Why didn’t he attack? Perhaps something else had weakened the bubble, allowing her to tap into it.
Rejiia caught Robb’s gaze. A compulsion for him to come to her, bring to her all his secrets and all of his power and knowledge wiggled into his brain. She promised him more. All he had to do was join her in an ecstasy of pain.
He turned away, heading toward the door and the exit to the courtyard.
The heartbeat he broke eye contact the compulsion snapped into revulsion.
His stomach nearly revolted at her demands.
Pounding footsteps descending the tower reminded him of his duty.
“Master Robb,” Gerta panted, slightly out of breath from her rapid climb to the top of the tower and even more rapid descent. “Lukan and Chess prepare to throw fire at the snakes and try to channel storm clouds to dump rain on them.”
“Yes, good. That will help. But I fear that these Krakatrice are older and tougher than any we have fought before without the help of the dragons. Fire and water will slow them down. We need more to kill them. We have to break the magic bubble around them. It fades on its own, but one taste of blood will renew it. Only obsidian weapons, enchanted obsidian weapons, will penetrate thick hide and pierce vital organs.”
“It’s not obsidian, but this is the finest steel with a keen edge.” She drew her sword and brandished it for his inspection. “I made it myself. I know the strength within.”
“In ancient times, blacksmiths were considered akin to magicians because they could transform lumps of raw iron into magnificent weapons and tools.” An idea wiggled from the back of his mind. He had access to a little magic. Not much, and he feared it would evaporate if the snakes tasted blood. “Perhaps I can help.”
He clutched his staff with both hands and raised the tip until it rested upon the proffered blade. “If I do nothing else this day to turn the tide of battle, I give this blade the power to overcome the evil emitted by the Krakatrice.” Power welled up through his entire body, tapping resources he’d forgotten he had. He forced it to concentrate into a single outlet. His hands glowed blue with supernatural light. Then he pushed and pushed and pushed it down through the staff, letting the natural wood grain, so attuned to him and his magical signature, amplify it, hone it, force it into the steel until the sword itself shared the blue light and then absorbed it all from him.
He dropped the staff tip to the floor and let it support his weight. His head felt as though it spun in full circles. Or was it the room that whirled around him?
His stomach growled.
“Eat this!” Gerta thrust more bread and meat and cheese into his hand. “Eat until you can eat no more. That’s your only source of energy right now. From this window you can see the entire field of action. Direct me as you can. I will listen for your voice and blank out the siren song of the sorceress and the Krakatrice.” And she was gone, shouting orders to her Amazons, the glint of battle lighting her eyes.
“Chess, you have to throw small fireballs,” Lukan said, swallowing his anxiety. The boy was nervous enough watching the snakes spread out around the courtyard with Rejiia standing smack-dab in the middle. The line of slithering black encircled her, almost as if . . . allowing her to direct them.
A female. Next best thing to a matriarch. Verdii had flamed the only living female Krakatrice. Could they be looking to Rejiia as one of their own.
“Stargods! We are out of time.”
He gulped back his own fears. He’d seen the way Rejiia wove spells of enthrallment. He knew the seductive nature of her power.
“I resisted you aboard ship. I resisted you at Lokeen’s dance. I can resist you now.” He tried to bring forth the gentle image of little Souska to his mind’s eye. Souska was just a flimsy shadow of raw dependence.
All he could imagine as a foil to Rejiia was Gerta, her strong features set in determination, ready to face this battle with courage, honor, and duty.
The forces that bonded all of the University magicians together. The forces that had pushed Samlan to go rogue. That man hadn’t wanted to work with other magicians. He wanted to command them and would not accept another’s authority.
In a way Lukan’s father, Jaylor, had also rejected the community of magicians with his need to do it all himself, because once he was the only one of them who could think beyond rigid ritual. Later because he always knew better, always needed to do it himself to make sure it was done right. His strength had killed him.
Lukan firmed his resolve and shifted his balance so that he could stand beside Chess and work with him to aim those little fireballs correctly.
“See the little triangle of smooth skin at the base of the Krak’s skull, Chess? Channel your eyesight to find the spot for real. Block out all the distractions to the side. Focus. Don’t let your gaze drift right or left. Don’t.”
Chess focused his eyes once more. “I can only see red eyes and dripping venom.” His voice wavered in uncertainty.
“That’s their enthrallment. Yank your gaze away from their eyes. Look at the far horizon where gray sky meets gray sea.” Lukan felt Chess comply. He himself avoided looking outward. He needed to see the vulnerable spot himself.
“Now look at the tail, follow the spine upward. It’s a curving line as it twists its body to glide forward. Follow the spine. See how the scales move and shimmer in the light. Count the scales. Focus on the spine. Upward, higher, higher yet. There! Notice how the scales ripple outward from a single spot. See it! See it in your eyes, in your mind, and in your heart.”
“Yes. I see it,” Chess chanted almost as if controlled by a spell in Lukan’s voice.
“Aim your little fireballs right there.”
Chess lifted his hand, palm upward and curved. The weak and watery sunlight concentrated there, glowing, growing; igniting!
“Not so big. You need little ones.”
A look of confusion creased Chess’ brow. “Small ones.”
The ball of fire in his hand reduced in size by half.
“Now throw it. Guide it. Bring the triangle to the fire, bind them together.”
Chess drew his arm back and threw the ball with all the power built into his shoulder from moons of work in the smithy.
Fire exploded outward into an array of cascading sparks as it struck an invisible wall encasing the snakes.
Rejiia smiled and turned her focus upward, directly at Lukan.
Lullaby. Why do I hear only a lullaby in the back of my mind? Soothing. Surrounded by someone who cares for me, who will keep me warm and safe.
No one ever sang a lullaby to me before. My mother didn’t care. My father forbade my nurse to sing them. He said I needed to grow up tough and independent, not coddled, not cuddled, never loved . . .
The singer belies that. The singer makes me want to abandon everything I have worked for while I suck my thumb and curl up into a sleepy ball.
Abandon . . .
Never! I scream in my mind and to the singer. I am above this. I am in control here. The Krakatrice look to me for guidance. I determine their targets.
Easy targets. Those loathsome Amazon Warriors sway on their feet, half-asleep. Food for my Krakatrice. Fools for even trying to subdue me.
But my lovely black snakes do not respond to my commands. They rear their heads and sway to the lilting melody. Their eyes droop. They want only sleep.
I cannot allow this. I need my snakes. I need them awake and aggressive.
I raise my arms once more and concentrate all of my formidable power into my fingertips. When I can contain it no longer I lash out with all of my anger and thirst for vengeance. I need destruction, murder and mayhem to fuel my power. Raw energy shoots unnatural red flame. Two women try to lift their swords to catch the lightning. But the lullaby makes them listless. The swords are heavy.
I fell them with a jolt of magic that flings them backward until they land flat on the stones, their heads cracking audibly. They lay there with jaws agape and eyes glazing.
I block
off the lullaby from my mind as I once pushed away the pain of magical ritual. Outside distractions do not penetrate my mind. I am focused on revenge. I will destroy this castle and everyone in it. Now where are the magicians who are set to oppose me?
I laugh long and loud, for I have power, and as long as my Krakatrice are with me, the other magicians cannot use theirs.
What is this? A change in the music? An invigorating marching tune that sounds like energetic footfalls. It is determined and triumphant. I can almost hear the words of the refrain, “How many of them can we make die!”
The shift in cadence allows my snakes to awaken. They do not understand this kind of music. Marching feet mean nothing to them.
Not so the women warriors. They take heart and shout together their strange warbling war cries as they swing and twist their weapons with a willful rhythm. And now they are joined by men. Men who should follow me out of pure lust. They raise their weapons with new vigor and advance upon me. An entire army of them.
And . . . and the castle gates swing open to reveal another army. The followers of Helvess have returned in triumph with butcher knives and pitchforks and hammers, mundane tools they will turn into weapons to fell me. Useless, mundane tools. I do not fear them.
Still, I must put all of my strength into the shield of magic that keeps people and weapons away from me and my snakes.
Where are my helpers? Why has my coven deserted me? My Captain Stravro and even Lokeen are nowhere in sight.
I see Geon and Bette crawling from the dungeons, slinking behind great stones, hidden from sight of the Amazons, but not from me. I command them to join me, to add their magic to my own.
They ignore me and tumble behind another half wall. The magic shield prevents me from sensing where they go. He leads. She follows. As always.
Very well, I can do this on my own. I do not want their help. I do not want their help.
I will deal with this on my own. As I have always been alone. And always will be. No wonder the lullaby did not affect me. I never needed or wanted one. Comfort is for the lazy and powerless. And I am neither.
My supposed followers will learn that when I deal with them as the traitorous wretches deserve.
How many of them can I make die?
CHAPTER 42
“H...how do we penetrate the bubble?” Chess asked as he sagged against the stone parapet. Apparently controlling fire took more energy than just flinging it about.
He batted listlessly at stray sparks that backlashed toward them.
Or was it Skeller’s lullaby that drained him of energy. Lukan could barely hear it over the din below them.
But the soothing melody did make his leg hurt a little less.
Rapid footsteps slapped against the stone steps leading to this roof. Lukan shook off some lingering lethargy and limped to the side of the trapdoor. Then balancing on his right leg he lifted his staff in both hands, ready to swing it into someone’s head.
“Master Magician?” a feminine voice squeaked.
Lukan checked his swing and had to spin around to maintain his balance. Flailing, he fought to ground his staff. The tip skidded on the slates of the conical roof rising above the walkway. Instinctively he touched his left foot to the ground and instantly regretted it.
Fire as hot as Chess’ conjuring lanced in all directions from his wound. When it hit his hip he lost all strength.
Small but strong hands grasped his arm and held him tight until he found his feet.
“Thank you,” he grunted.
“Where is the magician?” the woman asked. She wore a palace uniform and stood tall and proud, very like Gerta. Stunning.
“I am Journeyman Magician Lukan,” he said, trying to infuse his voice with confidence.
“You will have to do. Queen Maria asked me, Sergeant Frella of the Amazon Warriors, to gift to you the Spearhead of Destiny with her blessing.” She thrust a silk wrapped lump into his free hand.
“Spearhead?”
“Of Destiny?” Chess echoed.
“It . . . it is a legacy from the first Amazons who fought the Krakatrice and carved out this city from nothing. Only a woman can use it unless it is gifted to a man by a true Amazon. Queen Maria has proved herself worthy.” She bowed and dropped back through the trapdoor. Her boots slapped the stones with as much speed and eagerness to leave as she had come.
“Thank you, Sergeant Frella of the Amazons,” Lukan called after her. Magnificent. All of the women here were magnificent.
“Spearhead,” he mused.
“To kill Krakatrice!” Chess said eagerly.
“Obsidian!” Lukan shouted in triumph as he tore off the protective silk.
The music in the background shifted, became a lively marching tune, a prelude to battle, filled with energy and enthusiasm and righteousness.
“How many of them can we make die!” Skeller shouted into the wind, making certain his voice carried to all corners of the castle.
Renewed sounds of battle rose from the forecourt. Shouts of aggression. Screams of pain. The clang of metal against stone.
Chaos.
Rejiia and the Krakatrice thrived on chaos and riotous emotions.
Only Lukan could bring order.
“Quickly, I need twine, thread. Rope. Something to secure the Spearhead to my staff.” His mind raced and settled on a strip of cloth from the hem of his tunic or his shirt. The shirt; finer cloth than the blue leather tunic. Stargods only knew the fine linen his mother had woven and sewn for him was ragged and filthy enough to rip apart for other uses.
“Here.” Chess thrust a ball of string into his hand.
“What?”
“From the pack. I packed bits of odds and ends before we left the city. Never know what you’re going to need. Master Robb taught me that.”
Lukan shrugged and looped a slipknot over the obsidian and the staff, then wrapped, pulling as tightly as he could. When he thought the two tools had become one weapon, he wiggled the blade. It didn’t move. So he tied a secure knot and let Chess cut the cord with a utility knife.
“Okay,” he said on a deep inhale. He used the breath to trigger the first stage of a trance. He’d need all the help he could find.
“How many of them can we make die?” shouted an army of men and women below.
Barely noticing the pain in his leg, he limped back to the wall overlooking the courtyard. He focused all of his senses on the Spearhead. Just as his Da had taught him. He drew strength from his memories, from his family, from his love for them and theirs for him. He bound all that up in his connection to the staff, and through that to the obsidian. Volcanic glass from the heart of Kardia Hodos. Fire and Kardia. He needed water and air. Nothing for it, he ran his fingertip over the knocked edge. A drop of blood welled up. He smeared it on the point. Then he breathed on the whole.
One more step. He had to turn widdershins and pay homage to south, west, east, and north. Awkwardly he turned a full circle, making a quick but reverent bow at each point of the compass.
“Speed my quest to the triangle from which radiates all scales of magic and death. Penetrate the evil; make it vulnerable.”
He peered over the crenellated stone wall, sorting through the images of warriors, men and women all in palace uniforms, slashing and hacking at the snakes to no avail. Their weapons bounced off the magic wall of protection. And Gerta led the fray, facing down the largest of the five snakes. Five of them, all bigger than any strays he’d trained to kill. None of them as big as legend said they could grow. But one of them . . . The one facing Gerta . . .
All the other snakes mimicked its actions, half a heartbeat behind.
Rejiia focused her control on that one big one.
They looked to her as they would a matriarch with six wings. Lukan was almost surprised Rejiia hadn’t sprouted bat-like protuberances from her spine.
He centered his vision on the big, black snake’s head, nearly as long as his torso. The monster opened his mouth wide, hand-sized fang
s dripping venom. Red eyes gleaming with hunger and malice.
Lukan drew back his arm, grip flexible on his staff, Spearhead ready. He affirmed his connection to the wood, the essential magical tool gifted to him by the trees of Sacred Isle. His thoughts and soul twisted with the wood grain in a braid from tip to butt, clean and smooth. Chanting a prayer to the Stargods, begging help from all four elements and cardinal directions, he cast his weapon, keeping his gaze affixed on that vulnerable triangle at the base of the Krakatrice skull. “Guide my weapon,” he whispered. His mind remained half inside the spear, half on the monster below.
A part of him continued twisting with the staff, flying fast, diving, carving a path through the wind that resisted him. Dropping, dropping faster and faster, the triangle firmly in his sight. The ghost of his body remained rigid on the roof while his essence found his target. Magic sparks pricked his surface and flashed into premature death. He thrust them aside.
Black snakeskin bent beneath his point and threatened to push him back out. He concentrated deeper, deeper, and deeper yet. The skin parted, unable to protect itself against that magically charged glass point sharpened and honed by elemental fire from elemental Kardia, empowered by a magician’s blood and blessed breath.
Cold, cold snake blood washed over him, engulfed him, threatened to drown him.
A sharp pinch to his arm jerked him back into his body. But his vision remained in the courtyard. Gerta rammed her glowing blue sword deep into the Krakatrice’s open mouth, all the way to the hilt. Half of her leather-clad arm disappeared beyond the deadly fangs. As she drew back her weapon, the light of life drained from the snake’s red eyes. She raised her blade above her head, heedless of the gore dripping back on her helmet. A wild ululation of victory rippled from her throat and echoed around the courtyard.
Axes flash, broadswords swing,
Shining armor’s piercing ring
The Wandering Dragon (Children of the Dragon Nimbus) Page 32