last long. Already, she was drawing their pain, as well as taking from the others being trampled, struck, or burned in the chaos that had become the night market. Crowds heaved this way and that, trying to force their way into alleys that had been barricaded to keep out carts and other heavy traffic, then surging back across the square when they couldn’t break free. People, mostly children, fell beneath the trampling feet, and Chantmer felt Jasmeen drawing their pain. But not only her; there was someone else in the crowd doing the same. Another dark acolyte, coming toward them. It must be Zartosht.
Narud spoke his incantation and slapped his hands together. A collection of debris raised itself from across the square: the burned soldiers’ spears, baskets, the wheel of a cart, even abandoned shoes and bits of broken crockery. The mass of it lifted into the sky and came raining down on Jasmeen. The dark acolyte replied with a swift incantation, raising an invisible shield. Most of the debris bounced harmlessly away, but there was too much to deflect it all, and a butter churn struck her on the forehead and drove her to her knees.
Chantmer watched this display of Narud’s power, impressed and jealous at the same time. He had no idea what incantation his companion had called up, but it had been effective. What’s more, Narud still seemed to have power in him; Jethro was already feeding him another incantation by the time Chantmer pushed to their side.
“Save your strength,” Chantmer said. “Zartosht is coming, and you’ll need it.”
“I feel him, too,” Narud said. “But I need to kill the woman, first.”
“If you do that, we’ll have no way to fight Zartosht,” Chantmer said.
He looked back through the crowd, where the riot was still spreading. Veyrian soldiers poured into the square from one of the alleys, and they were jabbing people with spears and swords to move them out of the way. Panicky Syrmarrians pushed back, fighting with stones, broken bottles, and fists. A soldier went down, pummeled by an angry mob, and his comrades charged with lowered spears to clear them away. They reached their companions and kept surging, skewering anyone who was slow to get out of their way.
It was a horrific scene, and the enemy was putting it to use. Zartosht was collecting pain as he pushed through, and Jasmeen was at it again, too. The butter churn hadn’t knocked her down for long, and dark, swirling energy collected once more around her shoulders and head as she rose to her feet.
“Narud!” Chantmer said. “We can’t win this fight. By the Brothers, we have to flee. Use what you have left and get us out of here.”
Narud glanced at Jasmeen, who stared at him, grim-faced, with blood running down her forehead, and then looked to Jethro. “Help me.”
“Do you know the cleansing spell?” Jethro said. “It will clear people from your path.”
The uncertainty faded from Narud’s face. “Yes, I know that one.”
Jasmeen turned, hands waving about to gather coals and fire from an abandoned cook stall, and Chantmer braced himself. But before she could hurl fire at them, Narud spoke his incantation, and the crowds parted—rioters, the injured, and soldiers alike—and closed again behind them as they ran.
Chantmer had felt strong enough while standing, but now that he was on the move again, his legs trembled, and a bone-deep exhaustion overtook him. His head felt light, dizzy, and he thought he might pass out. His hands were still damp from blood, and he’d wiped off so much that his cloth was soaked, and his robes were so bloody it looked like he’d been stabbed. All of it had come from his pores and run down his arms, drawn out as he was weakening himself to cast the desiccation and flying hammer spells.
Narud pushed ahead, but Chantmer fell behind, and was nearly swallowed up by the crowds that reformed behind them. He called out for help, and what came out was feeble, an old man’s voice. Jethro turned and spotted him, and came back for him.
“Chantmer, watch out!”
“No, I’m fine. I just need a little help to—”
A hand seized his wrist from behind. It was Zartosht, who’d caught up with them. The dark acolyte gave him a malicious smile.
“Look at you, spent. Weak. Helpless.” His grip tightened, and pain flared in Chantmer’s wrist. “You should have taken my offer. Now you’re going to taste the power of my lord and king, and understand what a mistake you have made, even as you die.”
An incantation came to Chantmer’s lips, a spell to squirm free of Zartosht’s grasp. But there was no power left to draw, and the words came out sounding like a breeze ruffling dead leaves. Zartosht began to speak.
The words were of the old tongue, but twisted and broken. Harsh and guttural. His grip tightened, and then it was ice, a sharp, stabbing cold that spread to Chantmer’s wrist, and from there sent shards of freezing pain up his arm. Chantmer gasped and his knees buckled. Shadows wreathed Zartosht’s hand, and black tendrils crept up Chantmer’s arm, toward his shoulder.
Jethro appeared out of nowhere, slamming into Zartosht and breaking his grip. Warmth flooded into Chantmer’s arm, along with a thousand needlelike pinpricks as his hand came back to life. Jethro threw his arms around the dark acolyte, who cursed and struggled, but couldn’t break free.
Zartosht’s hand still looked like a glove of black shadow, and he seized Jethro’s right hand with a snarl. The shadows that he’d sent into Chantmer’s arm exploded into Jethro, who crumpled with a scream. Then Narud was there, an incantation on his lips, and Zartosht cast the archivist aside to face him.
A fist of air slammed into Zartosht and threw the dark acolyte backward, where he landed in a crowd of jostling, pushing Syrmarrians. Veyrian soldiers came in behind them, stabbing and spearing, seemingly bent on clearing the market in the most brutal way possible. Zartosht fought to get free of the mob, but they swept him along in their panic.
Chantmer and Narud hauled Jethro to his feet. The archivist cradled his injured arm, his face a mask of pain, and as Chantmer pulled him along, he saw that his hand had withered until it looked like a chicken claw plucked out of a fire. All of the shadowy, icy pain that Zartosht had been spreading up Chantmer’s arm had exploded into Jethro in an instant, and it was obvious the man would never use that hand again.
Enough of Narud’s clearing spell remained active that they were able to get clear of the soldiers, who served as an unwitting rearguard against Zartosht and Jasmeen. The dark acolytes were together now, but still struggling against the mob.
At last Chantmer, Narud, and Jethro reached the far side of the square and entered th
e alley. They fled toward the palace, leaving behind the bloody chaos of the Syrmarrian night market.
None of them spoke. There was no need. The result of their attack had been a disaster in every way possible.
Chapter Twenty-six
Wolfram hurled his spear into the mass of charging enemies, and then his sword was in hand without memory of having drawn it, and he urged his own horse forward. He clashed blades against a pig-faced marauder with the blackest, deadest eyes he’d ever seen. They traded several blows before the surging, chaotic battle separated them again. Wolfram joined another fight, and struck an enemy so hard that he knocked the man from the saddle.
He lifted his sword for a follow-up swing to finish the man off, but a marauder charged in from the opposite side, and it was all he could do to get his shield up before he was unhorsed himself. By the time he disengaged from that fight, the man on the ground had escaped. Two more skirmishes, neither conclusive, and then he finally had enough space around him to search for Bronwyn.
His sister was about fifteen feet away, Soultrup in hand. The red sword slashed and thrust, nearly a blur as she battered through a young paladin’s defenses. Her opponent’s sword dropped, and Bronwyn delivered a brutal strike across his breastplate, which sent him flying from the saddle. He got to his knees and tried to hoist up his shield as Bronwyn leaned in the saddle. Soultrup gleamed with fire as she swung.
Bronwyn’s blow caught the man across the shoulder blade and cleaved his armor. He fell without a sound and landed on his back. Something shimmered along the dying paladin’s neck and throat, a bluish wisp of light that seeped from his mouth and bled off toward the sword. Bronwyn threw her head back and seemed to wrestle briefly with the weapon before she renewed the fight.
By the Brothers. Soultrup had drunk the paladin’s soul. And then Bronwyn had struggled to reassert control. How tenuous was it? Would she weaken as the battle continued?
He didn’t have a chance to consider this further before a charging marauder forced him to fight for his life. Swords clashed, horses jostled, they pulled apart again, and Wolfram finally got a good look at his opponent.
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