Kinshield's Redemption (Book 4) (27 page)

And then the Clout were scattering, running in every direction.

He stood in the center of a ring of corpses. His face, neck, and arms were warm with blood, none of it his own. “What the hell? Come back. I ain’t finished with you yet.” Cirang was squatting on the ground with her arms wrapped around her knees and her head bent. She looked up and, seeing the Clout had fled, started to stand.

“Did the Guardians frighten them off?” she asked.

“I don’t know. They fled upon the sudden.”

“We aided you, Emtor,” the Guardians said.

“Why?” he demanded. “I didn’t ask for your help.”

“There were many, and you are one. Your companion was too afraid to fight.”

He pointed in the direction some of them had gone. “They’re going to bring friends back with them. Damn it, Guardians! I had the matter well in hand.”

“You didn’t, Emtor. Many Clout were rushing at you.”

“And I would’ve slain them like I did these.” He gestured at the corpses, counting nine. It’d seemed like a lot more.

“No, Emtor. Out of the remaining twenty-one, one would’ve slain you while you were killing his fellows.”

“Don’t help me unless I ask you to. You got that?”

“Yes, Emtor. We are sorry for angering you.”

“Let’s get inside afore they come back.”

Together, they climbed the long, wide, stone staircase to the pair of heavy doors and went inside.

Gavin followed the ghostly Guardians into a dark corridor, but as soon as he stepped onto the floor, the sconces on the walls beside and in front of him ignited. As he continued down the hall, sconces burst into light in front of them and extinguished behind them as they passed. He wished the Chatworyth Palace had that kind of magic.

The sound of his wet footsteps were dampened, as were Cirang’s, but he left droplets of Clout blood with every step. He looked down at himself, drenched to his feet in blood. “I need to clean up and change clothes.” He shrugged out of his knapsack. “Help me out o’my armor, will you?”

She helped him pull it off. “Perhaps the Guardians can show us an empty room where you can change in private.”

He took his shirt off and used it to wipe his face and neck and clean most of the blood off his mail. He’d need a bath to get it out of his hair. “There’s no one here but us.” He unlaced his trousers and let them drop, then bent over and tugged them off over his boots.

Cirang spun around, presenting her back to him. “So sorry, Your Majesty. I didn’t see.”

He chuckled. “It wouldn’t worry me if you had. You were a man for how many years?” He wiped the soles of his boots with the driest parts of his trousers.

“Thirty-one.” He heard the smile in her voice.

Gavin pulled on his spare trousers and clean tunic and stuffed the bloody clothes back into the bag. “Awright, I’ll take the armor back.” She helped him put it back on, and they were on their way once again, leaving no trail of blood that the Clout could follow.

The Guardians led him through a maze of corridors, some wide, some narrow. They climbed and descended several staircases and crossed a short bridge over a valley of blackness. Gavin wanted to pause to spit over the iron railing and listen for the droplet to hit, but the Guardians urged him to keep walking. After what seemed like a half hour of walking and climbing, he began to dread the return. How would they fare in this labyrinth being chased by Callers and Clout and whoever else was responsible for keeping Daia subdued?

At last, the Guardians stopped in front of a black, wooden door. “Your companion is in this room, Emtor.”

Aldras Gar.

Gavin used his hidden eye to look through the door. Inside a vast room, he found Daia’s faint haze, now a much paler blue, surrounded by five red hazes, each connected to her pale orange tendril with cords of their own. He sensed a flow of energy from her into each of the five. No wonder her conduit was out of reach. They were feeding on her.

He drew Aldras Gar and then launched a powerful kick at the door, busting it open with a crash.

“Emtor, wait!” the Guardians said. “The Baron is here.”

A low hum emanated from the glowing gem in the hilt of Aldras Gar, and the sword whispered its name ominously in his mind.

Chapter 34

It was too late. The five wizards, all dressed in white hooded robes, turned to the door, eyes blazing behind their white masks.

Another man, with shocking white hair and a youthful face, paused mid-stride across the room, holding a glass ball in his hands. He wore silvery trousers and a long-sleeved, red tunic that ended at his waist, revealing an inch or so of his hairy abdomen. The Guardians floated towards him, stopping at his left side. “This is the Baron, Emtor. Be wary of him, for he covets your magic and will try to kill you and become Wayfarer.”

The Baron spoke first. “You must be the Wayfarer come to rescue your mate. How quixotic, and how convenient. We haven’t seen a Wayfarer in over two hundred years. Why now? What do we have that you want?”

All the gems in Aldras Gar were alight with the magic of the sword’s enchantment, but the brown jasper seemed to glow more brightly than the others, humming gently. That was him, the person he’d come for: Hennah’s complement. On the Baron’s left hand was Daia’s ring.

“You seem to know who I am. Who are you?” Gavin took a guarded but easy step forward as well, keeping an eye on the five Callers, who were now standing in a row, facing him with their hands clasped together in front. He needed to know the Baron’s name before he could leave.

“If you invade a man’s home, you should at least endeavor to learn who he is first, don’t you think?”

“Your citizens aren’t very chatty, and your Clout are even less so.”

The Baron’s black lips pulled back into a vicious leer he probably called a smile. “How did you get past them? They’ll be whipped for their failing.” He squared his shoulders and held his head high. “I’m the Fifteenth Baron Hexx Gnorglsht of Tapfss, capitol of the Hyknukch district of western Lrapstonk. And you are?”

“I’m the King o’Thendylath and Wayfarer, o’course,” Gavin said. He wouldn’t give his name, in case the Baron had magic that would enable him to summon Gavin back and kill him.

“A king,” the Baron said. “Impressive. I sense benevolence in your heart, so I suspect you didn’t slay the previous Wayfarer. How did you come upon that power? Is that how you got the scar on your face?”

“It’s a long story,” Gavin said. “Hexx Norgle-shit is your name? Or is that part o’your title?”

The Baron’s eyes burned with fury. “Don’t you dare speak my name with your disgusting, pink mouth. You shall address me as Lord Baron.”

Now that he knew his target’s true name, all he had to do was take Daia and go, though the wizards standing between them wouldn’t be as cooperative as the Baron had been. “Tell your puppets to get out o’my way or they’ll die where they stand.”

The Baron barked a laugh. “Your mate has an intriguing magic, which has already made my best Callers more powerful. You cannot defeat them now, and once your friend regains her strength, she’ll feed their ravenous hunger even more. I’ll be unstoppable.”

Gavin snorted. “If you manage to kill me and become Wayfarer, you don’t think they’ll turn on you and try to take that power for themselves?”

“Of course they will,” the Baron snapped. “That’s why I have them on a tight leash.” He made a fist, and the five wizards groaned, clutching their chests. “They obey my
every
command.”

All five lifted one arm. A blast of power like an invisible battering ram hit Gavin and Cirang from the side. They flew through the air and struck the wall, but instead of falling to the floor, they clung there, crushed against the brick wall by the wizards’ magic. Gavin tried to push back, but it was too strong. He could barely take a breath.

The right side of his face was pressed against the rough brick, but he could shift his squinting eyes and see them. He focused on the wizard on the end and envisioned a series of knives, all made from lightning, shooting from his fingertips. They crackled into view before they struck the Caller, impaling and burning its body in a haphazard spray from neck to groin. Wisps of smoke rose from the blackened holes in its robe. It collapsed to the floor without even a whimper, bones clattering. A puff of dust hung in the air and drifted slowly to the floor.

Gavin felt a tug and pushed back against it instinctively. Cirang shot forward, flew across the room and slammed, face first, into the opposite wall. Her grip on her sword faltered, and it clattered to the floor beneath her. She was yanked backwards once more, flying like a limp rag through the air, and smacked the wall beside Gavin. Blood streamed from her nose and mouth and a cut in her eyebrow. Her eyes rolled drunkenly.

The next tug caught him off guard. They both flew forward. The wall sped towards him. He pushed with everything he had and stopped, hanging in the air like a hummingbird near the table where Daia lay. Before he could pull Cirang to him with his magic, she hit the wall so hard, he heard her bones crack.

He peppered the next wizard with lightning knives, dropping him with a clatter to the floor. Just as he started to attack the third, an icy burn seeped into his chest, like fingers digging through his skin. The Baron was holding out one hand in a claw-like manner. His teeth were gritted behind curled lips, and his eyes glowed yellow like those on a diseased sewer rat. The pain intensified with every slowing beat of Gavin’s heart. A prickling sensation started in his toes and crept up his feet and ankles.

Cirang’s limp body hurtled through the air towards him. He barely managed to cushion her with a compensating push before the fingers burning through him became too much to bear. He clutched his chest over his heart where the invisible fingers dug into him. A growl of pain rumbled in his throat. “Guard..i..ans, help...”

Then the screaming started. At first, Gavin thought it was him. He felt the sounds ripping through his throat, but there were too many screams for one man to make. The pain in his chest stopped, and he fell to the floor, released from the magic that held him suspended. Every part of his body hurt, but the heat of his healing magic warmed him, starting in the chest and radiating outward. He grasped the table and pulled himself to his feet. The wizards ran to the door. The Baron was crouching, hands up to shield his face, crying “No” over and over. Gavin didn’t see what the Guardians were showing him, but he didn’t care.

He unfastened the leather straps binding Daia’s wrists and ankles. He moved her feet to let her legs dangle over the side of the table, and then pulled her upright by the neck of her mail shirt. Ducking his head, he hoisted her over his right shoulder. With barely a thought, he reached for his sword lying on the floor a few feet away and pulled with his will. Its hilt slid into his palm, and he sheathed it over his left shoulder. He pulled Cirang’s sword to him, and picked up Daia’s as well, and then went to Cirang, who lay crumpled in a heap against the wall. He squatted and picked up her limp wrist.

Now he had to relax enough to focus his hidden eye on the swirling mystical dots that formed the vortex. The wizards had drained Daia so completely, he was afraid to use her orange tendril—even if he could find it—until he knew she would survive it.

Gavin shut his eyes and, with all his concentration, willed the swirling snow to whirl clockwise into a cyclone. The vortex formed in green, and when it turned blue, he stepped through, dragging Cirang with him.

Chapter 35

Gavin’s hand was already warming where he gripped Cirang’s wrist when he stepped out of the Baron’s castle and into the forest. A sudden flurry of fleeing critters stirred the leaves and underbrush. He let go of Cirang, set Daia carefully on the ground, and wriggled out of his knapsack. He couldn’t help Daia with his healing magic, but he could help Cirang.

He dropped to his knees and checked her over. One of her feet was turned outward more than it should’ve been, and her head lay at an odd angle. Luckily, she was unconscious. It looked painful as hell. He sensed her injuries—bones were cracked or broken, joints were misaligned, organs were punctured and bleeding—so many wounds that he feared he wouldn’t be able to withstand the pain of healing her. So that she wouldn’t heal improperly, he twisted her leg and pulled it out straight to pop the kneecap back into place, and then he carefully straightened her neck. He cracked his knuckles and laid one palm on her abdomen and the other on her thigh above her knee. Immediately, his hands began to warm, and a fluttering sensation flowed through him. The heat in his hands crept up to his wrists and forearms, rising to an intense burn. He shut his eyes and gritted his teeth, trying to imagine Cirang’s body as a block of ice, cooling his burning skin. After what seemed hours, the pain subsided and he relaxed in the comfortable whiteness where the majority of the healing happened. Compared to the burning in his hands—hell, compared to almost anything—this sensation was heavenly, like floating on the surface of a lake under a warm summer sun while angels caressed his body and soul.