It's hopeless, I think, blinking away tears that come unbidden to my eyes. There's nothing I can do. They're going to kill me, and my mission will be a complete failure.
I've never felt so helpless in my entire life.
I idly pick at the ropes with my fingers in the darkness, letting my mind wander as I focus on taking slow, measured breaths. What did that man mean that I would be given a choice? His voice seemed so confident – like a hunter who had just caught a rabbit in a trap. Maybe they are going to let me choose my method of execution.
The thought makes my stomach twist into a knot.
I find myself wishing that Owyn was here. Even without that hatchet of his, he is a force to be reckoned with. Rangers can be deadly with their bare hands. I, on the other hand, am helpless without a source crystal, unable to fight or defend myself or escape from captivity. All I have is my mind, and tonight it has failed me spectacularly.
Some mage you are, I think bitterly. The only person you have to blame is yourself.
I am not sure how long I am left in my lightless holding cell, but I can feel my lower back and legs start to ache from being chained in the same position. It comes as a surprise when a light suddenly appears beneath the door in front of me, and the hinges grind open as it is pushed inward, admitting a tall figure shrouded in a black cloak.
The presence of this individual fills me with an inexplicable feeling of dread, the shadows lurking beneath the hood seeming more menacing than the masked men that had been in here before.
The figure steps forward, walking into the holding cell with an easy grace, cloak trailing behind, and I can see that the figure is tall, its head almost scraping the low ceiling. It regards me for a moment, watching me with unseen eyes as another cloaked figure brings in a torch and fixes it to a sconce on the wall, providing us with light. The second figure bows to the first then departs, closing the door behind it and leaving the two of us alone.
Several tense heartbeats pass as the shadowed cowl regards me, and I have the strange sensation that every part of my appearance is being picked apart and weighed.
"You are young for a mage," the figure says at last. His voice is male, and despite sounding muffled, sounds gentle and composed. "Younger than my flock led me to believe."
I look deep into the blackness of that hood and raise my chin, putting on as brave a face as I can muster, but I do not respond.
The hooded man cocks his head to the side. "You must be talented to have been admitted to the Conclave so young. Talented and brave, certainly, but perhaps not too bright. Otherwise, you would not have attempted to eavesdrop on my flock."
He pauses for a moment, probably waiting for a response from me, then continues.
"Forgive me for not introducing myself. I am called the prophet, and I have been chosen to guide the Harbingers through these last days. Now, I would very much like to know why you were hiding in that tavern. Who tasked you with becoming a spy? Was it the High Magus?"
I draw my lips in a tight line. This monster would not be getting any information from me.
The prophet clasps black-gloved hands in front of him, the depths of his hood leering at me in a way that makes me want to squirm.
"Answer me, Zara Dennel."
A chill runs down my spine as he says my name, and for an instant my facade cracks, revealing my shock plainly upon my face as I gape at him. "How – how do you know my name?"
"My agents know a great many things, child," the prophet says simply. "Knowledge is but one of the gifts given to the Chosen of the Light."
"You are not chosen," I reply vehemently. "You and your kind are murderers and sycophants, and the Conclave will stop you, whatever you are planning."
"Ah, yes," the prophet says calmly, turning to pace the small room. "A terrible price to pay – the killing of innocents. However, sometimes the lives of a few must be sacrificed for the salvation of many, a hard truth that many refuse to learn."
"Many tyrants have the same philosophy," I reply, smoothing my features and adopting a serene expression once more. "True servants of the Light would never side with the demons."
"You see, that is where you are mistaken," the prophet replies, his feet padding softly on the hard, wooden floor. "That is where most in this bubble of a kingdom are mistaken. The R'Laar are not some existential threat to the progress of mankind. They are to be the saviors of mankind. The Light sent them as a punishment for the sins of man, and only by their cleansing fire can we hope to find salvation in the world to come."
I suddenly feel an urge to laugh in this madman's face, to scream at him that he is insane, but I say nothing, merely stare at him imperiously from where I stand chained at the back of the room.
The prophet turns to regard me, stopping in the spot directly across from me. "I can tell by the look in your eyes that you do not believe me. That is to be expected. Like the necessary killing of innocents, what I have just explained to you is a hard truth to bear. However, I would ask you to consider what I am about to say next very carefully. I will only extend this offer once."
Pausing for an instant, perhaps to consider his words, he continues, his voice measured and careful. "I am a man who appreciates great talent, and brashness when it can serve a purpose. I find myself in need of capable mages. The Conclave has nothing of value that it can give you – it offers the praise of the world, and nothing more. When the great fiery end comes, it would be well for you to be standing among the Chosen, where your talents can serve a purpose, the greatest purpose the world has ever known. Will you join us, Zara Dennel? Will you become one of the Harbingers?"
Again, my mask cracks, revealing a look of pure shock. Was he really offering to let me go, to become one of them? What insanity is this? Does he truly expect me to comply?
Summoning what little courage I have left, I shake my head and offer my response in a cold, emotionless tone.
"I will never join you," I say, staring into the spot where I imagine his eyes might be. "There is no price in this world that could get me to forsake the vows I have made to the Conclave. Find your new recruit somewhere else."
The prophet sighs. His shoulders slump visibly, as if he is truly disappointed. "The sacred texts say that the Chosen will be few in number in the last days. But it is always disappointing when a promising young individual chooses to throw their life away in defiance of the true Light."
He turns away from me, picking the torch from off the wall and opening the door to my cell with a creak. Handing the torch to someone standing outside, he turns back to cast one last shadowed look at me.
"Inform my Speakers that the mage Zara Dennel is to be executed, and her head delivered to the High Magus and the Circle of Magisters. I want the sentence carried out as soon as possible."
"Yes, my lord," the other figure replies solemnly.
A sour knot forms in the pit of my stomach.
As the prophet leaves I can hear him muttering the words, "What a waste."
Then the door closes, leaving me once again in darkness.
Chapter Thirty-One
Owyn
This is it, I think to myself as Talon and I follow Tamara through the courtyard of the Grand Lodge. We are finally going to get to the bottom of this! On the outside I attempt to portray Elias' stern demeanor, but on the inside, I feel a tangled mess of excitement and apprehension.
There is no telling what the First Warden is about to do.
She strides forward like the legendary warrior from the Legion of Light, her back straight and her face a stony mask. Her ranger's cloak billows behind her like a storm cloud, thrown over her shoulder to reveal a slender but muscled arm resting on the hilt of a longsword, the bow and quiver on her back bouncing with every step.
In contrast, my own appearance feels inadequate. I am dirty and tired from the road, my bow and arrows still stored with my horse's saddle bags. The only weapons I have are my father's hatchet, resting in my belt loop, and a small knife secreted in a pocket on my br
eeches.
Nothing compared to the warrior woman striding in front of me.
Talon does not have any weapons at all, and I look over to see that his eyebrows are knit together in concern. "Are we really doing this?" He asks, voice cracking slightly.
I nod my head stoically. "It appears that way, yes."
"Eleven Hells," he murmurs. "Shouldn't we, you know... have more backup or something? I mean, the Master Warden is going to be surrounded by his honor guards. They're probably not going to take too kindly to us accusing him like this."
"No," I agree begrudgingly, "I suppose not. But I doubt Tamara will want to cause an uproar in the camp. Bringing too many rangers to confront the Master Warden might appear insubordinate, maybe even mutinous. That just leaves us three, Talon."
Talon mutters another curse but falls silent.
Tamara leads us right up to the Main Hall, the two rangers guarding the door snapping to attention. Neither of them challenge the First Warden as she climbs the steps and pushes the door open inside, but both of them give Talon and I curious glances.
We hurry past them and enter behind Tamara.
As always, the Main Hall is dimly lit with smoldering braziers, the air smelling faintly of wood smoke and earth. At the end of the long meeting chamber rests a carved wooden chair, like a humble attempt at a throne, sitting upon which is the Master Warden, his silver hair glowing in the low light and his blind eyes covered by a strip of leather binding his head. Around him stands five rangers, his personal guard, and Warden Gareth Carr, Watcher of the South.
Carr and Thorne appear to have been arguing about something, but both look up to regard the three of us as we enter the Main Hall. Carr wears a curious expression, but the Master Warden appears to be annoyed.
"Who is it?" He demands, his voice carrying throughout at the hall.
"First Warden Moyle," Carr replies, standing up straight and bowing his head slightly. "And apprentices Owyn and Talon. We seem to be seeing a lot of you, lately."
Tamara does not break stride, continuing at a measured pace and approaching the Master Warden where he sits. Talon and I follow rather timidly.
"Apprentice Owyn," the Thorne repeats, his wrinkled mouth turning down into a frown. "Were you not accompanying the war band to attack the Nightingale encampment?"
All eyes in the room, with the exception of Tamara's, turn to me.
"Yes, Master Warden," I reply, trying to sound confident as I come to a stop before him and the others. "I have come to bring you some important information."
"Not this again," he barks, the anger in his voice surprising me. He seems a much different man than he was when I first met him. "You overstep your bounds, apprentice. I'll have no more talk of these stories of yours. When I'm through here, I'll have you reprimand–"
"Is it true?" Tamara cuts in, silencing Thorne mid-sentence. Her voice has an edge to it, cutting like a dagger. "Did you and Advisor Creed alter the scout reports?"
The rooms falls silent.
"I'm not sure what you are talking about," he replies after a moment.
"That Nightingale encampment was not a military encampment at all. It was full of women and children, and you knew the whole time." She glares at the Master Warden, her tone heavy with accusation. Carr looks at the Master Warden, shock and confusion plain upon his face. Thorne only scowls.
"You know not of what you speak," he says coldly. I can see him grip the armrests of his chair with white-knuckled hands. "The rebels need to be punished for their crimes. Our brothers and sisters have died at their hands!"
"We needed more information to confirm that," Tamara replies without missing a beat. "We still don't know who ordered the attack. But the fact remains – our scouts told you that that was not a military encampment. You knew that it was filled with civilians, and yet you ordered the attack any way. Their blood is on your hands."
The ranger guards look uncertainly at one another, but the Master Warden's face splits into a twisted sneer. "Yes, I ordered the attack. I did the one thing no one else in this place would have had the stomach to do."
"So, you admit to your crimes, then?" Tamara seems completely unfazed by the exchange.
"Is it a crime to eliminate enemies to the crown? Is it a crime to protect one's own? I did what I thought was necessary to preserve our ancient organization. Do not pretend to be above such actions, First Warden. Your own hands are stained bright with the blood of others." His voice is becoming enraged, frenzied even. I can see Carr inching away from him.
"I'd never knowingly slaughter the innocent," Tamara responds icily. Then, reaching down, she draws her sword, prompting the five ranger guards to draw their swords defensively, filling the audience hall with the sound of rasping steel.
"Thomwell Thorne," she says, assuming a fighting position. "You have broken the Ranger's Oath by ordering those under your command to murder innocents. You are no longer fit to preside over the Order of the Rangers. I hereby remove you from your command."
Again, the room falls silent, the tension in the air so intense that it makes me want to shrink away, to flee and not look back. Tamara faces the five swords in front of her with the cool confidence of a statue.
The Master Warden abruptly bursts into laughter, a wheezing, menacing sound that chills my blood and puts me on edge.
"You are a fool, Tamara," he says at length, gasping for breath. "Even with your rank, you cannot remove me from my position."
Warden Carr puts up his hands in a placating gesture. "Please," he says with a pleading tone, apparently trying to de-escalate the situation. "There is no need for violence. Let us talk this out without the shedding of blood."
"The time for talking is over, Gareth," Thorne replies, still chuckling. Then, turning to regard the men standing beside him, he says curtly, "Kill them."
Hesitantly, the honor guards move forward, their swords held up defensively.
Cursing, I pull out my father's hatchet, backing up so that I will have enough room to fight.
"Owyn!" Talon hisses, waving at me with his hands.
He doesn't have a weapon.
"Here!" I reply, reaching into my pocket and pulling out my knife. I toss it to him, then turn to face the ranger who is now heading toward me.
Catching it midair, I can hear Talon complaining. "You've got to be kidding me!"
Ahead of me, Tamara lunges forward, attacking three guards at once with the same fury I had seen at the inn. She moves like a whirlwind, slashing and parrying with the skill that I can only dream of one day attaining.
Right now, against a fully-trained ranger, I have my work cut out for me.
The guard attacks, swinging his sword deftly in a way that is probably just meant to test my defenses.
I bat the blade away with the flat of my hatchet, keeping a wary eye on his other movements.
The guard feints, then goes on the attack, stabbing at my chest with enough force to break bones. I manage to dodge out of the way, but he brings his sword back around for another jab, his movements faster than I can anticipate. The blade barely misses my neck and I am forced to back up, putting enough distance between us for me to recuperate.
Burning Hells, I think to myself, falling into a defensive stance with my hatchet held in front of me. The man moves like a viper!
Ahead, Tamara manages to cut down one of the guards, putting the other two on their heels. Out of the corner of my eye I can see Talon running behind a brazier, trying to get away from the ranger trying to kill him.
The wound in my side throbs with a dull ache, my movements likely straining the stitches beneath my tunic. If I push myself too much, it'll rip back open and bleed.
I might not have any other choice, I think as the ranger moves forward to engage me again. His face is drawn and stoic, and it looks like he is taking no pleasure in fighting me.
He slashes at my leg, coming dangerously close to scoring a hit.
Using my hatchet like sword breaker, I lock the axe head a
round the edge of his sword, twisting and holding it fast. Then, before he can have a chance to react, I sweep out with a kick to the knee, connecting with my boot and causing him to stagger.
The ranger grunts, but does not go down like I hoped. Instead, he dives into the attack, using his head like a battering ram and smashing it against my temple.
I gasp and back away, vision swimming and ears ringing. For one terrifying moment, it feels like I might black out.
Shaking my head, I bring my hatchet back up as the ranger goes on the offensive, swinging his sword with renewed vigor to quickly end the fight.
Ignoring the pain in my head and side, I let my reflexes take over, knocking the blade out of the way and dodging to avoid being skewered. I move like an eel, twisting and squirming so that his blade does not cut me, until eventually I see what I am looking for: a lapse in his defenses.
Swinging my hatchet in a sidelong chop, I drive the weapon into his thigh, causing him to gasp in pain and collapse to the ground. The wound is deep, and I can feel the blade of the hatchet grinding against bone.
I pull it free, but halt myself from using it to end his life. This man is a brother, a fellow ranger. I will not kill him if I don’t have to. Kicking his sword from his hand, I kneel down beside him and punch the side of his face hard, knocking him out cold.
Reaching a hand to my side, I curse when it comes back wet. So much for not breaking the stitches, I think, looking up and glancing around.
Talon is still evading his attacker, skirting around columns like a mouse but otherwise keeping him distracted. If the ranger catches him, it won't be much of a fight. The two other honor guards appear to have put Tamara on the defensive, flanking her on two sides and attempting to sneak in a lucky jab. At the rear of the hall, the Master Warden sits in his chair, his expression cold and imperious, and beside him Warden Carr stands awkwardly, holding his sword but looking uncertain about what he should do.
Why isn't Carr fighting? Can't he see that we are fighting for our lives?
Behind me the two door guards have burst into the Main Hall but stand frozen just inside the entryway, watching the fight with slack-jawed demeanors. They are no doubt completely confused by what they are seeing, and are uncertain about how they should proceed.
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