Magic’s lure was merciless. The eldring’s thirst for blood was equally unrelenting. Both our races had been beset by an all-powerful need; the shared burden of an inborn addiction that made us each our own kind of monster. Only now, the distinctions between us were blurring. The stench of death, the hot stink of sweat and fear, made my yearning to abandon weapons and tear into my enemy with teeth and bare hands as great as my lust for casting.
Grinding my jaw on the warring impulses, I shoved the rage of being unable to answer either call into each swing.
Deflecting an oncoming axe with one blade, I sliced across the barrel chest in front of me with the other. Metal slid through. Life poured out. I kicked my opponent to the blood-slick cobblestones and turned, ducking a swipe of claws from the eldring behind me. I didn’t waver. I should have. I knew what drove the beasts, now more than ever. I knew they didn’t belong in this fight. They’d been spelled along with all those under my father’s command. If I had a moment to think past our combined lust, maybe I could reach their shared consciousness. If I maintained a connection long enough to discern the root of the spell, I could break it. But the city streets were choked with men and beasts. There were no moments. There was only thrust and swing and dodge and roll. And hope you were still in one piece when you came back up.
Spinning, ripping my blades across a brawny thigh, I stepped to the side as my opponent lurched by. Snarling, blood spurting; he stretched an arm back for me, and I severed it. His scream rang past my ear as I spun and buried a sword in the back of his neck. Retrieving the blade, as I raked an arm over the glop on my face, I glanced down the narrow alley to my right.
Afternoon was far along. Shadows ruled the corridor. Jarryd was among them, forty paces away. I’d done my best to fight always in his direction, never away. It was all I could do; stay close. I wouldn’t have tried dissuading him from defending Kabri. I didn’t think such a thing was possible. Though his hands weren’t ready to hold a sword for hours on end, and his body was yet on the thin side, I couldn’t discount the man’s resolve. I’d never fought beside anyone more intent on defending his home. He also had a measure of my skill to aid him. And he was actually heeding my advice.
As we’d strapped on armor and weapons in the cave, I’d told him, “Avoid the eldring. Find the smaller opponents. My father has all kinds fighting for him. One will kill you as easily as the next—even Rellans. So don’t meet their eyes and let guilt get ahold of you. Ignore their race. Go for the legs and the groin. If you can’t get a kill shot, incapacitate them. Bring them down and go. Don’t linger in their reach. Don’t stay in one place too long. And don’t try to outrun an eldring. If one comes for you, get to higher ground. Their strength is the forward leap. They don’t climb well and have trouble with long vertical jumps. Look for a shed or porch, or a canopy if it’s sturdy. Stay out of their reach and they might move onto easier prey.”
He’d posed only one question. “Should we close the link?”
My answer had been a definitive, “No.”
“We’ve never fought with it open before,” he’d replied.
“Then it’s time we do.”
Now, sensing my scrutiny, I felt the brief vindicated smile on Jarryd’s face as he hit the ground. Next: gratification; as he slid under the Langorian’s legs and thrust his Kaelish long-knives up between them. Larger than a dagger and lighter than a sword, the knives were double edged. A quick strike would inflict a lot of damage. All in all, the weapons were a good fit for Jarryd’s weakened hands.
He came back up, pushing caution at me. Heeding it, I turned; crisscrossing my swords and blocking an oncoming mace. I kicked its Langorian owner in the kneecap, forcing him to stagger back. As I set up for a swing to finish him off, I felt the suggestion of a sting that wasn’t mine stretch across my side. A scratch at best, I swung through Jarryd’s discomfort. The grazing had thrown him some though, and I sent a wave of calm his way to keep him on track. It was something I was surprised he hadn’t needed before. Malaq’s army was out in force. The eldring were dragging Shinree through the streets. The combined efforts of my father’s spelled dogs and their masters were setting fires and laying waste to a city that was mostly wreckage before they got here. It was a harsh, overlapping chaos many would find distressing.
Distinguishing sound was particularly difficult. Yet, my borrowed eldring senses stirred with delight at trying to separate them. The beastly growls, the cries of effort, the snap of bones and singing of metal; they bounced and echoed through the streets at slightly different levels.
Then a new sound joined the mix: horses. Their hooves beat swiftly. The strikes were too light to be made by the weight of a Langorian Warhorse. Rellan, I thought. Four sets were heading our direction; slim as far as reinforcements go. If they were Kabrinian citizens attempting to flee, they weren’t going to make it coming this way.
Assessing origin and course, I headed to meet the oncoming riders. I gave Jarryd a mental tug, and he worked his way over. He drew on one of the most important elements our bond had given him—my years of battle experience—as he rolled and skirted his enemy’s blades. His strikes, when he chose to land one, were unscrupulous. He did his damage and moved on.
As Jarryd closed in on my position, a mob of glazed-eyed Kaelishmen surrounded us. The men were as full of drink as they were blind determination. Their ale-driven grit didn’t matter, though. Jarryd put his back to mine. I went high. He went low. And we cut the first row to ribbons.
A second wave moved in. I spun one way. He went the other. I retracted my blade. Jarryd sunk his in. Like a dance we’d rehearsed a thousand times, we lunged and stepped in close quarters, letting our bond guide our moves. With beautiful, thoughtless precision the bodies piled up.
Another five approached. Eight more were right behind them. At least half were Langorian. Seeing the latter, Jarryd’s concern wafted across the link. He was tiring. His grip was failing. The burning ache in his hands was building to a level he couldn’t ignore. I spared him some strength.
It wasn’t enough.
A knife slipped from his grasp. Fumbling to retrieve it, Jarryd caught a knee to the face. Someone seized his other arm, wrenched it back, and he lost the other blade. A quick boot sunk into his side. An elbow struck his back, a fist cuffed his jaw, and Jarryd was down with a blade raising high above him. Shoving my own opponent away, I ran up and engaged the man about to sever Jarryd’s head. I blocked the kill-shot, but my angle was awkward. With the amount of weight the Langorian possessed, I was barely holding his steel at bay. If I didn’t change position, I had no hope of deflecting it.
More assailants closed in. Pain exploded through my left knee as a club made contact. My leg buckled. I grunted, struggling to regain leverage while sending a blast of urgency Jarryd’s way; rousing him to the clash of blades going on above his head. He scurried then, to get clear, but the slick, pliable obstacle of bodies compromised his flight and he kept sliding back.
Jarryd’s panic hit me. We both knew: if I slipped, and the man completed his swing, Jarryd would lose a leg. The only way to avoid it was a controlled yield.
I lowered my arms. Our swords disengaged. The Langorian’s weapon arched down from the unexpected, sudden lack of resistance, and gravity tipped his hefty body forward into my elbow as I thrust it up into his nose. The sickening crunch had barely ended when I slammed my shoulder into his chest, shoving the man away from Jarryd and gaining room enough to drive my swords in and up; cutting two wide vertical splits in the generous rolls of his stomach. As I extracted my weapons, a club bounced off my upper back. I thrust one blade behind me into the meat of my attacker’s thigh. Pivoting, I slashed open the throat of another. Before I could reclaim my sword from the first man’s leg, a fist cuffed me in the side of the head. I rotated to block the next and a hard, unsuspecting sweep to my legs knocked me flat.
Langorian hands locked onto the one weapon sti
ll in my grip. As we wrestled for control, Jarryd was at the edge of my vision. Pinned beneath heavy muscles, his long-knives were on the ground, out of reach. His overworked hands had my own struggling to make a fist. The pain in his joints burned. I couldn’t shake it.
I tried, I thought, to fight without magic, to stave off my transformation a little longer. But I’d rather the eldring spell claim me than to watch Jarryd die.
I reached for a spell. Magic curled into my veins, cooling the pain. I gathered the auras to cast, and the four horses I’d detected before thundered to a timely stop. I glimpsed the legs as the riders jumped down. I caught the glint of steel as swords flashed above me. Blood drizzled onto my skin. A more substantial flow soaked my clothes as a sword point penetrated the man straddling me. I stared at the steel a moment, inches from my face, before it retracted and my adversary fell dead atop my chest. I threw the carcass off with a cry of effort and anger.
Blinking at the gore in my eyes, I stared up at my savior—and laughed. It was far from a sound of mockery. Queen Elayna standing over me in a black leather breastplate, a split blue leather skirt over black leggings, and gauntlets engraved with the Arcana crest; the fierce determination in her eyes was beautiful, inspiring, and an extremely welcome sight.
Jillyan was with her. I only had a partial view, but I knew the sway of her hair and set of her shoulders as she stooped to check the enemy for signs of life. Two wary Rellan Guardsmen flanked her with swords ready. A few feet away, Jarryd winced as he tugged his blades toward him. He sat up and pulled one relieved breath of air into his lungs after another.
I glanced side to side at the collection of mangled limbs and wrecked bodies. The sounds of battle were retreating deeper into the city. This section was filled only with the silent musings of Death, grinning as he collected his haul.
Elayna sheathed her sword. Her gloved hand reached down to me. “Are you going to lie there all day gawking like a school boy, or are you going to come help me save my husband?”
ELEVEN
Their ships were anchored far off shore; dark splotches silhouetted against a low hanging, yellow sun. Longboats had carried the invasion the rest of the way in. The abandoned empty crafts, pulled up onto the wet beach, littered the shoreline. Dismounting among them, as I slid off the back of Elayna’s horse, my eyes swept the battlefield. None of my father’s men were on this side of the island, only eldring; an uncountable number, tearing into an equally large number of Malaq’s forces. The Rellan line had long since broken. Strategy had been lost in the bedlam of survival, and a trail of carnage painted the white sand beach from one end to the next.
This wasn’t a haphazard, random siege. The eldring had come to this part of the island for a reason. They had a goal: the mountain beyond the beach. More specifically: my favorite perch. The open ledge of the cave mouth where I’d spent time reading my ancestor’s words. There were other, hidden ways into the system of tunnels. But this one, if spied from the deck of an approaching ship, was a wide open invitation. And though what I’d told Jarryd was true (eldring were not adept at vertical climbs), their limitations meant nothing while being pushed by my father. If he wanted them to climb, they would climb.
A few had already bypassed the Rellans to ascend the step-shaped ledges protruding from the mountain. Several had fallen to their deaths. Odds were a lot more would follow. But it would take only one to sniff out my kinsmen. One to locate the secret entrances that wound into the depths of the castle. And with the eldring’s collective mind, when it was known to one, it would be known to all.
A beast on the outskirts of the fight spotted us. It fell fast to all fours and bounded forward. Eyes feral, his hide was gouged. His pelt, ragged over a boney frame, was slick with Rellan remains. The beast looked exactly as it was: a starving animal desperate for a meal.
Drawing swords, I stepped away from the horses. I ran to engage, and the edge of stray Rellan steel caught the approaching eldring in the side. His clawed feet lost grip. He rolled toward me, head over heels. I stepped aside and thrust my blades down through his back, impaling him on the sand. I punted the body off my swords and took a moment to skim the throng of combatants.
Krillos was toward the back. I scanned left, right, and left again, before I caught a flash of Malaq. They were farther apart than I’d hoped, with far too much fray in between.
I turned back toward the water’s edge. Seeing Elayna about to dismount, I rushed up to her. Blood speckled her cheek. Ringlets had escaped her braid. Her sword rested firmly and confidently in her hand. She stared at me with fortitude and focus, and I thought instantly of her mother. Aylagar’s Arullan blood was strong in Elayna’s veins. The training of her youth had rushed back quickly under my instruction. But she wasn’t ready for this. And I wasn’t ready to let another daughter of Aylagar die.
“Go back to the castle,” I told her. “Take him with you.” I glanced at Jarryd, riding double with one of the guardsmen. His hands were bent in close to his body. Exhaustion and pain ruled his bruised face.
“If you’re trying to protect us, Ian,” Elayna bristled, “the castle is no safer.”
“What I’m trying to protect is your son.” I watched her bravado vanish at my bluntness. “All of Malaq’s men have been deployed. Whatever you have left of a castle guard will be hard pressed to hold off the eldring if they make it that far. Your house will need every blade, Elayna—including both of yours.”
“You’re right, of course.” Her head lifted slightly. She stared up the beach. I didn’t need to follow her gaze. I already knew it was aimed at Malaq.
“I’ll get to him,” I promised. Looking past her to Jarryd, I raised my voice to be sure he heard me. “You know where you should be.”
Exhaustion was evident in his blue eyes. So was his reluctance to leave my side.
I gave him a push. “Go, Nef’taali.” The Shinree term aptly described what the binding spell had made Jarryd: my other. But we weren’t blood. “He needs you right now. I’ve got this.”
Jarryd gave me a grim nod. Elayna turned her horse and took off across the beach. Two more horses, including the one carrying Jarryd, followed. A third ran after them through the edges of the waves, reigns dragging and saddle empty.
I turned around and frowned at its rider. “I should have known.”
“Yes, you should have.” Splashes licked the lacings running up the sides of Jillyan’s breeches as she stepped away from the water’s edge. Sleek black hair stirred about her waist as she crossed the sand to stand in front of me. Pausing, like we weren’t at the edge of a battlefield, Jillyan seized my head, leaned in, and planted a short, forceful kiss on my mouth.
Her sword was out before the kiss had ended.
Breaking into a run, Jillyan called over her shoulder, “Try and keep up, Shinree.”
I sprinted after her up the beach. A thick cloud of beast and men enveloped us both. The familiar deafening amalgam of battle assaulted my ears. Screams of pain and triumph repeatedly escaped the din to stand alone. I tried to keep track of Jillyan. But the rush carried her beyond my reach. It wasn’t long before I lost sight of her altogether as my view was overrun with swinging blades and furry heads. Conscience tugged at me to find her, but the woman wasn’t without skill. More importantly, I needed to reach Malaq. This day had already unfolded once without me, and it hadn’t ended well for him. Now, I had a chance to change that. This was my opportunity to prove the attack on our camp, and Neela’s death, were coincidence. To prove my vision had no credence. And if it did; to confirm my presence made a difference.
I worked swiftly to close the distance. Heeding my advice to Jarryd, I concentrated on inflicting rapid, disabling shots, and avoiding long engagements. It was a tactic that left more eldring alive than dead, but it pushed me through the moving wall of combatants fairly quick. As I caught my first meaningful glimpse of Malaq through the conflict, I realized I was just i
n time. He wasn’t looking good.
Swarthy skin splashed dark with blood, clothing slashed in multiple places, a fusion of pain and concentration warped his noble features. His left arm hung at his side; bloody, broken, and unusable. He had a fierce grip on the sword in his right hand. It was a beautiful Kaelish piece I hadn’t seen him use in a long time.
Natalia, I thought, glad he’d taken her up in favor of the bulky, shorter Langorian swords he’d carried of late. It worried me though, watching his sword arm drop like a stone on follow through. Even the light weight of such a fine blade had grown cumbersome.
He hadn’t seen me. My voice would be buried. I shouted something that would stand out. Something to tell him I was coming. “Nef’areen!”
Malaq turned. He skirted an eldring and moved closer. “I could use some help,” he hollered back, ducking to evade the swipe of a towering female.
“So your wife said.” Running between two of the beasts, I slashed my swords across their spines on my way through. “She was most insistent.”
His laugh was loud and harried. “Yes, that trait has reared its head on occasion.”
The Rellan soldier next to me stumbled. Stepping in, I skewered the eldring bearing down on him. He finished the job with a swipe across the beast’s throat. I helped the man up. As he muttered his thanks, I pivoted back toward Malaq—and straight into an eldring. Claws tore through the front of my leather vest. My feet left the ground. I sailed backwards and collided with another eldring. My back slammed into his front, our heads knocked together, and we both hit the sand.
The Crown of Stones: Magic-Borne Page 9