War of the Bastards

by Andrew Shvarts

  I hugged Lyriana good night and stepped out with Ellarion, the two of us walking to our tents in the brisk night air. There was still that pep in his step, that odd energy. I mean, I sort of got it. Between capturing my father and this whole development with the Red Wasters and their mages…it felt like maybe things were turning around. Like after a year on the run, a year of suffering and killing and watching our enemies grow stronger, maybe we had a chance. Like we could actually win this thing.

  But that wasn’t all of it, and as we reached the entrance to Ellarion’s tent, my patience ran out. “What’s your deal?” I asked.

  He looked at me all innocent. “What do you mean?”

  “You’re acting weird. Like you’re hiding something or thinking about something or—I don’t know. But there’s something up with you.”

  He paused for a moment, head cocked and even under that beard and messy hair I could still see him, the boy who’d walked around Lightspire like he’d owned the place, the mage who’d rolled coins of flame across his fingers when he was bored and made roses of light to impress pretty girls. “When that girl did her magic, did you notice her hands?”

  “No.”

  “Exactly.” He grinned, and stepped back into his tent.

  I turned away, shaking my head, taking it in. The camp was quiet, asleep, save the sentries in their tower and a few soldiers finishing their beers by a fire pit. Marlo was still up, wiping down the tables of the canteen with a wet rag, and I could see the glow of a lantern from Galen’s tent. Even though I didn’t want to, I glanced toward the stockade, which was as stark and dim as ever. I imagined my father sitting in there on the ground in the darkness, hands bound, just awaiting the end….

  I looked away, back at my tent, and smiled. Zell was standing there in the entrance, watching me with the flap pulled back. His lips curled the tiniest bit upward at the sight of me. I took a step his way, and then I heard the horns.

  Three sharp blasts, then three more, from the guard platforms.

  Alarm.

  Instantly, the mood changed. Soldiers burst out of their tents, scrambling to the armory. On the walls, the archers nocked their bows. Voices shouted all around, panicked and urgent. The horns blared again, even more frantically. “They’re coming!” a guard screamed from one of our platforms, a rickety structure just behind the camp’s wooden wall. “Defensive formations! Now! They’re co—”

  But he never got to finish because the wall just past him exploded, blowing apart the tower and the guard in one thunderous blast.

  A concussive burst of air hit me, knocking me down, sending tents flying like sheets of paper in the wind. Dust filled the air, stinging and thick, as fire roared somewhere beyond. I staggered up to one arm, coughing, scrambling to see what had just happened. There was a hole in the camp’s wall, a massive hole of splintered wood and broken, burning logs, and through that haze of flickering flame, I could see at least two dozen men charging our way, men wearing red-and-gold armor, men with their faces hidden behind slitted helmets, men wielding swords and crossbows and axes.

  Miles’s men.

  They’d found us.

  I SCRAMBLED UP TO MY feet, trying to look for someone, anyone, but it was impossible in the darkness and dust. All around me, the camp was chaos, a whirlwind of scrambling soldiers and screaming voices. Injured guards lay in the ground by the hole, faces bloodied, limbs severed, shrieking and gasping. Archers fired from the remaining walls, a volley of arrows that took out a few of the soldiers but left most of them still charging. My hands darted for the sword at my hip, except it wasn’t there, because I’d left it back in my tent like an idiot. And Miles’s men were charging closer and closer, fifteen feet away, ten, five…

  The first row of soldiers burst through the hole in the fence, storming into our camp through the darkness. I wanted to run, to hide, to fight, but my stupid legs were paralyzed with shock. That front row of soldiers drew their crossbows, leveled them, and fired, right at us, right at me. I threw up my hands with a scream…

  Then there was a crackling surge of magic from behind me, and a deep guttural howl of primal fury. A shimmering purple curtain billowed out before me, hanging in the air like the membrane wall of a giant bubble, and the crossbow bolts hit it and shattered, their shafts collapsing in on themselves in sprays of splintering wood. I spun to see Lyriana standing behind me at the far end of the camp, hair messy, hands outstretched, Rings pulsing. She let out a booming roar like a howling thunderclap, then twisted her hands into claws and jerked them straight up.

  The ground beneath the rushing Western soldiers shot up, pillars of stone rising like teeth in a hidden jaw. They screamed as it hurled them up in the air, screamed as it blanketed the camp in an impenetrable cloud of dust, screamed as it sent them crashing back down. Armor shattered, bones broke, men slammed into the ground like sacks of meat.

  I turned back to Lyriana with a whoop, even as she geared up for another strike. Ellarion was by her side now, standing askance with blood streaking down from a gash in his left leg. And there were two other figures coming up behind them, Unbroken soldiers, swords drawn. One of them was an old veteran, a bearded bald guy whose name I couldn’t remember, and the other was Ein, that ruddy-faced boy who worked the canteen with Marlo.

  But then I saw the way they were walking, tense, quiet. I saw the way they glanced at one another as they crouched up to Lyriana, a single charged conspiratorial glance. And I saw them raise their swords, not at our enemy, but at Lyriana’s turned back.

  “Behind you!” I screamed.

  Lyriana jerked aside, surprised, and Ein’s blade cut through the empty air where she’d been standing. The veteran’s blade caught her in the right shoulder, sinking deep into her flesh, sending rivulets of blood streaming down her chest. She screamed and crumpled to her knees, her hand twitching uselessly at her side. Ellarion spun on them, his hands flaring out in an instinctive casting form. But no magic came out, not even a flicker, and Ein smashed him in the side of the head with the pommel of his sword. Ellarion crumpled down with a whimper, and the veteran jerked out his blade, pulling it back for a final thrust.

  Lyriana’s left hand jerked up, a clawed grip that froze the veteran in place. Her golden eyes blazed with fury, two smoldering stars. Her blood flared a dazzling gold as it dripped down her side. She snarled and twisted and jerked back, and the veteran’s rib cage ripped clean out of his chest with a wet spray, hovering in the air for a moment before Lyriana threw it across the camp like a dirty rag.

  That…was a new one.

  The veteran flopped down into the dirt, his chest a gaping cavity. Next to him, Ein spun around, trying to flee, only to run straight into the point of a dagger, one that drove clean through his chest like a hammered nail. He toppled down next to his companion, and standing in his place was Galen, face contorted into the angriest grimace I’d ever seen. “Your Majesty!” he yelled.

  “Galen!” she said, the fire leaving her eyes, replaced by a stunned grimace that had to be the pain kicking in. She was bleeding hard, her whole body soaked. “I…he cut me…” she said, her voice distant and soft, her eyes on her ragged wound. “Why…why would he…”

  She slumped back down, but Ellarion was there, catching her even as he bled from his own gash on his temple. “I’ve got you, Lyri,” he said, holding her close. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry…”

  “Be sorry later!” Galen barked. “Right now, you need to get her to safety!”

  “But…I…” Ellarion stammered, struggling to hold Lyriana up. I turned back to the front of the camp, trying to see through the dust and shadow. Lyriana had stopped the first wave, but the next was coming. I could hear men shouting, pulling each other up, drawing their blades.

  “Now!” Galen screamed again, his eyes so big they looked ready to burst out of his head. Second to the throne or not, Ellarion listened, pulling Lyriana up and dragging her toward the end of the camp, where it met the placid waters of the lake. She was still bre
athing, I think. She’d be okay. She had to be.

  Galen had other concerns. He whipped out his daggers and strode forward, toward the billowing dust and the enemy within. “What are you all waiting for?” he roared to the stunned camp. “This is our moment! Attack!” He sprinted across the camp, daggers twirling, right into the cloud of dust, and as he did a half-dozen of our soldiers, the few who’d managed to pull themselves together and grab a blade, joined him. I could see Garrus among them, Garrus who’d sworn off fighting, charging into the fray with a burning log of a club. “For the Unbroken!” I heard the rebels yell. “For the True Queen!”

  I didn’t see the impact, but I heard it, the trampling of bodies, the clanging of swords, the grunts of wounded men. I didn’t understand what was happening, didn’t understand any of it. How had they found us? How many of them were there? Why were our own people attacking Lyriana? What could I—

  “Tilla!” Zell’s voice pulled me into the moment, a hard jerk into the present. He stood next to me, unarmored, a sword in each hand, raring to go.

  Right. Questions later. Fight now.

  His eyes met mine, and I could see the uncertainty in them. He didn’t want to leave me.

  I was having none of that shit. “Go!” I yelled, because even though I couldn’t tell what was happening, I was pretty sure any chance we had at survival hinged on our best warrior getting in the mix. “Now!”

  He gritted his teeth in frustration and took off, hurling himself into the billowing cloud with a barely restrained growl. I saw his blade flicker through the dust, saw a streak of red follow a gurgling shriek, then another. My heart beat against my ribs and my stomach clenched tight and I hated that I couldn’t see him, hated that this could be it, the last time I saw him….

  No. Not if I had anything to do with it.

  I couldn’t see the armory but I knew where it was, a long rack of weapons along the camp’s easternmost wall. I sprinted there now, still barefoot (why hadn’t I put on shoes?), eyes stinging, mouth flooded with dust. The sounds of the battle raged around me, louder and louder, and there were other noises there too now, noises I liked a whole lot less: the crackle of flame, the hissing of steam, the sloppy wet rending of flesh.

  Bloodmages. Because of course.

  The dust cleared in front of me, enough to reveal the rack of weapons. Most had been claimed, but there was a figure standing behind the rack, and even through the cloud I could make out the husky frame and the roped hair. Marlo. “Tilla!” he yelled. “Here!”

  He grabbed a short sword off the rack and tossed it my way. I caught it effortlessly (which, okay, not bad) and spun around. Not a moment too soon because there was a Western soldier there, rushing at me with the point of his broadsword. Rookie mistake. Coasting on pure instinct, I slid to the side, letting him streak by right into the weapon stand, and then jammed my own blade into the base of his skull, just below the helmet.

  Thirty.

  “Titans have mercy!” Marlo gasped as the soldier flopped down to the ground, and I thought he was just horrified at the body before I saw the reflection in his eyes and realized there was another soldier, a silhouette marching toward me. Even through the dust I could make out the flickering white glow of his eyes.

  Screw that. I wound up and hurled my sword directly into his face.

  Thirty-one.

  Except wait, no, not thirty-one, because he whipped a hand up and my blade stopped, frozen in the air just inches in front of him. That wasn’t good. I had just enough time to dive to the side as he flicked his wrist my way and the sword came hurtling back, spinning wildly end over end. I was fast, but not fast enough; the tip clipped my bicep, slicing it open, which hurt like hell. I stumbled to the side, wincing, clutching my arm as blood trickled through my fingers. I’d been cut more times than I could’ve ever imagined, but every time I was still shocked by the pain.

  Still, that was the least of my concerns, because the bloodmage was marching toward me, arms outstretched. His eyes were pure white, no irises or pupils, marked only by throbbing black veins. I scrambled for another sword, but before I could grab it, he twisted his hands in circles and my own wrists jerked back hard, like they were being pulled toward him by an invisible force, one that was squeezing tighter and tighter, crushing so hard it hurt. I kicked and flailed, my feet dragging streaks through the dirt, but it was no use. I was like a fish on a line, being pulled into his clutches, toward those awful eyes and wheezy breath. He raised his hands up to the sky, and I went with them, lifted into the air so just my toes scraped the earth, hanging like a horrible flailing marionette. His magic coursed through me and it felt horrible, like beetles crawling through my veins, spiders scratching behind my eyes. He strode toward me, and now I could see all of him, his husky frame and bushy black beard and griefweed-rotten teeth. He clenched his hands into fists and then there was another crushing feeling, this one around my waist, like I was being flattened in the palm of a giant. I gasped for air as none came….

  Then the bloodmage let out a hacking gasp of his own and suddenly all that magic vanished and I fell down onto my knees with a thud. The bloodmage was the one kicking and struggling now, and I couldn’t quite see the figure standing behind him, but I could see the thick iron chain it was holding against the bloodmage’s neck, jerking him back in a violent choke. The bloodmage’s hands flailed uselessly, pawing at the figure’s face, but the chain dug in deeper, deeper, deeper, and then there was a wet brittle crack and his head lolled forward like a broken doll’s. The figure let go, tossing the bloodmage aside like garbage, and stepped forward into the light.

  I didn’t need to see his face. I’d known the second I saw the chain. But still, there he was, my father, the traitor, the usurper, the murderer, and he’d just saved my life. He was breathing hard, hands soaked red, a long gash running down his left leg. And he looked relieved.

  For a moment, anyway. Then he spun back around, toward the hazy chaos of battle, where the screams were getting louder and closer. “Tillandra!” he shouted. “Sword! Now!”

  I stared at him, then at the swords lying next to me, then at him, then at the swords. “Sword!” he yelled again, more urgently, but still I just lay there. Because throwing him a sword felt wrong, monumentally profoundly gut-wrenchingly wrong, even though it also seemed liked the obvious thing to do.

  He was my father. But he was also the enemy. He’d saved my life. But this could also all be a trap. If I didn’t do it, we’d both probably die. But if I did, maybe I’d be playing right into his hands.

  It was all too much, too fast. Every choice felt wrong, every outcome doomed, and every passing second was a moment I wasted. “Tillandra, please!” he yelled again, his voice somewhere between desperate and commanding.

  Behind him, the dust was finally settling, and I could actually make out the camp, or what was left of it, what I could see in the light of the dozens of smoldering fires. Most of the walls had collapsed, and the few that remained were blackened husks. Burning tents billowed like flags and flakes of ash danced and spun in the air like falling leaves. Bodies lay everywhere, twisted and charred, limbs splayed, the ground around them stained red. Some survivors huddled to the sides, scrambling to get out, clutching their wounds. The battle, as far as I could tell, had died down to just a few people, maybe eight or nine Western soldiers, a pair of our rebels, and one last bloodmage, this one enveloped in ribbons of flame, throwing gusts out like whips. And my friends…

  Kelvin and Marlo hid crouched behind the weapons rack. Garrus leaned against a wall, panting, clutching a bloody mess that was all that remained of his right hand. Lyriana and Ellarion were gone, escaped hopefully. Galen hunched over a Western soldier, pressing down on his chest with a knee as he choked the life out of him. And Zell was still there, still fighting, face streaked with sweat and blood, hunkered against a wall in a defensive crouch as two Western soldiers closed in.

  “No,” I whispered, because there was no way I could get there fast enough, not
hing I could do. “Not now.”

  “Not now,” an accented voice said behind me in agreement. I spun around and there she was, Syan Syee the Red Waster, striding into the battle with her hands folded together in front of her chest, and the confident air of someone about to lay some shit down. Magic ran through the blue streaks in her hair like surging rivers, and her tattoos glowed a vivid blue. Her zaryas spun over her shoulders, fast and irritated, jerking back and forth like caged dogs straining to break free.

  “Do it!” I yelled, barely knowing what it was. “Do your thing!”

  She glanced back at me out of the corner of her eye, and I could see the tiniest flicker of a smile. “With pleasure.”

  She didn’t move, not an inch. But her zaryas streaked forward, zipping across the camp like a pair of homing hummingbirds. One caught the closest Western soldier in the side of the neck, and he fell to his knees, his life shooting out of him like he’d sprung a leak. His companion spun to gape and the other zarya thing zipped into him, punching a hole clean through his chest and bursting out the back of his armor like an arrow shot through a sheet of paper. My father and I shared a look of astonishment, but the zaryas kept going, zigzagging across the camp, stinging like a pair of hornets, dropping one guy after another. A soldier raised his sword, only to lose his entire arm; the one who’d been coming at Zell tried to run and took the hit in the back of his neck, his head popping off with a surprisingly gusty spray.

  The bloodmage was the last Westerner standing, and he let out a furious roar, pulling his hands back as the air around him sizzled and wavered. Jets of flame shot out of his palms, catching one of the zaryas midair, but it didn’t burn or fall, just froze there, enveloped, hovering. Syan dug her feet into the dirt and breathed a little harder, forehead beaded with sweat. The zarya spun faster now, in the other direction, and the jets of flame were moving into it, around it, like thread winding around a spool. The bloodmage gaped and clenched his fists shut, but it was too late. The zarya kept spinning, spinning, a cyclone of fire, and then all at once it stopped and shot it all right back, a curtain of flame that swallowed the screaming bloodmage whole. I could actually see the flesh fly off his bones, and yup, that was an image that was going to haunt me for the rest of my life.