The Blood King (56 page)

Arontala twitched his finger, and the crossbow slid just out of reach. “Ah,” he said, glancing over his shoulder. “My tomb robber—and my Eastmark captain.

Once again, you have the very bad luck to cross my path.”

“Go screw the Goddess.” .Arontala turned back to the orb. “You’re about to witness history. Tonight, the Obsidian King returns!”

“He’ll destroy everything in the Winter Kingdoms,” Vahanian said, desperate to stall for time. Their plan had gone horribly awry. Without Tris, his fate—and Kiara’s—appeared sealed.

Arontala shrugged. “I think not. But if so, the kingdoms will be ours to remake as we desire.”

“Tris isn’t going to let that happen,” Kiara said, struggling against the mage force to hold her head up defiantly.

A mirthless smile twisted Arontala’s lips. “Don’t be too quick to trust in your champion,” he said, turning his icy gaze back to Kiara. “He’s likely dead already—or will be, soon.”

“I’m going to enjoy your education,” Arontala said, taking a step toward Kiara.

“You have much to answer for. We’ve heard about your little… escapade on the border. And it’s no secret that you’ve aligned yourself with the traitor,” he reached out to stroke her cheek, “in more ways than one.”

Kiara spat and the mage grabbed her chin rough-ly, forcing her eyes to meet his.

“By ancient law, a royal betrothal is as binding as wedding vows,” he said in a low, cold voice. “Treason and adultery are both punishable by death. But there is an alterna-tive.” He jerked her closer to the orb.

“Before he can emerge, the Obsidian King must feed,” Arontala said, his fingers brushing against the orb that was only inches from Kiara’s face. “I’ve sent many spirits into the orb for him to draw upon, until they’re too spent to be of use.

Your will, your spirit, and that arrogant pride will do quite nicely. Oh, he’ll leave a remnant, enough that Jared can sire his brats by you, enough to remember what you once were. Enough to suffer for the rest of your natural life.

And perhaps, I shall extend that life forever so that you can ponder your loss for eternity.”

Arontala seized Kiara by the hair, forcing her to stare into the orb. She shut her eyes, and the mage muttered words in a language that sounded like wind against sand. Against her will, Kiara’s eyes slowly opened, unable to avoid the orb’s glow. “Enter the abyss,” Arontala said, as the miasma within the orb swirled and brightened. “The time has come to feed the master.”

“THEY’RE IN THE king’s livery,” Carroway observed tersely. Hundreds of horsemen were now at the gates, forcing their way through into the crowd. The insurrectionists stood their ground.

“Stop them before they escape!” shouted the beleaguered garrison commander.

“We’ve got an uprising!”

The captain of the mounted troops lifted his helm and archers leveled their weapons, their aim on the soot-streaked garrison instead of the panicked mob.

“There’s an uprising all right,” Ban Soterius said. “We ride in the name of Martris Drayke of Margolan. Surrender, and we’ll guarantee your safety.

Otherwise, we’re prepared to fight you to the last man.” Beside him, Mikhail lowered his hood and drew back his lips to show his eye teeth, mak-ing it plain just what a fight that would be.

A cheer went up from the crowd. Carroway swept Carina up in his arms, dancing in a little cir-cle and planting a kiss on her forehead. The garrison commander, his provisions and guard-houses in flames, looked from the drunken crowd to the horsemen, and then to his weary command. With an oath, he gestured for surrender. Soterius’s soldiers rushed forward to secure their prisoners.

Carroway grabbed Carina’s hand and began to fight his way through the unruly crowd, intent on reaching Soterius.

“Ban!” he shouted above the din. “Ban, Mikhail—over here!”

Soterius began to search the crowd. At the sight of them, he swung down from his horse and ran to greet them, clapping them both into a hearty embrace.

Mikhail joined them, grinning broadly.

When Alyzza reached them, the old hedge witch looked approvingly at Soterius.

“Well, well,” she said. “So this is what you are. Tent rigger indeed. You wear that armor as if it were made for you.”

“Stolen, actually,” Soterius said with a lopsided smile. “Stole the whole lot—horses, weapons, sol-diers, and livery. Learned it from Jonmarc. Nice touch, don’t you think?”

“I gather you found some discontented troops?” Carroway asked. He, Carina, and Soterius stood arm in arm, watching Soterius’s soldiers secure the last of the garrison prisoners.

“More than I imagined,” Soterius said. “I’ll tell you all about it later.” He glanced toward Shekerishet. “Tris is up there?”

“With Jonmarc and Kiara,” Carina said. “And Gabriel.”

“Where now?” Carroway asked as Soterius swung back up on his mount.

“To Shekerishet,” Soterius replied, reining in his horse. “Between the soldiers and the mob, we should give the palace guard something to think about.”

“To Shekerishet!” The mob took up the cry. The garrison commander looked on haplessly. Soterius’s horsemen urged their mounts forward, through the boisterous crowd that cheered their passing and closed ranks behind them. Up the hill toward the palace the mob followed, torches aloft.

At the palace gates the soldiers stopped. Behind them, the mob came to a halt.

“Open the gates!” Soterius shouted, the banner of the Royal House of Margolan fluttering above him

in the breeze. “We come in the name of Prince Martris, to overthrow the tyrant!”

To their amazement, the gates swung open. Soldiers and servants poured out, waving white cloths in makeshift flags of surrender. The palace soldiers threw down their arms, and the fear-stricken servants surged toward the mob.

“Save us!” they cried, yielding willingly.

“There’s demons loose in there!” one man cried, white-faced in panic. “Naught but the Dark Lady can save you if you go there.”

“At least we know Gabriel’s been hard at work,” Carroway observed dryly.

Carina looked around for Alyzza, but the hearth witch had disappeared into the crowd.

“Let’s take the castle, men!” Soterius shouted, gesturing forward with his sword.

“Prince Martris is in there. Are we with him?”

A resounding chorus of “aye” echoed from the stone walls of the bailey. The crowd surged forward in a cloud of torch smoke, smelling of sweat and horses and ale. The rearguard attempted to quiet the mob and set them to work securing the out-buildings and the outer bailey, leaving the true night’s work for the trained soldiers. Some soldiers remained behind to keep the mob under control, while the others began to infiltrate the palace.

“You’re safest here,” Soterius said, turning back to Carina and Carroway. He held up a hand to still Carina’s ready protest. “I know Kiara and Jonmarc are in there, and that both you and Carroway have seen more battles that many a seasoned fighter. But if it’s a trick, if Jared and Arontala are waiting for us…” He paused, looking toward the upper floors of the castle cautiously and shook his head. “I’d rather know you two were down here, to lead the last charge.”

Carina looked as if she intended to argue with him, but then relented. “All right,” she conceded. “Just warn your bow-happy archers that the vayash tnoru are on our side, huh?”

Outside, the city bells began to toll midnight.

Carina and Carroway exchanged worried glances. “Time’s up,” she whispered.

“We’ve either won or lost… everything.”

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WITH A BURST of magic to smash the binding spells, Tris slammed open the doors to Arontala’s workroom.

“Turn them loose.”

Arontala only turned a fraction, as if the intrusion did not merit his interest.

Gabriel slipped into the workroom behind Tris.

“I’ve been waiting for you to join us.” Arontala jerked Kiara’s head up. “You’re just in time. My offering will be given to the Master for one last meal before his reemergence. It’s over,” he said tri-umphantly. “We’ve won.”

Tris advanced on the mage, his sword held ready, his eyes only on Arontala. “By the Lady, I won’t let you do this.” The orb was between Tris and Arontala, with Kiara to one side and Vahanian on the other, against the wall. Tris had no clear shot. Anything he did stood a good chance of hitting the orb or one of his friends, and the wormroot made him doubt the precision of his aim.

“The Lady has nothing to do with this,” Arontala laughed. “I am the supreme power in Margolan. My will controls its destiny.”

Tris searched with his mage sense. Arontala was well shielded, and Tris knew his own strength was fading quickly. He searched for a weapon, anything he could use to turn an advantage, and he felt a glimmer of power radiating from a wax tablet on Arontala’s worktable. The tablet was on a stand, covered with a glass dome. Carved into its surface were runes and glyphs traced in fire. Tris stretched out his power and knew the tablet for what it was— the anchor of Arontala’s spell to banish the ghosts of Shekerishet. Never taking his eyes off Arontala, Tris sent a burst of power toward the tablet, shat-tering the glass and igniting the wax. The tablet exploded into flame.

Arontala cursed and sent a streak of red fire siz-zling in Tris’s direction. Tris hurled himself out of the way before the red fire struck. The temperature in the room suddenly plummeted, cold enough for him to see his breath. With a gust so powerful that it slammed the window open, the banished ghosts of Shekerishet streamed home, released from Arontala’s spell. The windows shattered, sending shards of glass flying against the stone walls. In the fireplace, the flames guttered and danced crazily as the freezing wind swept through the room.

ANGRY AT THEIR banishment, the exiled ghosts of Shekerishet streamed back into the room in a tor-rent, thick as the spirits in the Ruune Videya forest.

Tris struggled to his feet, trying to hold onto his control as the spirits swept over him and through him.

A… ron… ta… la! the spirits howled, knowing the one who banished them from their home. Tris knew that Kiara and the others could see the spir-its; Arontala’s face twisted in a hateful grimace. The ghosts swirled around the red-robed mage in a wild vortex.

Tris seized the chance while Arontala was dis-tracted and drew on Mageslayer’s power. As he had done in the citadel when he fought Alaine, Tris sought the soul within the dark mage, using all of his power to capture and extinguish that spark. But where Alaine had been mortal, Arontala’s undead soul had no blue life thread. On the Plains of Spirit, Tris could feel the dark wizard’s soul as he reached for it. But within the undead body, animated by the Dark Gift, the soul was shielded by powerful magic. He stretched out, sure that he could grasp the fleet-ing spark, and felt a wave of cold raw power throw him back, physically and psychically. Tris slammed against the wall, his head reeling, his senses scream-ing from the assault.

Arontala’s shielding glowed so brightly that Tris’s eyes hurt to look at the mage.

The angry ghosts threw themselves against Arontala’s shields to no avail.

Arontala’s lips worked, casting a spell that wrote itself in fiery letters on the rock of the castle wall.

Tris could sense the power of the banishment spell; he sent his waning power to counter it. As the spirits howled around them the letters of fire wavered, etching into the ancient stones, burning without smoke or ash. With a terrible smile, Arontala met Tris’s eyes. Tris knew that Arontala was gauging how much more he could take.

Arontala gestured and the orb flared with a red light that enveloped Kiara. She arched backward and screamed.

With Arontala’s attention focused on the ghosts and the orb, Vahanian’s left hand slipped to the knives on his belt. He palmed them, and in quick succession sent three daggers flying toward Arontala. Arontala’s attention wavered just for an instant as he struck down the daggers, buying Tris a slim opening.

Blue fire streaked from Tris’s left hand to inter-cept the red glow of Arontala’s spell. Tris’s aim wavered with the wormroot; instead of striking Arontala, his mage fire struck the growing aura of the orb. The orb pulsed once, almost too bright to behold. Tris had scarcely enough time to dive between the orb and Kiara. He flung up his battered shielding to protect them both as the orb flared like a crimson sun and with a roar, exploded into a thousand scarlet fragments.

Gabriel shielded Vahanian from the explosion that seemed to rock the foundation of Shekerishet itself. Tris held on to Mageslayer, fighting the wormroot in his blood to hold his shielding over himself and Kiara. The blast took him off his feet, and the psychic recoil almost blacked him out. Fresh blood started from beneath his cuirass, and Tris’s broken ribs made it difficult for him to breathe as he dragged himself to his feet. Kiara, suddenly released from Arontala’s control, slumped to the floor.

Tris felt his shields strain dangerously beneath the waves of power that surged from the shattered orb. Old, raw power washed over him, tainted by Arontala’s blood magic. Tris could feel the press of spirits rushing toward freedom—Arontala’s victims and the Obsidian King himself—joining the angry palace ghosts that swirled around them.

Arontala cried out. Closer to the orb, he stag-gered from the blast. The fire of the explosion drove Arontala backward. As he redirected his power to contain the spirits of the orb, his shielding wavered. Tris seized the advantage, striking with Mageslayer.

The blade thrummed with power as it hit Arontala’s shielding. Tris hung on with all his strength, gasping as his broken ribs protested. Arontala screamed as the blade reached him, blast-ing his power against Tris’s shields. Tris staggered, his strength fading from the wormroot and the warm rush of blood that oozed from his side.

Instinctively, Tris brought his full power to bear on the sword, drawing on the wavering blue life thread within him, holding on as the pommel of the sword became searingly hot. Suddenly the blade broke free. Tris poured all of his will and strength and magic into the sword’s downward motion, cleaving Arontala from shoulder to hip through the heart.