Wizard's Masquerade, page 61
“Sophie Woodstock was found in the mountain woods by our search parties tonight. I have asked you all here because her death is proof of a serious lapse in security.” He pointed to the far wall where the guards and demons were assembled. “It is clear from her wounds that a demon attacked her. This poor, innocent girl was viciously mauled by the very beasts that we have fooled ourselves into trusting. Beasts that have no place here in our world, let alone in the castle. Unprovoked, the demon that should have been protecting our most vulnerable citizens has instead slaughtered this young woman.”
Leyna bit her lip. Why would a demon attack unprovoked?
“I must accept some responsibility,” continued the steward. “I regret that I ever approved this folly of a plan, which was petitioned by our lord chamberlain, and I only did so after he gave me every reassurance that this would not happen. But the cost of even one life, especially after we have already lost so many others, is a cost too high to bear.” The steward pointed a broad finger at Percy. “Lord Chamberlain, you are to dismiss these creatures immediately. They are indisputably unsafe and have no place at the castle. And you will do so under the supervision of Master Emsworth, headmaster of the Wizarding Guild, to whom the Demon Book will be returned as soon as you have completed the dismissals.
Leyna held her breath. Where was this coming from? Since when had the steward not touted the demons?
At the rear of the dais, movement caught her eye. A figured shifted in the shadows, nearly obscured from her vantage point by the thick drape of curtains and banners. It was a man wearing rich purple robes, and her heart skipped a beat as the glint of a silver bead cinching a short, pointed beard caught her eye. Master Emsworth was here.
“Well?” barked the steward. “What are you waiting for, Lord Chamberlain? I order you to banish these demons from our world immediately.”
The silence dragged as the two men faced off. Finally, Percy lifted his head high and said in a crisp, clear voice: “No. I will not do that.”
The steward’s eyes widened, and he stood up from the throne so abruptly that the heavy table shifted, rocking the glasses and goblets. “You will obey, or you will be removed for insubordination,” he warned.
The heads of the crowd whipped back and forth as they looked between the two men. Those unaware of the power struggle before could be in no doubt of it now.
“I will not obey, and I will not be removed,” said Percy, abandoning any pretence of a stutter. As easily as if he were shedding a cloak, his poor posture was gone, and he was not as small, nor as helpless, as he had once appeared.
Suddenly, the doors to the Great Hall opened, and Ildi, the female Renegátok wizard, came hurrying in. She bowed her head to the chamberlain curtly before whispering in his ears. Leyna could only just make out what was said.
“Gone? What do you mean he’s gone?” he hissed, tugging at his ears.
“The cell was empty, sir.”
“That’s not possible.”
Leyna tried to avoid Percy’s gaze, but he rounded on her, snapping his fingers at her.
“You,” he said, and the force of that single word struck her to the core.
He knows. Percy knows I unlocked Quinn’s cell door.
Despite Percy’s displeasure, a small part of her rejoiced that Quinn had gotten away. That he had taken his chance to escape, even if it meant he was alone again and on the run.
Her momentary relief vanished as Percy strode towards her, red-faced and arm raised, as if he planned to slap her. But he was still several feet away when she heard his incantation and saw the sparks of lightning forming in his raised palm.
She lifted her arms defensively, but before she could bring her shield up, Finnigan had launched himself at Percy. His hands were tied, but he shouldered the chamberlain off his feet, and they both fell forward, hitting the hard floor.
“Cornelius!” she cried, using his pseudonym from habit as she left Sophie’s side and rushed towards him. Percy was already clambering to his feet when she reached them, and she shoved him to the ground, abandoning her magical training in preference of brute force.
The chamberlain cried out in shock as he was pushed to the ground for the second time.
Meanwhile, Finnigan had gotten to his knees, but his hands were still bound and she went to help him up, but he sprung to his feet with his old jester-like nimbleness.
“Enough,” roared the steward, rounding the High Table to stand at the front edge of the dais. “Demons, surround him. Guards, arrest the chamberlain.”
The demons were fast, hungry for action, and were already darting forward before the guards has registered the order. The demons encircled them—Leyna, Finnigan, and Percy—parting only when two guards pushed through the circle and advanced on the chamberlain.
Leyna and Finnigan took a half-step back to give them room. But as the guards approached, Percy did not recoil, or beg, or try to talk his way out of the situation. He didn’t even lift his hands to attack.
Instead, he laughed.
And his shrill laugh was so disturbing that it made the advancing guards pause before taking him by the arms.
Percy threw his head back to draw a breath between the laughter, then fixed the steward with a sneer that distorted his previously bland features.
“You are not the final authority on the demons, steward,” he yelled, his voice edged with derision. “Or have you forgotten?”
The steward blanched, and Leyna exchanged a worried look with Finnigan.
“In the hierarchy of demon masters, you are my subordinate,” Percy went on, cutting an imposing figure even as the castle guards restrained him. “And I overrule your order.” He gritted his mouth in a twisted smile, and his next words spelt death: “Demons, attack!”
Leyna had only a moment to register Percy’s command before the Great Hall erupted into madness.
Two Demon hounds leapt at the guards restraining Percy, who immediately released him. Percy stumbled backwards as the guards were pinned to the ground by the muscled beasts.
“Don’t attack them!” Finnigan warned her, but it was too late—she’d already blasted one demon with a fireball. The spell had little effect except to enrage the demon It lifted its head and hissed at her, its expression more triumphant than angry, and Leyna realised too late what she had done: she had given it permission to attack her back.
She stumbled backwards in reflex as the demon sniggered, its wide mouth spread wide to reveal teeth shining with blood. The guard on the ground was already dead, its throat ripped out.
Resisting the urge to yell out in fright, Leyna used the precious seconds she had to envelop herself and Finnigan in a pink shield, extending the barrier so it wrapped around them like a cocoon.
No sooner had she done so than several thuds sounded as demon after demon collided against it.
“Don’t release it!” warned Finnigan as they stood back-to-back.
She shook her head in a silent promise that she wouldn’t, unwilling to speak for fear of breaking her concentration. The stumpy-legged demons surrounded them, snarling and cackling as they launched themselves at the shield, again and again, uncaring that it rebuffed them and sent them rolling back against the tiles.
Thud. Thud. Thud.
It had all happened in a matter of seconds, but she already felt a sheen of sweat from the effort of keeping the semi-transparent shield in place. It was draining her magic faster than she would have liked, but she had no choice but to maintain it as the demons collided against it.
That was when the other guards entered the fray. Whether acting on instinct after seeing their comrades fall, or ordered by the steward, she did not know, but through the haze of pink magic, she saw the castle guards engaging the demon hounds, and she was grateful that many of them wore full plate armour with visored helmets and bevors to protect the neck.
They slashed at the hostile Demons, and it wasn’t long before the beasts had turned their attention away from Leyna and Finnigan.
“Now?” she called, blinking as a bead of sweat teetered on her eyelid.
“Now,” agreed Finnigan, and she released the shield with a gasp.
As soon as the shield was down, they backed away from the centre of the fight, and spotting an opening, they left the circle of fighting demons and guards. She passed a fallen demon, and though its head was near-severed off, it kicked itself forward as she passed, trying to gnash at her ankle.
“Fuck,” she yelped, snatching her foot away just in time.
“Leyna!” called a woman’s voice, and she turned in time to see Amelia the guard throw something shiny in her direction.
She caught the object out of reflex, a feat she would never have dared had she known the object was a razor-sharp dirk.
“Time for the real thing,” Amelia called, then launched herself into the fray of fighting.
Leyna immediately turned to Finnigan and, stepping behind him, cut his bindings free.
Meanwhile, the flashing lights of spells lit the hall in colours, and all around them, chaos ensued as the nobles screamed and tried to flee the scene.
“Here,” she said, offering Finnigan the dirk, but he shook his head and stooped to pick up a fallen spear.
“No need—I’ll manage.”
Before she could protest his stubbornness, his face grew fierce, his eyes cold and focused, and her heart stopped as he thrust the spear at her.
But he wasn’t aiming for her. Instead, the spear narrowly missed her head, shooting past her shoulder to connect with something right behind her.
She yelped in fright and spun around as the spear sunk into Percy’s underarm. He froze in shock as the spear pierced him, his arms raised high above his head, a wicked-looking knife in his hand, its point aimed directly at her head.
He was going to stab me, she realised, recoiling from the silver-haired man. He followed me so he could kill me!
There was a split-second delay between the spear embedding itself in Percy’s armpit and his reaction. Then, he shrieked in pain, released the knife, and it clattered loudly to his feet.
Finnigan used the momentum and leverage of the spear to push Percy backwards, and the chamberlain landed flat on his back, on the ground for the third time that night. Fast and lethal, Finnigan stepped forward, pulled the spear out of Percy, and raised the spear again, ready to strike—but the chamberlain shot a pressure spell at him, and it sent the magicless wizard flying backwards.
Leyna flinched as Finnigan hit the ground with a loud thud, but he rolled out of it, albeit messily, and was in a crouch position again.
“Leyna, finish him!” he cried, and she startled, remembering the dirk in her hands.
Percy was trying to get to his feet, wincing from his wounded shoulder.
“Leyna, please, have mercy,” he begged, and his voice was so reasonable that it made her pause.
Had she been prepared to hit him with magic, she would not have hesitated. But the dirk in her hands confused her. The weapon was heavy, and sharp, and capable of killing a person forever, promising a finality that she wasn’t prepared to deliver. A pressure spell or fireball could be just as lethal…but it didn’t have to be. She could control the strength. But a blade like this?
She weighed the dirk in her hands, her anxiety growing as the chamberlain raised a hand in surrender, mouthing “please” as he slowly, ever so slowly, rose to his feet.
“Leyna!” Finnigan roared.
She flinched again, her eyes darting between the dirk and the wizard. A stab wound in the wrong place would kill. If the blade found a vital organ or artery—then the human being before her, however immoral, however evil, would be no more. Even a stab wound to the legs and arms could be lethal—how could she disable him without killing?
“Leyna,” said Percy, his voice sweeter than honey as he finally got to his feet. “Leyna, Leyna, Leyna…”
The repetition of her name made her frown, even as she yearned to hear what he had to say…and the distraction prevented her from seeing the knife in his hand until it was too late. He slashed at her, and she leapt back, raising the dirk, trying to parry as she retreated.
Percy’s knife was small compared to her dagger, but his arm was strong, and as the blades collided, the knife met her chest and sliced into her waist. The pain was nearly blinding as she staggered back.
Percy drew his hand back and slashed again, his face distorted with rage. Finnigan was charging towards them, running to save her, but Percy advanced, slashing again and again, narrowly missing her midriff, her face, her arms, barely pausing as he used his other hand to blast Finnigan off his feet again, this time sending him sliding across the surface of a dining table.
“Leyna!” someone called, but she had no time to turn around to see who it was, not with the quick, lethal swipes of Percy’s knife drawing ever nearer.
Just as it finally occurred to her to blast him backwards with a spell, a soldier appeared and slammed his gauntleted fist into Percy’s face with a thwack.
Percy fell to the ground for a fourth time, and did not get up.
“Damian!” Leyna cried as the long-haired blade turned to her.
“Fucking wizards,” he scoffed, shaking his head as he pulled the dirk from her limp grasp. “What are you doing with this? You trying to get yourself killed? Just use a fireball, for fuck’s sake.”
“Don’t mind if I do,” said Finnigan smoothly, appearing by Damian’s side and taking the dirk. He gave Leyna a small wink. “Are you alright?” he asked her.
She nodded, exhaling shakily.
It was a relief to have the dirk gone—it had occupied her casting hand, preventing her from casting spells.
Idiot. I should have learnt to use a blade in my other hand.
They turned to face the scene. All around them, chaos ensued as demons, guards and wizards attacked each other, all while the Great Hall teemed with screaming nobles trying to flee the scene. The blades and castle guards were fighting valiantly, flanked by the headmaster and Professor Carlton. Together, the wizard’s magic was impressive but restrained, their spells powerful but targeted, a semblance of what it might have been had the hall been any less crowded. They had to be careful with so many people in close proximity, or there would be hundreds of casualties on their hands.
The three Renegátok wizards, however, had no such qualms, and Leyna’s eyes widened as she witnessed from afar the dark, black spectres forming in one of the wizard’s hands. He was harnessing a Renegade spell, which by definition, should not have been controllable. So how did the wizard have the confidence to risk it? Had the cult found a way to utilise them safely?
The three of them cried out as a wave of people surged, knocking them forward several steps, a mix of nobles and servants.
“What are they still doing here?” Leyna cried to Damian. “Get the courtiers out!”
“We can’t,” he said. “The chamberlain’s wizards sealed the bloody doors after we brought in the spears.”
Spears? What spears?
But the answer was plain to see in the small, red glow of illuminated spear tips scattered around the dim hall.
Patrick, she thought, as a guard shot a red flash of light—a basic attack spell—at a demon, causing it to yelp and scratch at his eyes with a chunky paw. He did hear me after all—and he brought the magical spears.
Her heart leapt with hope. Did that mean he had heard the rest of her plea? Was Seth coming?
Seth would no doubt be under lockdown for his safety, probably in Captain Marton’s office, but they needed him. The faint wisps of a plan formed in her head, a plan for her to go fetch him herself, but then the packing crowd surged forward, and this time, instead of knocking them off their feet, they were engulfed.
Leyna whipped her head around desperately, separated from the battle by the teeming mass of people, the ones that recognised her clamouring for her attention.
A quick scan suggested that the demons were not attacking the gentry—the demons contracts were robust, forcing them to protect the castle and its inhabitants, but they would retaliate against anyone who attacked them. She wished she had a way to convey this to the panicked crowd, who were trying to flee. Locked inside the room, they were going nowhere fast.
Regardless of the demons’ restraint against those who did not attack, the Renegátok wizards were reckless with their dark spells, and unless the battle ended soon, the casualties would be high if the hall wasn’t evacuated. “Let’s do the balcony doors,” she shouted to Damian and Finnigan. “I’ll open them.”
They nodded, and together, they made their way towards the tall glass doors. The very people they were trying to save were dangerous in their panic, and they were batted around helplessly in the throng like a boat in a storm.
“Get back,” snarled Damian, but he made no move to push the women who were clinging to each other in fear.
Leyna stumbled on a body, a gigantic mass of black and white clothes with a head of thin, grey hair. She stooped to help the man up, realising with a pang that it was the butler, his forehead bleeding and his eyes half-closed.
“Get up!” She begged, but he was heavy, and the heel of someone’s boot caught her cheek, causing her to yelp as pain shot along her face.
“Got you,” groaned Damian, seizing her by the scruff of the neck and setting her on her feet. “We have to keep moving!” But he bent down to lift the butler up.
The servant wobbled on his feet, unable to stand without Damian’s help. Giving her a resigned look, the blade grasped the butler by the underarms and nodded at the balcony doors. “Go on, Leyna! What are yah waiting for?”
She refocused on the balcony door—it was so close, yet so far—and tried a light pressure spell, but it was too tightly packed, and the energy that she sent into the crowd came pulsing back, the momentum carrying them like an ocean wave.
Leyna grabbed on to Finnigan, steady herself amidst the mass of people.
“There’s too many people for that,” said Finnigan. “Try fire.”
“Fire?” she spluttered, then realised his meaning. Not a fireball. Not actual fire. She summoned a large, tall flame, encouraging it to burn high, and as the flames swirled around her, it made the surrounding crowd recoil in alarm, giving them just enough space to push through to the balcony doors.
