Five Lands Saga Box Set 1 (Five Lands Saga Box Sets), page 112
Twenty-one
As the child dragged Jaeme into the pit of blood puppets, the women and children pounced on him, tearing at his limbs like they intended to pull him apart. Jaeme dropped his daggers; he couldn’t use them on these people, controlled or not. They were victims, and both his vows and his conscience dictated he do all he could not to hurt them.
But he’d be damned if that meant he had to lie down and die.
Jaeme raised his arms, shoving the women and children back into each other in a tangled mess. He struggled to get up as the child bit down on his shin with astonishing force.
Jaeme cried out. His element of surprise was long-lost; somewhere in this conclave was a mage who controlled these people, and that mage had no doubt warned others. Jaeme should retreat and regroup, but as he staggered to his feet, pushing back a new wave of unarmed attacks, he knew that he wouldn’t.
He’d meant what he said to Kenton. He was here for Daniella, and he wasn’t leaving without her, if he had to cut his way through every last blood mage to do it. His friends were still outside the walls. They could retreat and try again.
Jaeme was going in.
Using his sword against them, even the flat of it, would be too likely to hurt them. But if his sword was still in its scabbard . . .
As he fumbled with the ties of his belt, a woman rushed him and Jaeme dodged, colliding with three more puppets and shoving them back with his forearms. He managed to undo the last knot and free the scabbard, then held it in two hands, using the flat of the sheathed sword to fend off oncoming attacks. Jaeme backed toward the door that led deeper into the conclave, cringing as the women fell and leapt up again, some of them cradling their arms or ribs from obvious injuries.
I’m sorry, he thought as he reached the door and brought the hilt of his sword down on the doorknob, breaking it like the other. A woman lunged at him from the side, grabbed him around the throat and squeezing. Jaeme’s heartbeat pounded in his head as he pulled the door open, writhing to shake off the puppet on his back. One of the children grabbed him by the arm and bit down onto his shoulder atop his old injury from the Nichtees, and pain sliced up his neck. Jaeme stumbled through the doorway and twisted hard enough to throw the woman off his back—a movement that also landed him in the dirt beside her, gasping for breath.
He found himself, not in another tunnel, as he’d expected, but in the middle of a wide clearing. The sky was full night now, the clearing lit by torches ensconced into the bark of the walls, and the white light of globes further away. Laundry flapped on a line on the far side, strung between two smaller buildings. The puppets clambered out of the doorway behind him, blocking his retreat, but they didn’t attack.
Instead, a group of a dozen mages watched him from the center of the clearing, confusion on their faces.
“Callum,” one of the mages said. “Is this one of yours?”
Jaeme scrambled to his feet as one of the men, presumably Callum, stepped forward, squinting at him in the torchlight. “No,” he said. “But he is the heir to the duchy of Grisham. So there’s that.”
Jaeme swore, picked his fallen sword up out of the dirt and drew it from the scabbard.
The mage who’d asked the question beckoned to the blood puppets. The mage—or mages—controlling them must have seen the gesture through their eyes, because the puppets immediately grabbed Jaeme, dragging him forward by his arms and legs. Jaeme tried to spin—by the gods, if he had no other choice he would cut them down rather than die here and leave Daniella in the hands of the mages—but one of the children caught his sword by the hilt and wrenched it away from him with adult-like precision.
The mages might be using the children’s muscles, but they felt none of these people’s pain. The human body was capable of so much without a sense of self-preservation. Jaeme swore again as the group of puppets shoved him face-first into the dirt. He coughed against the detritus of soil and leaves, twisting and wrenching to get away, to reach his only remaining dagger, tucked into his boot. But then his boot was off and that dagger ripped away, too, and he felt his own blade pressed to the back of his neck.
“Stop struggling,” Callum said. “Pick him up.” The mages took hold of him, dragging him backward onto his knees. There were six of them holding him, their grips strong and firm. He wasn’t going to wrestle away from them, no matter his skill.
Callum looked him over, eyes falling on the holster that contained Kotali.
Jaeme spit into the man’s face, but Callum only wiped it away and cut the holster free, lifting the flap and peering inside.
“It’s just a stone,” Jaeme said. “Take it out. You’ll see.”
Callum gave him a withering look. “Yes. I’ll just lay my bare hand on the godstone and see how that goes.”
Blood drained from Jaeme’s face. This man knew who he was, and not just his public title. Had he been with Erich in Grisham? As far back as Foroclae?
Gods. What else did he know?
“Where is Daniella?” Jaeme asked.
Callum smiled. “It’s not your concern. Evrin, your cloak.” He held out a hand as one of the others stripped off her cloak and handed it to him. Carefully, painstakingly, he wrapped the stone in the cloak and tied it securely, so he could carry it while ensuring no part of him would make contact with it. “Thank you for this.” He took a few steps back, setting the stone out of Jaeme’s reach—if Jaeme could have reached.
Jaeme stared in horror as Callum then pulled out a bloodletter and advanced on him. “Well, Jaemeson of Grisham,” he said. “You’re going to prove very useful indeed.”
Jaeme screamed and struggled against the mages who held him, but even without increasing their size, they held him fast.
He couldn’t escape. He couldn’t save Daniella. He couldn’t even protect his friends from the monster he was about to become.
As Callum raised the bloodletter, Jaeme could do nothing but watch and wait for the end.
Twenty-two
As the monstrous blood mages advanced, Kenton dashed toward them and ran one of them through with his sword. The mage grunted from the force of the impact, but lost no momentum as he barreled into Kenton, reaching for his throat. Kenton twisted away, and the mage stumbled past him and reached down to pull the bloody sword from his chest.
Perchaya beat on another of the mages with her branch-club, with a flurry of blows that ought to have knocked the man senseless but didn’t seem to be having much more than a parrying effect. Nikaenor ran wild through the trees, a flicker of shadow in the steady low light of the charm, Mirilina in hand, trying to touch the stone to their skin without being pummeled. Flashes of moonlight caught the mages in the eyes, but they still managed to dodge Nikaenor’s blows with a deftness that belied their size.
The mage now holding Kenton’s sword advanced on him, and Kenton took his cue from Nikaenor and ducked around a tree, trying to spot their fifth and final adversary. It was all Kenton could do to stay ahead of the mage who had his sword and avoid leading him toward either Perchaya or Nikaenor.
Gods. They were merely delaying the inevitable. If something didn’t change fast, both he and Perchaya would die here.
Perhaps that would deprive Diamis of their souls, but he couldn’t be sure that would be enough to stop him. And it certainly would do Daniella little good.
Kenton drew his dagger. These mages apparently felt no pain and seemed to be able to heal themselves well enough. Short of running them out of blood—which could take far longer than Kenton and the others’ endurance could handle—Kenton had one more idea. He let the mage catch up to him, and then ducked to the ground in front of him, letting the mage barrel over him.
Kenton cringed as the mage’s boot took him in the rib, but he stood from under the mage’s legs and sliced his hamstring with one quick swipe, then leapt onto the man’s back and held on tight. The mage stumbled to his feet—his hamstring apparently healed with blood—and pawed at Kenton, trying to dislodge him. But Kenton pulled his serrated dagger from his belt and brought it to the man’s throat, holding the back of the blade with his free hand, and sawed through the flesh, clinging as the man swung him around and bashed him against the trunk of a blood tree.
Kenton wheezed, the wind knocked out of him, but he held fast to the mage’s throat, sawing through the muscles of the neck and then hauling back on the dagger, bringing it clean through the man’s spine.
Kenton fell to the dirt as the decapitated mage collapsed, blood pouring from his body. Kenton’s hands were slick with it and he wiped them on his trousers, picked up his sword and sprinted back to the others.
That was one method to kill them, at least.
Perchaya was nowhere in sight, but he did find Nikaenor held high above the head of one of the mages while the other wrapped something in a torn swath of his shirt.
The mage had Mirilina.
Kenton advanced with his sword, swinging it hard against the man’s neck, though the blow wasn’t enough to completely sever the head. Blood sprayed over cloth, ground, and stone, and Kenton drew back for another swing, slicing through the mage’s neck and burying Mirilina beneath him.
The other mage dropped Nikaenor on the ground and turned toward Kenton.
“Get the stone!” Kenton shouted, and began leading the third mage around a tree. Footsteps came tearing through the bush toward him, and he spotted Perchaya, branch still in hand, running from the mage she’d been fighting—a mage who unfortunately looked none the worse for the bludgeoning. A branch cracked above Kenton, and he dodged a blow from the mage chasing him. He managed to spare a single glance for the treetop.
Gods. There was the fifth mage, climbing rapidly up the tree toward Sayvil, who was no longer in sight.
“Sayvil!” Kenton shouted.
She didn’t respond.
Nikaenor approached, holding a dagger in his hands, Mirilina back in her satchel where she belonged. At least the kid had the sense not to let that happen twice.
Kenton dodged another blow from the mage chasing him, while Nikaenor dug the dagger into the mage’s back. Kenton readied his blade to strike while the mage was distracted, but he didn’t even turn. Perchaya nearly reached them, when her mage clawed at her from behind, sinking a bloodletter into her shoulder, then dropping back.
Perchaya grabbed her shoulder and screamed much more than the injury itself warranted, and Kenton knew what she was doing. The feint was smart—the blood mage wouldn’t know that Perchaya was immune to blood magic and would waste time trying to control her. Kenton dodged away from the mage who’d been pursuing him and circled behind the one with Perchaya’s blood.
Perchaya flashed a bright blue as the mage attempted to use her blood to control her, and her ring triggered. The mage had one moment to stare in confusion before Kenton swung and took his head most of the way off—enough, certainly, that this mage wasn’t getting a chance to try to control Perchaya again.
Two left. The branches in the tree above groaned and swayed, but neither the mage nor Sayvil fell down into the clearing. Kenton could only hope that Sayvil had some plan for dealing with that mage while Kenton killed the last one.
He turned back.
And found the final mage pausing over Nikaenor. Perchaya, Nikaenor, and the remaining mage all stared at Kenton.
No. Past him. He turned in that direction. Gods, what—
Kenton’s breath caught.
At the base of it stood a man whose clothes had all but shredded as he’d taken in enough blood to double his normal size. The swirling tattoos on his face were stretched as if painted with a broad brush.
Lukos smiled. “Good to see you again,” he said. Then he pounced with shocking speed.
Kenton brought up his dagger, aiming at Lukos’ throat, but Lukos’ skin was thick as the bark of the trees, and the dagger merely bounced off. He heard water splash—hopefully Nikaenor taking advantage of the other mage’s distraction when Lukos arrived—and Lukos threw Kenton to the ground, lying on top of him, crushing him beneath his weight.
Beside them, a tree branch crashed to the ground, a screaming mage falling along with it—and thankfully not Sayvil—but Kenton could do nothing but let out a strangled cry as Lukos closed his meaty fists around his throat. He wouldn’t be able to decapitate Lukos, and he certainly wouldn’t be able to outlast him.
Lukos had gotten the best of Kenton at last.
When Lukos tackled Kenton to the ground, Perchaya froze. Nikaenor dissolved the limbs of the mage nearest them until he was nothing but a dismembered torso lying in soggy dirt. The mage who had fallen from the tree tried to stand, but his legs were clearly broken, and his massive form faded as his blood supply ran out. She’d thought they were all going to die facing five such formidable foes.
But Lukos was more terrifying than all of them combined.
There was no time to waste. Perchaya picked up Kenton’s sword from the dirt. With all her strength, she swung it down to slice into his neck, but deep as she managed to cut, he didn’t even blink. The wound sealed up again instantly.
Beneath Lukos, Kenton made a strangling sound, but if he was trying to form a word, the meaning was lost.
Panic flooded through her anew. Lukos was going to crush Kenton to death.
She would not lose him this way.
“Mirilina,” Perchaya said. “Nikaenor, use Mirilina.”
But then a wild yell raged from the mage who’d fallen from the tree, and he withdrew another vial and smashed it between his hands. Before Perchaya could cry out a warning the mage straightened, his legs now solid under him, and charged at Nikaenor.
Perchaya lunged toward him with Kenton’s sword, but she was too late. The mage reached Nikaenor, but instead of growing in size again, he reached out, shielding his eyes from a blast of moonlight.
The light caught a glimmer of steel on his finger as the mage plunged his bloodletter into Nikaenor. Seconds later Nikaenor stiffened, looked down at Mirilina, and reached to pick her up.
Kenton made another choking sound, though Perchaya could barely see him under Lukos’ enormous form.
She knew what she had to do. Perchaya kicked Nikaenor in the chest as he reached down for the godstone. He didn’t react in pain, but he did lose his balance, falling back into the dirt. From her belt, she grabbed the kerchief she’d used to protect her face earlier, and reached down to pick up Mirilina, ensuring that the cloth remained between her and the stone.
Forgive me, Perchaya said, though she wasn’t sure if it was to Mirilina specifically or the gods in general or even herself, for what she was about to do. Then she planted Mirilina against the back of Lukos’ head.
That got his attention. Lukos let out a mighty roar, and water poured from his scalp, but as quickly as it did, flesh grew back in its place, the blood he’d absorbed healing him at equal speed.
Lukos sat up, pulling Kenton along with him, but Perchaya climbed onto his back, locked her knees, and held on, keeping the stone pressed against his skin. The magics fought with each other, the skin of his head alternately regrowing and liquefying. Lukos reared up, dropping Kenton in the dirt and throwing both Perchaya and Mirilina off his back. Terrified the stone would land on her, Perchaya flung the thing, then screamed, half in horror that she’d let the stone go, and half in pain as she slammed to the ground, the remains of an old tree stump badly bruising her hip.
Lukos reached for his belt, for his vials of blood.
But with his head only half reformed, his blood ran out. His malformed body deflated and collapsed lifeless in the dirt.
Perchaya looked back to the remaining mage, and found Nikaenor staring in awe at Mirilina lying at his feet. The mage lay on the ground beside her, his torso—which had been mostly bare from his torn shirt—half-dissolved.
Gods. When she flung the stone, she must have hit the mage in the chest.
“See?” Nikaenor said, his breath coming in short gasps. “The gods do perform miracles.”
Perchaya didn’t have time to decide if she agreed. She pushed aside Lukos’ body and helped Kenton sit. He gripped his throat, but he seemed to be breathing, and he looked up at her with unfocused eyes.
All around them, the trees began to groan. The noise began near the mage city and spread outward, a low cry, as if they were mourning Lukos’ loss. Perchaya looked toward the city in time to see the trees bowing and twisting, the thick walls of trunk and root splaying outward as if they’d been pushed by some immense and undetectable gale. The trees spiraled in a vortex, their groaning giving way to human screams.
Then the trees stopped, maintaining their new twisted forms as the screams of the people went on and on and on.
What should we use?” Erich mused, surveying the infirmary. “Something thin and sharp, I’d imagine.”
Daniella screamed again for help, but if anyone was close enough to hear, they were ignoring her as easily as Erich and Ifran.
“It doesn’t have to be too sharp,” Ifran said, and she thought she might have heard his voice shake, but she was beyond hope of him aiding her. “It can be done with a firm piece of straw, even.”
“Or a quill?” Erich picked up an unsharpened feather quill from the desk by the door and examined it. He ran his fingers along the fletching.
Ifran nodded. His eyes cut to Daniella, but only briefly.
“You are both monsters,” she said, terror and fury and helpless desperation roiling in her and making her stomach heave, her nerves flare. “Sick and mad and—”
“Don’t worry, Ella,” Erich said. “You’ll be safe, I promise.”
She howled her rage at him, words completely failing her.
Erich held the quill out to Ifran and lifted her skirt up over her knees.
Suddenly, Daniella felt that skittering sensation, like spiders under her skin.
