The Emerald Storm (37 page)

Royce spun completely around, but he could see nothing.

In the center of the arena, Hadrian battled with the warrior while Wyatt taunted the chief, reluctant to engage. The range fired arrow after arrow. Beside him, the oberdaza danced and sang.

Instinct told him to move again, only he was too late. Thick, heavy arms gripped Royce, the weight of a body drove him forward. His feet slipped and he fell, pulled down to the bloodstained earth. He turned his blade and stabbed, but it passed through thin air. He could feel clawed hands trying to pin him. Royce twisted like a snake, depriving his attacker of a firm grip. Repeatedly, Royce cut at the shadowy thing, but nothing connected. Then he felt the hot breath of the Ghazel finisher.

His stroke glanced off the Ghazel’s shield. Hadrian thrust with his other sword, but found it blocked by an excellent parry. The warrior was good. Hadrian had not anticipated his skill. He was strong and fast, but more importantly, more frighteningly, the Ghazel anticipated Hadrian’s moves perfectly. The warrior stabbed and Hadrian dodged back and to the left. The Ghazel bashed his face with his shield, having started his swing even before Hadrian turned. It was as if he was reading his mind. Hadrian staggered backward, putting distance between him so he could catch his breath.

Above, the crowd booed their displeasure with Galenti. Beside him, Wyatt was still playing with the chief. His ruse had bought the helmsman time. The chief was too afraid of Royce to engage, but it would not last long. Hadrian needed to finish his opponent quickly, only now he was not even certain he could win.

The warrior advanced and swung. Hadrian spun to the left. Once more, the Ghazel anticipated his move and cut Hadrian across the arm. He staggered back and dodged behind a large fallen block keeping it between himself and his opponent.

Towd booed and stomped their feet.

Something was very wrong. The warrior should not be this good. His form was bad, his strokes lacking expertise, and yet he was beating him. The warrior attacked again. Hadrian took a step back and his foot caught on a rock and he stumbled. Once more, the Ghazel appeared to foresee this and was ready with a kick that sent Hadrian into the dirt.

He lay flat on his back. The warrior screamed a cry of victory and raised his sword for a downward, penetrating kill. Hadrian started to twist left to dodge the thrust, but at the last minute, while still concentrating his thoughts on turning left he pulled back to center. The stroke of the warrior pierced the turf exactly where Hadrian would have been.

Grady was dead and the arrows still coming.

Wesley was shaken. He already failed in his duty, and not knowing what else to do, he picked up the trilon, fitted an arrow, and let it loose. Wesley was no archer and the arrow did not even fly straight, but spun wildly, falling flat on the ground not more than five yards ahead of him.

In the center of the field, Hadrian was avoiding his opponent, and the chief had decided to engage Wyatt. Royce was in the distance, on the ground and wrestling with something invisible not far from where the oberdaza danced and chanted.

This was not going as planned. Grady was dead and Hadrian…he saw the warrior raise his sword for the killing blow.

“No!” Wesley shouted. Just then, the sharp exploding pain from an arrow pierced his right shoulder, and he fell to his knees.

The world spun. His eyes blurred. He gasped for air and gritted his teeth as darkness threatened at the edges of his eyesight. In his ears, a deafening silence grew, swallowing the sounds of the crowd.

The oberdaza! The memory of Hadrian’s instructions surfaced.
The Ghazel version wields real magic, dark magic, and he should be the first one we target to kill.

Wesley clutched the hilt of his sword, fighting back, willing himself not to pass out. He ordered his legs to lift him. Shaking, wobbling, they slowly obeyed. His heart calmed, his breathing grew longer. The world came into focus once more and the roar of the crowd returned.

Wesley looked across the field at the witchdoctor. He glanced at the trilon and knew he could never use it. He tried to raise the sword, but his right arm did not move. He shifted the pommel to the left. It felt awkward, and clumsy, but it had strength. Listening to the sound of his heart pounding, he walked forward, slowly at first, but faster with each step. Another arrow hissed. He ignored it and began to jog. His feet pounded the moist muddy ground. He held his sword high like a banner, his hat flew off, his hair flowing in the breeze.

Another arrow landed just a step ahead of him and he snapped it as he ran. He felt a strange painful pulling and realized the wind was blowing against the feathers of the arrow that still protruded from his shoulder. He focused on the dancing witchdoctor.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the range put down his bow and run at him drawing a blade. He was too late. Only a few more strides. The oberdaza danced and sang with his eyes closed. He could not see Wesley’s charge.

Wesley never checked his pace. He never bothered to slow down. He merely lowered the point of his blade as if it were a lance and put on a last burst of speed—jousting like his famous brother—jousting on foot. Already the darkness was creeping in, tunneling his vision once more. His strength was running out, flowing away with his blood.

Wesley plowed into the oberdaza. The two collided with a loud
thrump!
They skidded together and then rolled apart. Wesley’s sword was gone from his hands. The arrow in his shoulder had snapped. The taste of blood was in his mouth as he lay face down struggling to push himself up. A hot pain burst across his back, but it faded quickly askness swallowed him.

Royce twisted but could not break free of the claws that cut into his flesh, struggling to break his grip on Alverstone. He could not grab the shadow. Its body felt loose and slippery, as if it existed only where it wanted. Royce would get a partial grip and then it would dissolve.

Teeth grazed him as the Ghazel snapped, trying to rip his throat out. Each time, Royce knew to move. On the third attempt, he gambled and butted forward with his own head. There was a
thunk
and pain, but he was able to break free.

He looked around and once more the finisher was invisible.

Royce caught a glimpse of Wesley running across the field with his sword out in front of him then dodged another attack. He avoided the blow, but fell to the ground. Weight hit him once more. This time the claws got a better grip. Rear claws scraped along Royce’s legs, pinning him, stretching him out, holding him helpless. He felt the hot breath again.

There was a noise of impact not far away and a burst of feathers.

Suddenly Royce saw yellow eyes, bright glowing orbs inches away from his own. Fangs drenched with spit drooled on him.

“
Ad haz urba!
” the creature gibbered.

The Alverstone was still in Royce’s hand. He just needed a little movement from his wrist. He spit in the Ghazel’s eye and twisted. Like cutting through ripe fruit, the blade severed the hand of the Ghazel at the wrist. With a howl, the finisher lost support and fell forward. Royce rolled him over, using two hands to restrain his remaining claw and pinning the Ghazel with his knees. The finisher continued to snap, snarl and rake. Royce severed the goblin’s other hand and the beast shrieked in pain until Royce removed its head.

The Ghazel warrior staggered suddenly, though Hadrian had not touched him. Trying to keep his distance, Hadrian was a good two sword lengths away, but the warrior clearly rocked as if struck. The Ghazel paused, confidence faded from his eyes and he hesitated.

Hadrian looked over his shoulder to the hill and spotted Grady’s body, but Wesley was gone. He looked over his opponent’s shoulder and found Wesley on the ground. At his side, the oberdaza lay with the midshipman’s cutlass buried in his chest and as he watched, the range stabbed Wesley in the back.

“Wesley, no!” he shouted.

Then Hadrian’s eyes locked sharply on the warrior before him. “I only wish you could read my thoughts now,” he said, sheathing both swords.

Confusion crossed the warrior’s face, until he saw Hadrian draw forth the large spadone from his back. Seizing the chance the warrior swung. Hadrian blocked the stroke, which made the spadone sing. He followed this with a false swing, which the Ghazel nevertheless moved to dodge, setting it off balance. Hadrian continued to spin, carrying the stroke round in a full circle. He leveled the blade at waist height. There was nowhere for the Ghazel to go, and the great sword cut the warrior in half.

Wyatt was fighting the chief now, their swords ringing like an alarm bell as they repeatedly clashed. Blow after blow drove Wyatt farther and farther backward until Hadrian thrust the spadone through the Chief’s shoulder blades.

With a roar like a violent wind, the crowd jumped to their feet cheering and applauding.

Turning, Hadrian saw Royce kneeling beside Wesley’s dead body. The range lay dead beside him. Hadrian ran to them as Wyatt checked on Grady.

Royce shook his head in silent reply to Hadrian’s look.

“Grady is dead,” Wyatt reported when he reached them.

Neither said a word.

The gates opened and Erandabon entered with a bright smile. Poe and Derning followed him. Derning stared at Grady’s body. Erandabon lifted his arms to the stands like a conquering hero as the crowd cheered even louder. He approached them exuberant and delighted.

ⱜExcellent! Excellent! Erandabon ez very pleazed!”

Hadrian strode forward. “Get us to that ship now. Give me time to think, and I swear I’ll will introduce you to Oberlin myself!”

Modina watched Arista as she sat on the floor of her bedroom within the chalk circle and burned the hair. Together they watched the smoke drif
t.

“What is that awful smell?” Amilia entered the bedroom waving a hand before her face while Nimbus trailed behind her.

“Arista was performing a spell to locate Gaunt,” Modina explained.

“She’s doing magic—in here?” Amilia looked aghast and then added, “Did it work?”

“Sort of,” Arista said, with a decidedly disappointed tone. “He’s somewhere directly northeast of here, but I can’t pinpoint the exact location. That’s always been the problem.”

Amilia stiffened, her eyes glancing at Nimbus accusingly.

“I didn’t say a word,” he told her.

Amilia asked Arista, “If you find Degan Gaunt, what are you planning to do?”

“Help him escape.”

“He is the general of an army poised to attack us.” She turned to Modina. “I don’t see why you are helping her—”

“I’m not trying to return him to his army,” Arista cut in. “I need him to help me find something—something only the Heir of Novron can locate.”

“So, you…and Gaunt…will leave?”

“Yes,” Arista told her.

“And what if you are caught? Will you betray the empress by revealing the aid she has provided you?”

“No, of course not. I would never do anything to harm her.”

“Why are you asking this, Amilia?” Modina looked from her to Nimbus and back again. “What do you know?”

Amilia hesitated for only a moment then spoke. “There is a Seret Knight standing guard in the base of the north tower.”

“I am not familiar with your palace. Is that unusual?” Arista asked.

“There’s nothing to guard there,” Amilia explained. “It’s a prison tower, but none of the cells hold prisoners. Yet last night I watched two fourth floor guards deliver a pot of soup there.”

“To the guard?”

“No,” Amilia said, “they delivered the soup to the tower. Less than five minutes later, I arrived. The soup was gone, pot and all.”

Arista stood. “They were feeding a prisoner, but you say there are no occupied cells in the tower? Are you sure?”

“Positive. Every door was open and every cell vacant and looked to have been that way for some time.”

“I need to get in that tower,” Arista declared. “I could burn a hair in one of the empty cells. If he’s nearby that could really tell us something.”

“There is no way you are getting in that tower,” Amilia told her. “You’d have to walk right past the knight. While the Secretary to the Empress might get away with such a thing, I highly doubt the fugitive Witch of Melengar will.”

“I bet Saldur could walk in and out of there without question, couldn’t he?”

“Of course, but you aren’t him.”

Arista smiled.

She turned to the tutor. “Nimbus, I have a letter for Hilfred and another for my brother. I wrote them in the event something happened to me. I want to give them to you now, just in case. Don’t deliver them unless you know I am not coming back.”

“Of course,” he bowed.

Amilia rolled her eyes.

Arista handed the letters to Nimbus, and for no particular reason gave him a kiss on the cheek.

“Just make certain when you are caught that you don’t drag Modina into it,” Amilia said, leaving with Nimbus.

“What are you planning to do?” Modina asked.

“Something I’ve never tried before, something I’m not even certain I can do. Modina, I don’t know what will happen. I might do some strange things. Please ignore them and don’t interfere, okay?/p>

Modina nodded.

Arista knelt and spread her gown out around her. She took a deep breath, closed her eyes, and tilted her head back. She took another deep breath then sat still. She did not move for a long time. She sat breathing very slowly, very rhythmically. Her hands opened. Her arms lifted, as if floating on their own—pulled by invisible strings, or rising on currents of air. She began to sway gently from side to side, her hair flowing back and forth. Soon she began to hum. The humming took on a melody, and the melody produced words Modina did not understand.

Then Arista began to glow. The light grew brighter with each word. Her dress turned pure white, her skin luminous. It soon hurt Modina’s eyes to look at her, and she turned away.

The light went out.

“Did it work?” Modina asked. She turned back to face Arista and gasped.