Blackflame (Cradle Book 3)

by Will Wight

  Yerin’s Goldsign had twisted behind her, launching a Ruler technique in her blind spot.

  She spun, face red with anger—at herself for letting him get behind her or at him for trying to stab her in the back, he wasn’t sure—and sent another rippling slash at him. With his Star’s Edge, he broke that technique, and the next one, but she seemed to be trying to empty her core in one breath. The Striker techniques kept coming.

  His Star’s Edge shattered too early.

  There was still a rippling silver-edged distortion in the air, heading right at his face. He needed a moment to call his Enforcer technique back, but he didn’t have time.

  Before he had time to think, he acted on instinct.

  Jai Long used his Goldsign.

  His jaw unhinged like a snake’s, tearing the red bandages away from his face. He bared a mouth full of glowing white fangs: his inheritance from the serpentine Remnant that had nearly taken his sister’s life. They twisted his face, reshaping his jaw, and anytime he opened his mouth he looked like a nightmare.

  He opened his mouth wide and bit down on the rippling slash of energy, his teeth shattering the technique like glass. The shards of madra slashed at his cheeks, tearing the rest of his mask away, and he glared at Yerin with open hatred.

  She kept her eyes on his, hand on her sword. Her spirit’s power was fading, but she was the picture of resolve, prepared to keep fighting.

  Jai Long cast his perception back over the city. The tide was turning against them, he could feel it in the ebb of Stellar Spear madra throughout Serpent’s Grave.

  Shame overcame him in a moment. The Jai clan had lost a battle in their own city.

  But as much as it pained him, he was part of the clan again. His oath tugged at him, pulling him to do the responsible thing, to preserve himself for the family’s sake. He was wasting too much time on an uncertain battle, and fair fights were a fool’s game.

  As soon as the clan regrouped, Jai Long intended to suggest that Jai Daishou kill Yerin personally.

  Because Jai Long wasn’t sure he was up to the task.

  With one last glance at the Sword Sage’s apprentice, he leaped off the cliff to regroup with his family.

  ***

  Even with her core emptied for the second time that evening, and both her spirit and body aching with exhaustion, Yerin tried to follow Jai Long.

  “Get back…here, you…” Her voice was mumbled, and she wasn’t even sure the sounds that came out were real words.

  She staggered after the enemy until her knees buckled, and then she sank to the rock, panting. The energy that came to her from her master’s Remnant would return, but for now, it was tapped out. Her brief burst of clarity and insight was already fading away like a dream. There was more to gain from the Remnant, but that sense of his presence had gone.

  Leaving only a memory.

  She was exhausted in body, mind, and spirit, and saying goodbye to the Sword Sage a second time struck her like a physical wound. His absence tore through her.

  And there on the mountain, she wept again for her master’s death.

  ***

  Orthos was wounded. His skin oozed dark blood, and Lindon could feel the pain of venom working its way through the turtle’s blood and spirit. His spirit was in chaos, and Lindon couldn’t sense whether Orthos’ mind was in control or not.

  A massive black paw, the size of Lindon’s entire torso, smashed down onto his stomach, slamming his back against the ground.

  Lindon tried to scream, but it came out as a rush of air. He clawed at the leathery leg, but he might as well have been slapping a tree.

  The great turtle stretched out his neck, looking Lindon in the eye. He growled and choked into Lindon’s face, as though trying to speak, but no words came. The sacred beast gave a great scream of frustration that tore Lindon’s face.

  He squeezed his eyes shut. Some deaths had to be faced with eyes open, but this was not one of them.

  His core flared with a dark, bloody light.

  Blackflame raced through his madra channels, scouring him from the inside out, making him gasp.

  Is this what it’s like to leave a Remnant? he wondered. He’d always imagined it as a sensation of the spirit tearing itself away from the body, which was exactly what this felt like.

  His spirit burned hotter and hotter, Blackflame racing along his channels, until he could bear it no longer. He screamed, and Orthos screamed with him, dark fire racing from the turtle’s mouth and scorching stone.

  Lindon cycled furiously, trying to digest some of the power—not Eithan’s Purification Wheel, but the simplest, fastest breathing technique he could. He ignited the Burning Cloak, which raged around him, giving him the strength to lift Orthos’ paw and throw it off him.

  But Orthos roared in response. A red-and-black corona flared around him, and suddenly the leg was pressed back down like a mountain collapsing, claws digging into Lindon’s chest.

  Lindon built up power in his hands, pushing rivers of Blackflame out through both of his palms. The Burning Cloak raged, and he could feel red and black aura flaring all around him.

  The power was too much for him, he could feel it; his channels and his core were stretched to the point of bursting. He hadn’t reached the end of Jade—his spirit wasn’t mature yet.

  So he clawed at his pack, searching for the one thing that might help him: the Sylvan Riverseed.

  He tore at his pile of belongings like a man on fire looking for a bucket of water. Tongues of Blackflame licked at the fabric of his pack, scorching away chunks, but he couldn’t care.

  The glass case tumbled out and the Riverseed rubbed her head, as though she’d knocked a skull she didn’t have. Lindon didn’t wait to get her attention and draw her in; he felt as though his spirit was shriveling and blackening.

  Instead, Blackflame burned through the side of the glass. It didn’t melt; it hissed and blew away in a cloud of grit like fine dust.

  Lindon stretched out trembling fingers, and the Sylvan Riverseed cocked her head to look at him. For a second, she seemed uncertain, like she didn’t recognize him.

  Then, firmly, she seized his middle finger in both hands.

  A surge of liquid blue flowed through his madra channels, quieting the flow of dark madra and soothing his channels like cool water on a burn. Blackflame madra kept coming, and Lindon kept cycling, but the Riverseed poured all she had into him.

  Finally, the flow of fire slackened. Orthos pulled his paw from Lindon’s core and staggered away, unspeakably weary.

  The Sylvan Riverseed sprawled on her back, chittering like a frustrated wind chime. She had lightened to the blue of a robin’s egg, and after a moment she squirmed back into his pack and started digging around for scales.

  And Lindon lay there panting, spirit and body aching. Much of Orthos’ madra had been diverted into his Bloodforged Iron body, so Lindon’s smallest wounds had closed and the venom in his veins had been burned away, but he still hurt like he’d been beaten all over with hammers.

  Then Gokren stumbled back through the exit, hair wild and furs burned off. He stared wildly around, fixing his gaze on Orthos, and leveled his spear.

  Four Sandvipers entered behind him, moving to flank the turtle.

  Lindon’s spirits fell like a sack of bricks. It just wasn’t fair. Suriel was playing a trick on him—surely every mortal’s trials had to end sometime.

  “The dragon advances,” Orthos declared, eyeing Gokren. Lindon could feel the turtle’s spirit, strained to its limits, but he still roared and lumbered toward the Sandviper.

  Lindon started to gather Blackflame madra between his palms, but he froze. His pure core was still empty.

  He couldn’t make a shell around the Striker technique.

  Orthos took a hit from the side and screamed, while Lindon hunkered behind the stone tablet explaining the Ruler technique, trying to condense Blackflame madra.

  The Riverseed whined, shaking his knee with both her hands and point
ing to Orthos, trying to get him to help.

  Lindon tuned out Orthos’ screams and the Riverseed’s pleas, focused on the black fire flickering between his hands. This was a dragon’s technique. He needed to think about it like a dragon.

  He poured more power into the ball, and when he felt himself about to lose control, he forced it into place. A dragon wouldn’t try to bend or shape its power; a dragon would make the power submit.

  The dragon conquers.

  When he finally succeeded, he almost didn’t realize it, dripping sweat over a fireball twice as big as his fist. He stumbled out from the shelter of the stone tablet, watching Orthos withdrawing all his limbs into his shell.

  Sandviper madra crashed on the outside without leaving a mark, but Lindon knew the fight was over. Orthos would never have hidden unless he was prepared to die. His spirit was a mournful song, an aching wound of injured pride.

  There was nothing in Lindon’s mind except his desire to push the enemy away from his partner. He shoved both hands forward, releasing the madra he’d stored up into a Striker technique.

  If he could knock Gokren off-balance, even a weakened Orthos might be able to kill him. Maybe they could escape. But that assumed that Lindon’s pitiful Jade technique could even wound a Truegold.

  An arm-thick bar of Blackflame madra streamed toward Sandviper Gokren, the technique dense and liquid smooth. The Truegold condensed a green spear out of madra, slamming his Forged weapon against the spike. Truegold Sandviper madra met Lindon’s Blackflame.

  The dark fire washed over Gokren’s defense, taking his hand off at the wrist.

  He stumbled back, eyes wide as he stared at the place where his hand used to be. Lindon stared, just as stunned. He had put everything he had into that Striker technique, to the degree that he was feeling dizzy from the strain on his spirit, but he had only hoped to take some pressure from Orthos. Even the Lowgold Sandvipers stepped back, turning their focus from the turtle to Lindon.

  Orthos poked his head out of his shell. In the stunned, frozen moment after Lindon’s Striker technique, he extended the remainder of his madra. Lindon sensed what he was doing through their contract, but he didn’t comprehend it until he opened his Copper sight.

  The red-and-black aura was rising like a tide, spreading to encompass all the Sandvipers.

  The Sandvipers came to their senses, running from Orthos’ ruler technique, but Gokren bared his teeth and swung the spear in his remaining hand down. It glowed green, shining with toxic madra.

  Lindon shouted, spraying Blackflame madra in his direction. It didn’t even come close to reaching—he hadn’t taken the time to concentrate the technique and keep it under control. But Gokren, who had just lost a hand to Lindon’s deadly Path, flinched. His spear wavered.

  And Orthos activated his Ruler technique.

  Five roses of fire bloomed out of nowhere, centered on each of the remaining Sandvipers. The golden-orange flames flared, spotted with inky black and bloody red, devouring five bodies in an instant.

  Not one of them managed to scream as the Void Dragon’s Dance consumed them.

  The fight was over almost too quickly.

  Five minutes later, Lindon still didn’t believe his own memories. First, the madra had obeyed him more easily than it ever had before. Then, his technique had worked on someone at the peak of Gold. Based on everything Lindon knew, the force of Gokren’s madra alone should have been enough to block anything a Jade could do.

  Orthos dragged his massive body over to Lindon, chewing on a mouthful of bones as he went. “You’re not a Jade,” he announced. “I gave you more of my power than a Jade could handle.”

  Lindon looked at the turtle, then down at his jade badge, then scanned his own spirit. “I’m stronger, certainly, but I don’t feel so different. Nothing like when I advanced to Iron or Jade.” The stone wheel at the center of his Blackflame core might have spun a little faster, and his spirit cycled with the force of a raging river instead of a trickling stream.

  But Iron had come with a new body, and Jade with a new soul. Compared to those changes, this felt too simple. Maybe if he had adopted a Remnant, instead of taking in power through a contract, he would have seen a real difference.

  Orthos gingerly stretched out a leg, wincing at the pain. “Humans make every stage into a legend. A Lowgold is just a Jade with teeth. The only difference between Jade and Gold is a mountain of power.” He gave Lindon a look that radiated smug pride. “Now you see the real glory of Blackflame.”

  Lindon was still dazed, but he couldn’t argue with reality. Sandviper Gokren’s legs—the largest remaining parts of him—lay a few dozen yards away. His skull was sliding down Orthos’ gullet.

  Lindon was Lowgold now. A real Gold.

  This was the power of Gold.

  But Orthos’ soul still pained him—if his condition went untended, he would lose himself again. That was a problem Lindon thought he could solve.

  He placed the Riverseed on Orthos’ head and, after a moment of panic, the spirit placed both hands on the turtle’s skin. Blue light flowed into a Blackflame spirit, smoothing and calming as it went.

  Orthos shouted like a man doused in icy water. The Riverseed gave a terrified peep, scuttling back up Lindon’s arm. She stumbled at his shoulder, her skin pale, and collapsed on his head to curl up in his hair. “Forgiveness,” Lindon said, bobbing a bow. “I didn’t think to warn you.”

  “The insect stung me!” Orthos said, gnashing his jaws. The Sylvan trembled against Lindon’s scalp. He swept his perception through her and confirmed what he’d suspected: the tiny spirit was exhausted.

  Orthos’ madra already flowed more smoothly, even weak as it was, and his madra channels didn’t pain him as badly as before. It looked as though it had calmed his soul without diluting his madra, and allowed his channels to repair themselves.

  The damage would have returned in days, if he hadn’t shared his power with Lindon. Combined with their contract, the Sylvan’s attention might be able to—over time—make some real improvement in the turtle’s soul.

  “You should feel a little better at least,” Lindon said, knowing he did.

  “I have survived three hundred winters and the fall of the Blackflames,” Orthos grumbled. “I would have survived this.”

  On his behalf, Lindon patted the Sylvan on the head with one finger.

  Lindon extended his perception, and it unspooled much more easily than before, his perception floating over the mountain. He caught a trail of sensations that felt like Yerin, as though her voice still echoed behind her, but not her.

  “While you were out there…”

  Orthos finished the thought. “I felt her in battle on the main peak. Not now, but her spirit is likely weak.” Laughter rumbled out of his chest like aftershocks. “There is another familiar soul in that direction as well.”

  Lindon let his perception float, and he sensed exactly what the turtle meant: Eithan was no longer bothering to veil his power, and the full force of an Underlord shone like a signal-fire only a short distance away.

  As Orthos insisted he could walk, Lindon slid his pack on and headed in that direction. Where Eithan was, and where they’d last seen Yerin.

  The Sylvan Riverseed rode on his head.

  Chapter 20

  Jai Daishou was living a nightmare.

  He and his Truegold elders launched their Striker attacks together, streams of white light that should have pierced the enemy from seven different angles.

  Then, to his eyes and senses both, Eithan vanished.

  One moment he was standing there on the other side of a distorted aura barrier, holding a broom in his hands, and the next…

  …the next an elder’s skull was crushed like an eggshell outside the boundary formation. His body toppled as Eithan stood over him, broom bloodstained. Jai Daishou reacted before any of the elders could, blasting a Star Lance in Eithan’s direction, but he slipped back into the formation like a fish into water.

&nb
sp; That was impossible. The boundary stopped everything physical from passing. Pushing through it like that was like pushing through a burning wall. Even if his body was so monstrously strong that he could do it, the formation should have crumbled. Only madra could pass.

  Eithan’s upper body popped out of a different side of the bubble, seizing another elder and dragging him back inside. There came a crunch and a scream, and a spray of blood was stopped by the aura.

  Only one possibility made sense: he could be covering his body in a shell of madra to pass through the formation. But it would be easier to Forge a human-sized ball and roll through: the amount of power it would take to slip in and out while covering every inch of his body would beggar even an Underlord. Jai Daishou himself might have been able to do it once, if he could control his madra precisely enough, but he wouldn’t be fit to fight on the other end.

  Either this was a trick, or an illusion, or Eithan had madra reserves that the Jai Patriarch could only describe as monstrous. Maybe he had stolen a ward key, somehow.

  Jai Daishou ordered his remaining four men back, adjusting his tactics. If Eithan was using speed and mobility against them, he could compete with raw power.

  He had no use for this mountainside anyway.

  His spear thrummed with power, a fan of Forged spears hovering in the air above him. Each weapon held the full power of his madra and blazed with sword aura; they would hit like bombs, and even if they missed by three feet, the aura alone could peel meat from bone.

  But that wasn’t enough. He tapped into the soulfire he’d stockpiled over the past decades, channeling the faded flames into each spear. The power sunk into them until the air around them shook.

  These were seven deadly attacks capable of drilling through steel plate, spread out to cover every angle of escape. Each technique launched with a split-second difference in timing, to cover any openings and preventing the enemy from grasping the timing.

  Eithan would meet a wall of unstoppable spears, burning heat, and slashing blades. He may as well have been nailed to a board.