Valley of Embers (The Landkist Saga Book 1) (47 page)

Another boom wracked the grounds around the keep and Misha struggled to her feet, the flames along the length of her blade guttering and turning from deep orange to pale yellow as she completed the effort.

Linn looked at Misha and then down at Nathen, who covered Jenk’s prone form like a mother bear over its cub.

“You mean to enter,” Misha said, following her gaze.

Linn nodded.

“The Rivermen have the creatures occupied for now, but it’ll only take one of them to finish these two.”

Misha blew out a long sigh, the blood leaking down her armor like oil.

“Please,” Linn said, her look one of stone. It was the look of a Ve’Ran, and even Misha Ve’Gah, Ember of Hearth, looked away.

“I’ll do the thing,” she said, waving Linn off.

Linn spun, but felt a hot pain on her wrist. She turned back toward Misha.

“You make sure it gets done,” Misha said. “Whatever needs doing.”

And she released her.

Linn nodded. She clutched the bow in her right hand, shaft in her left. The sun had dipped low, painting the broken keep in red shadow. The lights had faded to a dull orange glow within.

And then an explosion sounded, the hole Kole had made erupting with a mix of flame and lightning. The force was so severe that it knocked Linn from her feet. She scrambled back up and saw that several of the fliers had gone down. The warriors of the Fork took advantage, hacking the fallen apart with their deadly tools.

Flames lapped hungrily in the miniature pools of fire that now littered the slope, a microcosm of those in the fields below. Wind howled through the peaks, drawn by the White Crest’s call as the torrents streaked into the blasted roof. The air buzzed with energy and the ground shook with a sudden staccato of quaking bursts.

Was all this power directed at Kole? How could he hope to survive it?

What could she possibly do to help?

Linn took a steadying breath and took off at as close to a sprint as her starved and ruined muscles would allow.

She skirted the edges of the melee, Baas shouting for her as she passed, his shield shattering another of the gnashing beaks. The slope leveled as she climbed over the ruined gate, and the hellish mouth of the keep beckoned her, red and blue flashes interspersed with streaks of amber.

Linn closed her eyes as she took the cracked stone steps two at a time, plunging into the house of horrors she had so recently fled.

And the sight before her defied all sense given to those of mortal birth, even one raised among the Embers and their ilk. She wondered what the gods would say of this. She wondered if the beings throwing themselves at one another on the currents of violent magic counted themselves among them.

This was a battle between Sages, she was sure. Just as she was sure that she had no place in it.

No one did.

Kole lounged like a broken thing against a far column that had half melted, its black surface reflective as mirrored glass. He watched the titanic clash through half-closed lids.

Linn ran to him, screaming his name over the blasts of flame, roar of wind and scream of lightning.

The White Crest, Kole had learned, was one who had a propensity to mince words. It was a bit shocking, then, to see him attack the intruder without pretense or preamble. He shot a howling bolt as he whirled, blue orb flaring in the half-melted helm, warped beak gleaming in the bright.

Kole was sure the visitor was none other than the Eastern Dark. Though the figure was not cloaked, a darkness hung about him that seemed a separate thing from the lengthening shadows of dusk.

He was sure of it right up until a torrent of red-orange flame erupted from the stranger’s palms, absorbing the wind and burning up the lightning like a snuffed lantern.

This was no Sage, then. This was an Ember, and as the clash was joined in earnest, Kole knew he was witnessing a battle between the White Crest and a man out of place and time.

This was the King of Ember. None other.

Kole struggled to rise, but his body hurt all over and his palms were slick with his own blood. His lungs burned and displaced ribs stabbed. He wondered with a detached sort of interest if he was dying.

Mostly, he just watched.

The White Crest raged, but the dark Ember, his face wreathed in shadow and flame let his fire do the talking. The roaring flames transformed the keep into a furnace, and the Sage’s winds did nothing but act as a bellows. The heat had the effect of nourishing Kole, filling him with a slow and aching vitality, and his senses began to return as if from a great distance.

He thought he heard a voice calling to him. It was familiar, echoing with pain and fear.

Kole craned his neck, rotating his torso best he could. A gout of flame shot up and blanketed the vaulted ceiling and all its arches in liquid fire that billowed like clouds. It cast an amber light on her hair, and for a moment in his daze Kole was certain his mother had come for him in his final hour.

He could almost see her green eyes shining under the shock of hair, which was tied back in a braid, but then she hid them behind an upraised arm, the force of the tumult knocking her back toward the entrance.

This was not Sarise A’zu.

Kole bent onto his hands and knees, willing life into his ailing legs. They felt heavy as cast-iron. He glanced up at the ceiling and saw that the black stone had warped around the hole, and he glimpsed a panicked image of himself encased in the very glass he leaned against—a tomb no light would ever penetrate.

The titans streaked before him, the silver armor of the White Crest glittering, chest plate shattering as a fist of flame came against it with inhuman speed. The Ember warrior carried no weapons, dark hair waving in the heat and face hidden in the black shadows that rose from his red armor like ink as he sent the Sage reeling.

“Kole!”

The welcome face of Linn Ve’Ran smoothed the hurt from having lost a mother twice.

“Linn,” he rasped, legs tingling as they leeched heat from the stonework.

Her face was a mask equal parts determination and fear—fear for him, he realized. She looked in that moment to be a thing of beauty. Perhaps it was the way a streak of lightning framed her. Maybe it was the tiny stars of amber and gold that stood out on her brow and set her plastered bangs like tiny chandeliers. Past these, Kole knew it was the impossible way she pushed compassion to the front of all her hurt.

Landkist or not, Linn Ve’Ran would not be cowed by flames. Even as she bent over double in the midst of what seemed the glowing belly of a drake, she would not break.

She helped him up, supporting him, but his legs failed and they fell to the ground, Linn yelping as the stones burned her skin.

The image of the black tomb rose again, and this time Kole saw Linn embedded with him. His legs flared to life in agony, the fire in his blood sparking.

“What is this?” Linn gasped, looking around.

“The King of Ember,” Kole said, pulling her up with him. He saw a length of silver sticking through the strap across her back, the bow across her shoulders making a trail through the sweating stones as they lurched toward the entrance.

“How?” She shielded her eyes from a blinding flare.

They turned.

When the smoke from their latest clash faded, the White Crest was on one knee, streaming palm glowing blue. His wings dipped, scraping the floor and scattering motes of golden ash as he struggled to rise. The lone blue orb flickered weakly, fear and anger leaking from him in equal measure.

His power was all but spent, and the King of Ember strode toward him, burning hands at his sides and a look of disgust etched onto the contours of his impossibly young features. Truly, he looked no older than Karin. The red sash around his torso fluttered in the Sage’s dying winds. He was unhurt and unconcerned.

“We could have used Holspahr, you fool.”

He spoke with a clear voice that reverberated through the crumbling, melted galleries and the flames that burned absent fuel.

“Is he our enemy?” Linn whispered.

“Ask me again once he’s finished.”

The White Crest laughed and the sound was a broken thing.

“We, is it?” he cackled, hawk voice piercing and shrill with all authority driven from it as he knelt before the King of Ember in a throne room wreathed in flame. “You’re no different than Holspahr was at the end—a Sentinel. A slave. I was fighting fire with fire, but he’s done some work on you, I see.”

As he finished, he gave a grand flourish, wings undulating and gauntleted hand sweeping out to encompass his burning cathedral.

The King of Ember did not look impressed.

“I am no slave,” he said.

“And yet,” the half-melted helm tilted in that inhuman way, “here you are, come to tie up loose ends before they come calling.”

Linn saw it before Kole did. She tackled him to the ground behind the nearest pillar, his back screaming in protest as the air was forced from his lungs. Blue light filled the chamber as the White Crest attacked and another primal shriek rang out, this one long and keening. The glow faded, as did the echoes of thunder.

They sat up in a tangle and saw the two figures in much the same position they had been, only it was the King of Ember who stood with glowing palm pointing down. As for their Valley’s great protector, his head was bowed, remaining hand clutching at the melted and dripping mess of his other limb.

“Our battle is done,” the King of Ember said, his tone broaching no argument. “This is your ending.”

“You,” the White Crest said, recognition dawning. “You were the one I sensed. You were waiting this whole time.”

The Ember’s eyes—orange like the sun—swiveled toward Linn and Kole for half a heartbeat before settling back on his quarry.

“Opportunity takes time. Little did I know how weak you had truly become in your slumber. Or was it the woman at the Lake that did this to you?”

“The Lake,” Linn whispered, horror coating her voice.

Kole remained silent, watching the exchange. It was difficult to glean anything from the Ember’s expression. The darkness that seemed to hang about him was not the same as the inky black paint that the Sentinels and Dark Kind counted as skin. This was a magic that followed.

“Did you really think you could turn the darkness against him?” the Ember asked. The flames in the chamber shifted with his mood, losing some of their hunger and shrinking back to set a softer glow over the scene.

The blue orb dulled to a sorry glow and Kole almost felt pity.

“I have to admit,” the Ember said, “you surprised him by coming out of the sleep as you did.”

The Sage looked at the melted marble at his knees, all defeat.

“You cast down the Night Lords he sent against you,” the Ember continued, “never supposing there was more to them. That you were meant to win. That your heart was meant to be corrupted by theirs.” He spat. “That you would turn that corruption on the people you once swore to protect …”

The King of Ember took a step forward and the chamber brightened, the flames reacting hungrily to the mounting tension.

“We are here to clean up the mess you’ve made.”

“We?”

The Ember laughed, full-throated and cruel, reveling in the Sage’s cowardice. The blue orb flickered with intent.

“Fear not, puppet,” he said. “The Eastern Dark has not deigned to come see you off. As always, his sister in the north has her watchful eyes on him. He sent us in his stead, and we will be enough.”

It seemed that the Sage would be killed no matter who did the killing, but it was a sobering thought to Kole, that the White Crest much preferred the fire over death at the hands of the Eastern Dark.

“Are you ready, then, great Sage?” the Ember King raised his glowing palm again, and the flames throughout the chamber danced like snakes. “Ready to face your fate?”

The White Crest said nothing, only looked away, the anger—even the fear—having all gone out of him.

That look stirred something within Kole, and even as Linn worked to pull him away, he rose on legs that felt steady enough and walked toward the gods at the heart of the burning throne room. He picked up his discarded blade on the way—the other was still smoking on the slope outside—and guided the flames out of their path as Linn followed in his wake.

“You come here now,” Kole said, stopping a few paces from the kneeling Sage and his would-be executioner. Both regarded him with curious expressions, the White Crest with suspicion and the Ember that would be his king with something more difficult to read.

“You come here now,” Kole repeated, staring hard at the Ember, who lowered his glowing palm ever so slightly.

“I do.”

The flames at his back curled menacingly, shadowed wisps leaking from his red armor.

“You come to kill, not to liberate,” Kole said.

There was a pause.

“Is that not why you came?” the Ember responded.

Kole swallowed, but Linn spoke for him.

“You are the King of Ember?” she asked, her tone uncertain.

“I was,” and the Sage chortled sickly.

“And now you serve our enemy? You serve the Eastern Dark?”

Tears shone in her eyes.