by Aaron Hodges
“You have no right,” she whispered.
“I have every right!” the Tsar boomed, his eyes shining with power. “I am your father, I am the Tsar. No soul lives within my realm except by my consent.”
“I would rather die than live beneath your yoke.”
“Alana, no!” Quinn called. She heard his footsteps approaching, but didn’t dare look at him.
You should listen to your lover, Alana, the Tsar’s voice spoke in her mind. You think this one will want you, when he learns the truth?”
“Stay out of my head!” Alana shrieked, staggering back from the words shrieking in her skull. But they only rose in volume.
You are mine, Alana! her father thundered. You think you have the power to defy me?
She felt a foreign presence enter her then, a darkness slithering into her body, wrapping around her thoughts, seeking out the most intimate corners of her mind. She stumbled back, dropping the sabre and clawing at her skull. And still the voice persisted.
You will not escape me this time.
“Get out!” she screamed again.
Somewhere within, her power responded. Surging up from the void, the green flames rushed to meet the Tsar’s darkness. A dull boom sounded in the confines of her skull, and for a second her spirit soared, her soul swelling with the sudden retreat of her father’s power.
But within an instant it pressed back, the darkness growing to dwarf her tiny flame, until it seemed she stood alone amidst the cosmos, with only a lantern to light the way. Even so, Alana clung on, holding to the green, as waves of black fought to sweep her away.
Then with a sudden popping sensation, the darkness vanished, the pressure relenting. Opening her eyes, Alana realised she had fallen to her knees. Her blade lay discarded alongside her, but she made no move to reach it. Looking up, she found her father towering over her.
“You are stronger than I thought, my daughter,” the Tsar sighed. “But it will avail you nothing. I shall deal with you later.”
He turned away then, exposing his back. Rage swept through Alana at his show of contempt, and clutching the blade, she launched herself at him. But again the blade struck empty air and ground to a halt. She sobbed in frustration as the invisible force held her back.
The Tsar looked back at her, a frown on his lips.
“Stay, daughter.”
At his words, the sword in Alana’s hand came alive. Tearing itself from her grip, the metal twisted back on itself and lifted into the air. Before she could react, it shot towards her, wrapping itself around her neck. She gasped as the cold steel enclosed her throat, the sharp edges biting into her flesh. Blood trickled across her skin as she staggered back, screaming her fury.
“And be silent,” the Tsar added calmly.
Alana gasped as the sword contracted further, stealing away her voice and leaving her barely able to breath. She clawed at the metal, but it had hardened once more, becoming unmovable. Struggling to inhale, the strength slowly fled her legs, and she slumped to the ground, her vision spinning.
Above her, the Tsar turned to Devon. “Any last words, hero?”
Devon’s eyes flashed as he stared at the man, jaw clenched, defiant. With a shrug, the Tsar raised his sword once more. Her vision fading, Alana watched in silent horror as her father prepared to strike down her friend.
Then, with a flash of silver, a blade came whirring through the air to bury itself in the Tsar’s forearm.
Screaming, he stumbled back, his sword clattering uselessly to the marble floor. For a second, he stood staring down at the blood pumping from his arm, and the blade embedded in his wrist. Pain flashed across his face as he bared his teeth, his eyes sweeping the room in search of his assailant.
Alana stared in disbelief as a pale-faced Kellian surged to his feet and hurled another dagger. Forgotten by his captors, he had been left unconscious in the middle of the throne room while the Stalkers and Quinn encircled those still standing.
Blood was dripping from his forehead, and as the second blade left his hand, Kellian staggered, almost collapsing back to the ground. But his aim was true, and the blade hissed across the room at the Tsar. Only now the Tsar was expecting it, and with a cry of rage, the dagger froze a hair’s breadth from his face. He grimaced, and the blade reversed its flight, rushing back to slam into Kellian’s shoulder. The blow knocked the last strength from the innkeeper, and groaning he collapsed back to the ground.
Breath whistled between the Tsar’s teeth as he tore the dagger from his wrist. He paused for a moment, staring at the wound. In an instant it had healed over, the flesh knitting itself back together as though it had never been torn.
Bloody dagger still in hand, the Tsar advanced on the innkeeper. “Kellian,” he spat, unbridled rage in his eyes now. “Another soldier with such potential, another disappointment. Perhaps it was Devon’s influence on you, but it no longer matters—you will join one another in death now.”
Beside Alana, Devon had managed to regain his footing, but as he tried to follow the Tsar, he was brought up short by an invisible barrier. Crying out, he slammed his fists into it, but could go no further.
Kellian had managed to haul himself back to his knees. He looked up at the Tsar with open scorn. “Go ahead. You cannot change the truth. You are evil, and so long as good men stand against you, you’ll never succeed.”
“Then I had best kill all the good men, hadn’t I?” the Tsar replied.
He surged forward, his dagger plunging into Kellian’s stomach. Kellian reared back, a scream on his lips, but the Tsar caught him by the neck and dragged him forward, driving the dagger deeper.
“Happily, I’ll start with you,” he whispered, the words carrying to every corner of the throne room.
Chapter 37
All was chaos as Braidon and Enala crept amidst the chaos. Looking around, Braidon felt a sudden sense of déjà vu as a mirror image seemed to super-impose itself over the room. He saw himself, kneeling before the throne, the dark eyed Tsar towering over him, sword in hand. Then he blinked, and the image vanished, leaving only the awful sight of the Tsar plunging his dagger into Kellian’s stomach.
In that moment, time seemed to stand still. Braidon stood frozen in place, still concealed by the magic pulsing around him, yet unable to act, unable to do anything but stare in open-mouthed horror as his friend collapsed to his knees. Rooted to the spot, he did nothing as the Tsar released the innkeeper and reached down to draw his sword, could do nothing but stare as the blade flashed down.
“No!” Braidon cried out as Kellian’s body hit the ground, his scream muffled by the spell.
Tears streaked his cheeks as Braidon sank to his knees. In the corner, he glimpsed his sister on the ground, her fingers clawing weakly at what looked like a steel collar around her neck. Beyond her, Devon stood pounding at empty air, as though unable to take another step towards his friends. His impotent cries echoed around the room.
“We’re too late, he whispered.
“No.”
Enala strode past him, but she did not move against the Tsar. Her eyes were fixed on an old man who lay near the dais. He was on his side, eyes closed and face a paled grey, his breath coming in ragged gasps. Enala knelt beside him. His eyes flickered open as she gripped his hand.
“Eric…” she breathed, tears streaking her cheeks.
Concentrating, Braidon forced his magic to expand, engulfing the old man in his spell.
“Enala,” the man whispered. The lines on his face deepened and his eyes took on a haunted look. “You should not have come here…”
“You were here all along…” Enala croaked, ignoring the old man’s words. She shook her head, quickly wiping the tears from her cheeks. “I would have come long ago, if only I’d known…”
“Then you would have met the same end as me,” he said.
Enala shook her head. “Why did you face him alone, Eric?” she whispered. “We could have taken him, together.”
Eric seemed to have regain
ed some of his strength now. He pushed himself up onto one arm, and reached out to grip her shoulder. “When I discovered the truth, I knew…I knew I couldn’t do that to you. I thought I could spare you…”
“He was my responsibility,” she said.
“He was all of our responsibility,” Eric replied.
Enala swallowed. Her lips trembled for a moment, then a fresh resolve came over her face. “Ours then,” she said, tightening her grip on his shoulder. “It’s time we ended this. Together?”
Eric sighed. “I’m afraid I have nothing left to give, sis.”
Leaning forward, Enala embraced him. “Oh, Eric, what has he done to you?”
“He granted me a fate worse than death, ensuring I lived on long after my son passed from this world,” he croaked. “You have no idea how many times I wished for death…”
“I would have come for you...” Enala repeated.
“I know.” Eric forced a smile. “I’m glad you didn’t. I’m glad you were free.”
“Free and helpless,” she sighed. “You have no idea the horrors he has wrought through the decades. I wish I knew where we went so wrong.”
“You did nothing wrong, Enala,” Eric replied sadly. “Somewhere along the path, he lost his way.”
“Ay, but is it not a mother’s job to lead her son back to the light?”
A chill spread down Braidon’s back at her words. He stared at the two siblings in disbelief, but they only had eyes for each other. Silently, he tried to comprehend Enala’s words. Could it possibly be true?
But that would mean…
“I need you, Eric,” Enala said softly. “I cannot fight him alone.”
“I have nothing left…” Eric began, but Enala silenced him by gripping him by the wrist. His eyes widened and he shook his head. “Don’t, it’s too dangerous. Not even Alastair–”
Eric’s words were cut off as his head snapped back, his body suddenly going taut. Red light flashed between Enala’s fingers, flowing into Eric’s wrists, setting his veins aglow. An unholy fire seemed to light the air around them, and Braidon had to redouble his concentration on his own magic to keep them concealed from view.
Across the room, the Tsar was advancing on Devon. But a low keening from Eric drew Braidon’s attention back to the siblings. For a second, Eric’s eyes seemed to turn red—then Enala snatched back her hand, and the light died as quickly as it had begun. She slumped beside him, her breath coming in ragged wheezes. It seemed to Braidon the lines on her face had deepened, but after a moment she sat up and climbed back to her feet.
“Are you ready?” she asked her brother.
Nodding, Eric rose slowly. Braidon stared at the old man, shocked to see the wrinkles had faded from his face, his colour returning. He gave a sad smile as he looked at Enala.
“Thank you,” he murmured. “Though you could have killed us both.”
Enala chuckled. “I’m not still some green apprentice, Eric. I have spent two lifetimes mastering my power. I know what I’m doing. Now come, we have a job to do.”
Together, the two Magickers turned to face the Tsar.
Chapter 38
“No!”
The cry tore from Devon’s lips as his friend collapsed, the Tsar’s dagger embedded in his stomach. Jumping to his feet, he leapt towards his friend, but the invisible barrier brought him up short. Desperate, he pounded the empty air with his fists, yet even his immense strength could do nothing to pierce it. His eyes met Kellian’s. His friend opened his mouth, as though to say something, but he never got to speak the words.
With a flash of silver, the sword in the Tsar’s hand swept down. Devon screamed again, a wordless, toneless cry of grief and loss. Across the room, the thud of Kellian’s lifeless body striking the ground seemed impossibly loud. Blood streamed from Devon’s knuckles as he fought to reach the man who’d saved his life so many times before.
Standing over Kellian with bloody sword in hand, the Tsar smiled. Suddenly the barrier vanished, and almost losing his balance, Devon staggered forward. Fists clenched, he rushed to Kellian and dropped to his knees beside him.
But it was already far, far too late. Not even the Northern Earth Magickers could bring him back now. Choking, Devon clutched at Kellian’s shirt, hauling him into his arms, overwhelmed. For half a decade they’d had each other’s backs, from the very first battle in Brunei Pass. It would be difficult to find two more unlikely friends, yet the war had bound them together, blood brothers forever.
Except now Kellian was gone, his life expunged by the very man whose name they’d fought beneath all those years ago.
A shudder swept through Devon as he saw the Tsar watching him. “Bastard,” he hissed.
The Tsar only shrugged, gesturing at the broken body with his sword. “Did you think this could end any other way, Devon?” he asked. “I am the Tsar. The power of five hundred Magickers courses through my veins. I will not be defeated, not by anyone.”
Devon slowly climbed to his feet. “I’ll kill you.”
“You won’t,” The Tsar shook his head, as though the fact saddened him. “I cannot allow it. My work is not done yet.”
“I’ll tear you apart with my bare hands,” he growled, stepping towards the ruler.
“Very well,” the Tsar replied, and tossed his sword aside.
Before Devon could react, the man stepped in close, and a fist hammered into his forehead. Reeling back, Devon shifted his feet, widening his stance to ride with the blow. Then he straightened, surging forward. Blood pounded in his head, washing away the agony of his injuries, leaving only a single, cold-minded determination.
To destroy the man who had killed his friend.
As he charged, the Tsar side-stepped, moving far too quickly for a man three times Devon’s age. A blow slammed into Devon’s stomach, then another struck him in the jaw, lifting him from his feet.
Growling, he twisted, his own fist careening into the Tsar’s forehead. Pain lashed his knuckles as the blow landed—it was as though he’d struck a stone wall. Even so, he followed with two more, smashing a right hook into the ruler’s chest, then jaw.
In the past, such blows had shattered bones and left opponents unconscious on the floor. The Tsar only laughed. Stepping back, he wiped a streak of blood from his lip.
“Not bad,” he said, “but I’m done playing now.”
The Tsar surged forward. Raising his fists to defend himself, Devon managed to deflect the first blow, but agony flared down his arm as something in his wrist went snap. Casually, the Tsar battered aside the last of his defences, and slammed a blow into Devon’s chest that hurled him backwards off his feet.
Striking the stone floor, Devon gasped, unable to breathe, his strength lost to him. The Tsar approached, the sword in his hand once more.
“It’s been fun, Devon,” he said, raising the blade, “but now it’s time to die–”
A terrible boom interrupted his words, and the ground beneath Devon started to shake. A flash of light lit the throne room, followed by a whoosh of air and a sharp pop, as though the pressure in the chamber had just dropped several points.
Then blue and red fire rushed across the room to engulf the Tsar, and he vanished into the conflagration.
Eric came striding into sight, his sister Enala at his side. Arms outstretched, faces set, they unleashed their combined power against the Tsar. Lightning boomed and flames roared, causing Devon to scramble back, heat searing at his face.
Within the flickering red and blue, a dark shadow writhed, and it seemed to Devon that a soundless voice cried out. Watching the figure, hope surged through Devon. Surely, surely, not even the Tsar could survive such an attack? In the old tales, it had been Enala and Eric together who’d thrown back the might of Archon. What was a mortal such as the Tsar to the ancient Dark Magicker?
And still, the two siblings did not relent. Energy poured from them in an endless river, filling the throne room with the stench of burning. Devon saw Eric glance back, and glimp
sed the sorrow in his cellmate’s face. A sick sense of certainty struck him as he realised the Tsar was not defeated, only delayed. The look in Eric’s eyes was a farewell, a plea for Devon to run and save himself.
Because Eric and Enala would not run. Neither would retreat from the Tsar, not this time.
Tears forming, Devon nodded back at the old man and clambered to his feet. Many of the Stalkers were down, caught in the initial explosion of magic. The rest had fallen back, giving Devon a chance to escape.
But as he turned, he saw there was still one left standing.
Quinn.
Anger rushed through Devon’s chest. Silently, he started towards the man.
Quinn was staring at the spot where the Tsar had vanished, and did not see Devon’s approach. He held kanker loosely at his side, and Devon’s eyes settled on the weapon. He needed it back. With it, the foul Stalker would not stand a chance.
Slipping behind him, Devon strode forward, readying himself to tackle the Magicker. At the last second, however, his foot scraped against a fallen blade, sending it clattering across the floor. Quinn spun, but Devon was already hurling himself forward, and a straight left caught the lieutenant in the jaw, sending him reeling.
Devon followed after him, hammering a punch into his stomach, and then dragging him forward into a headbutt. The last blow dropped Quinn to his knees. Kanker slipped from his fingers, and Devon swept it up. Strength rushed back to his tired limbs as his hand closed around the black shaft.
Taking a breath, he looked down at Quinn. The man’s eyes eyelids flickered and he groaned, but he made no attempt to rise. An awful desire rose in Devon, to slam his hammer into the man’s face, to crush his skull and end the man forever. Every fibre of his being wanted it…but to do so would be a betrayal of Kellian’s final wish: that Devon hold to the path of good. Murdering a defenceless man...as much as Quinn deserved it, Devon could not do it.
Devon quickly surveyed the ongoing battle. The conflagration had lessened, the last sparks of magic dying away from the hands of Eric and Enala. Both were pale now, their eyes suddenly weary, the lines on their faces deepening. It was clear they had given everything they had.