The Arch-Rike’s voice thundered in Paedrin’s mind. Tyrus will not be taken easily. Cripple the girl and then come at him from above. Quickly now!
Hettie slashed and swiped at Paedrin, trying to keep him back, but he was too fast for her. He caught one of her arms and kicked her hard in the ribs then smashed into her knee, dropping her. Even knowing the truth about her, it pained him to hurt her. She grunted in pain but refused to cry out. Instead, she grabbed his tunic front and tried to wrestle him to the ground. She swore at him, but her words were lost in the commotion. He clubbed her neck, and she went limp; he shoved her down.
Paedrin whirled on Tyrus, sucking in his breath and floating up. Then exhaling sharply, he came down on him like a stone. He did not know how it happened, but Tyrus was no longer there. Paedrin slammed into the floor, seeing only a flutter of robes as the Paracelsus shifted away. Suddenly dazzling tethers of energy struck Tyrus from three sides at once. The blasts should have torn him to pieces, but the magic was absorbed by a gemstone embedded in an amulet around his neck.
Paedrin was still in a crouch and launched himself at Tyrus again, amazed at the older man’s reflexes. He held up his hand and Paedrin saw a ring on his finger flash red. Paedrin remembered his earlier battle too late and found himself thrust violently backward, his own momentum suddenly reversing and spinning him.
“Calvariae!” Tyrus screamed in the Vaettir tongue. It was a word Paedrin had never heard before in context. It meant “place of the skull.” It was an ancient term for a graveyard.
The word contained power.
Deafening explosions rocked the chamber, stunning Paedrin. Multiple thunderclaps, cracking stones, searing light as sharp and ferocious as the commotion of a thousand steel blades clashing with stone. The Paracelsus surrounding them were thrown back as their amulets and rings all shattered.
For a brief moment, Paedrin’s mind was free. Then he heard the Arch-Rike begin to scream in fury in his head.
Spirits filled the prince’s manor, wisps of violet and purple light, mingling with sparks and glittering ribbons of magic. Annon realized what had happened instantly. Tyrus had broken the bonds of their servitude, freeing them all at once and killing many of the men who had worn their charms. There was a frenzy of emotion and voices as the spirits, recognizing their sudden freedom, exulted.
“They are yours, Druidecht,” Tyrus said to him, his grin triumphant. “They will serve you now.”
Annon felt the first ray of hope. He did not even need to use words, for they responded to his thoughts, his desperate need. A flurry of spirits launched at the Kishion, swarming him with stinging pricks of pain and searing color. A blast of lightning came from one, blowing aside a team of soldiers rushing against Khiara and the prince. The fury of their magic was unleashed on the soldiers from Kenatos. Stabbing, stinging, blistering magic began to weave through the air at them. Annon stared down at Hettie and sent several to revive her, healing her damaged bones and restoring her strength.
The buzz of magic filled the room as the spirits darted throughout the chamber, unleashing their power on the mortals who had trapped them for so long. They focused on the Arch-Rike, turning their savage fury on him. Annon watched in horror as the Arch-Rike withdrew a cluster of black sticks and his hands turned blue with flames, igniting them into brands. Smoke began to fill the air from the sticks, and spirits began dying.
“Come to me!” he shouted to his men. “The smoke will protect you! Cut them down! We still outnumber them! Kishion, now!”
Hettie placed herself in front of Tyrus again. Paedrin batted away the blinding lights that dodged and taunted him.
“Paedrin, please!” she begged. “Don’t make us kill you! Fight him! Fight him off!”
“Hettie, get away from him!” Annon warned. “Nizeera! Protect Tyrus!”
The Bhikhu had welts across his face, but he launched at Hettie again and found himself colliding with Prince Aran. The two faced off for only a moment before they fought, exchanging a dizzying series of blows and strikes, each one moving like twin whirlwinds. Feet, fists, elbows—all in a mesmerizing series of strike and defense, retaliation and leverage. Paedrin started to rise in the air, but some force drew him back down again, as if his abilities were being smothered somehow.
Annon watched the struggle from the corner of his eye, moving closer, gathering near Tyrus. He watched for his uncle to withdraw the Tay al-Ard again and wanted to be ready to disappear with him. It was their only hope of escape. If they did not touch his arm or the device, he would not be able to take them with him. Khiara saw his intent and moved closer as well, using the long reach of the staff to smash skulls and cripple knees. There were still too many soldiers and several Rikes leading them.
Hettie slashed and swiped at Paedrin, trying to keep him back, but he was too fast for her. He caught one of her arms and kicked her hard in the ribs then smashed into her knee, dropping her. Even knowing the truth about her, it pained him to hurt her. She grunted in pain but refused to cry out. Instead, she grabbed his tunic front and tried to wrestle him to the ground. She swore at him, but her words were lost in the commotion. He clubbed her neck, and she went limp; he shoved her down.
Paedrin whirled on Tyrus, sucking in his breath and floating up. Then exhaling sharply, he came down on him like a stone. He did not know how it happened, but Tyrus was no longer there. Paedrin slammed into the floor, seeing only a flutter of robes as the Paracelsus shifted away. Suddenly dazzling tethers of energy struck Tyrus from three sides at once. The blasts should have torn him to pieces, but the magic was absorbed by a gemstone embedded in an amulet around his neck.
Paedrin was still in a crouch and launched himself at Tyrus again, amazed at the older man’s reflexes. He held up his hand and Paedrin saw a ring on his finger flash red. Paedrin remembered his earlier battle too late and found himself thrust violently backward, his own momentum suddenly reversing and spinning him.
“Calvariae!” Tyrus screamed in the Vaettir tongue. It was a word Paedrin had never heard before in context. It meant “place of the skull.” It was an ancient term for a graveyard.
The word contained power.
Deafening explosions rocked the chamber, stunning Paedrin. Multiple thunderclaps, cracking stones, searing light as sharp and ferocious as the commotion of a thousand steel blades clashing with stone. The Paracelsus surrounding them were thrown back as their amulets and rings all shattered.
For a brief moment, Paedrin’s mind was free. Then he heard the Arch-Rike begin to scream in fury in his head.
Spirits filled the prince’s manor, wisps of violet and purple light, mingling with sparks and glittering ribbons of magic. Annon realized what had happened instantly. Tyrus had broken the bonds of their servitude, freeing them all at once and killing many of the men who had worn their charms. There was a frenzy of emotion and voices as the spirits, recognizing their sudden freedom, exulted.
“They are yours, Druidecht,” Tyrus said to him, his grin triumphant. “They will serve you now.”
Annon felt the first ray of hope. He did not even need to use words, for they responded to his thoughts, his desperate need. A flurry of spirits launched at the Kishion, swarming him with stinging pricks of pain and searing color. A blast of lightning came from one, blowing aside a team of soldiers rushing against Khiara and the prince. The fury of their magic was unleashed on the soldiers from Kenatos. Stabbing, stinging, blistering magic began to weave through the air at them. Annon stared down at Hettie and sent several to revive her, healing her damaged bones and restoring her strength.
The buzz of magic filled the room as the spirits darted throughout the chamber, unleashing their power on the mortals who had trapped them for so long. They focused on the Arch-Rike, turning their savage fury on him. Annon watched in horror as the Arch-Rike withdrew a cluster of black sticks and his hands turned blue with flames, igniting them into brands. Smoke began to fill the air from the sticks, and spirits began dying.
“Come to me!” he shouted to his men. “The smoke will protect you! Cut them down! We still outnumber them! Kishion, now!”
Hettie placed herself in front of Tyrus again. Paedrin batted away the blinding lights that dodged and taunted him.
“Paedrin, please!” she begged. “Don’t make us kill you! Fight him! Fight him off!”
“Hettie, get away from him!” Annon warned. “Nizeera! Protect Tyrus!”
The Bhikhu had welts across his face, but he launched at Hettie again and found himself colliding with Prince Aran. The two faced off for only a moment before they fought, exchanging a dizzying series of blows and strikes, each one moving like twin whirlwinds. Feet, fists, elbows—all in a mesmerizing series of strike and defense, retaliation and leverage. Paedrin started to rise in the air, but some force drew him back down again, as if his abilities were being smothered somehow.
Annon watched the struggle from the corner of his eye, moving closer, gathering near Tyrus. He watched for his uncle to withdraw the Tay al-Ard again and wanted to be ready to disappear with him. It was their only hope of escape. If they did not touch his arm or the device, he would not be able to take them with him. Khiara saw his intent and moved closer as well, using the long reach of the staff to smash skulls and cripple knees. There were still too many soldiers and several Rikes leading them.
