War of Wizards (21 page)

“Thank you, Rima.”

“Khalifa, may you live forever,” Rima murmured.

“Live forever, no. To survive the night is sufficient. By morning, we may all be dead.”

A shudder worked down the girl’s body to her trembling hand, which Kallia still held.

“I’m frightened,” Rima said. “May I stay here with you?”

“Wouldn’t you rather be with your family?”

“I must remain nearby so I can attend to you. I would go next door, but I am frightened to be alone.”

“It’s all right, Rima. You may go to your family, I release you.”

“My father is with the guard. My mother will be terrified and crying prayers to the Brothers all night long. My sisters, sobbing, and my grandmother, wailing. Please, my queen. You are so much braver, and I am so frightened.”

Was she braver? Kallia didn’t feel it. And the girl had seen her attacks, their fearsome intensity, the way the khalifa would scream for mercy. Was it possible after witnessing them that Rima still saw her as brave?

“In that case, lie down with me. Rest your head against my shoulder. There, like that.”

Kallia took the shivering girl in her arms and made soothing noises until she quieted, holding her like she would have held her own child. Then, Kallia could no longer fight the exhaustion, and sleep came down upon her like a veil of black velvet.

#

Sleep may have come, but not peace. Kallia found herself wandering barefoot among the Tombs of the Kings. She knew it must be a dream, that she couldn’t possibly be there, but at the same time, she felt perfectly awake. The sand was cool and dry between her toes, and she rubbed her fingers along the pitted surface of the ancient tombs. They dated from the time of Aristonia and lay on the far eastern boundary of that destroyed country. The Desolation of Toth lay not too many miles away, a blasted, cursed land of wights, where nothing would grow.

There was no sign of wights now. No sign of Balsalom either, for that matter. She looked around to orient herself, but couldn’t spot the city. Only the tombs, and beyond that, a hazy, indistinct horizon. Nothing else existed in this dream world.

A man stood next to one of the obelisks. He was tall and handsome, with long, dark hair and copper-colored skin. There was something noble in his face, like the faces of the older merchant families of Balsalom, and he had dark eyes flecked with gold, like Markal’s and Chantmer’s. He was, she realized, a pure-blooded Aristonian.

The man looked at her, and for a moment, appeared startled. Then a calculating look entered his eyes, which unsettled her. He recognized her. But how?

“Who are you?” she asked.

“I am your son.”

“I have no son.” Kallia’s hands touched her swollen belly.

“No? Are you certain?”

He grinned, and though he was handsome, his smile was unpleasant. If he opened his mouth wider, she felt as though she would see a yawning black pit.

“You are the thing growing inside me,” she said.

“I am the lord of this world,” he said. “That which grows inside you is the vessel that will contain me.”

“Are you . . . the dark wizard?”

“That is one of my names, yes. Another is King Toth.”

“Why me? Why not take another body, like you did with Cragyn?”

“Those vessels are imperfect. They are weak and vulnerable, and they can no longer contain me. That is why I needed you.”

“Only I can’t contain you, either,” she said, understanding more. “That is why it hurts, why it tears at me. What you placed in me is a perversion of the gift of life, a mockery of the Harvester. He hunts you, he would destroy you, and this is your way to elude him.”

“How do you know this?” he demanded. He took a step toward her. “Who told you about the dark gatherer?”

She shrank back. “Nobody told me, nobody
needed
to tell me. What I know is the wisdom every woman possesses, passed down from mothers and midwives. The Harvester gathers the souls of the dead, he grinds them between his millstones, and from them come the souls of every child born to this world. Without the dark gatherer, there can be no rebirth.”

Kallia collected her courage. She didn’t know if Toth could hurt her here, in this dream world, but if so, there was no way she would be able to stop him. It was no time for cowardice.

“All these months, it grows inside me,” she continued. “An empty vessel. It has no soul because you have perverted the natural cycle of life. It is meant to hold
you
.”

Toth stepped toward her. Anger flashed in his eyes, but she refused to look away, to cringe in fear. When he had drawn close, he bared his teeth in a wolfish smile.

“Whelan and Markal think they can defeat me. But now you know. My death in the Dark Citadel would only bring about my rebirth here.”

He put a hand on her belly. His touch was as cold as iron in the winter. Kallia gasped at the chill that radiated through her. The thing growing inside her stirred.

She grabbed Toth by the wrist and tried to wrestle his hand away. He was as immovable as stone.

“You think you have felt pain before?” he said. “Wait until I emerge. Then, you will see.”

Chapter Nineteen

Markal’s heart leaped into his throat as he watched the dragon flying at Daria. For a moment, he thought she would be foolish enough to face the monster alone, but she cut sharply toward the sea, flying above the cliffs that loomed along the northern coast, where she shortly disappeared into the darkness.

Meanwhile, Whelan had been leading Markal and the knights back toward the army crashing into the city walls. His daughter rode behind him, her mouth at his ear as she passed him news. Markal’s sensitive ears picked out a few words over the clash and din of the battlefield. Sofiana was saying something about wights.

Movement to the north caught his eye. It was Daria again, visible against the moon and the light of a hundred fires that left the night in a perpetual red glow. She was returning toward the battlefield, with the dragon close behind.

No, not back here. Take that thing away from the battle.
 

If she couldn’t defeat the dragon, at least she could keep it from incinerating the king’s army. But no sooner had Markal formed the thought, than he received his answer. A flock of dragon wasps and their riders pursued her from the north, forcing her back toward the dragon.

The dragon blasted a cone of fire. Daria veered to avoid it, and shot over Markal’s head. The dragon turned to chase her. Markal gaped at its huge black underbelly. Archers fired arrows as it passed, but they clinked harmlessly off its armored underbelly. The dragon riders came after, but they stayed high and out of range.

Whelan and Markal reached Hoffan’s mounted knights. It was a powerful force of several hundred men waiting to charge the breach. Narud waited with them, along with Timothe and Philina, who had arrived several hours earlier, shortly after one of the mines had collapsed the section of wall Whelan’s army was now fighting over.

Whelan shouted to get Hoffan’s attention, and the mountain lord brought his horse trotting over. “Take your men,” Whelan said. “Ride back to the gulch west of camp—”

“Now?” Hoffan demanded, his eyes wide. He glanced toward the walls. “Have you lost your nerve?”

“Listen to me!” Whelan said in a commanding tone. Hoffan snapped his mouth shut. “The enemy has raised an army of wights, and they’re attacking our western flank. They are led by ravagers.”

Hoffan cursed.

“You must form a defense, or the battle will be lost,” Whelan said. “I will press into the city. Stop the wights, by the Brothers. You must.”

Hoffan turned away, already shouting instructions to his captains.

Markal’s fellow wizards had come up on their horses to listen. If this horrifying news was true, Hoffan would need help. He’d be hard pressed to stop the ravagers, and in bigger trouble still against the wights, unless he had magic to aid his fight.

“Philina and Timothe,” Markal said, “ride with Hoffan. You must stop these wights.”

Philina’s thick eyebrows gathered in a frown. “You know that is impossible. Perhaps with you and Narud, but the two of us alone?” She glanced at Timothe, who was the youngest and weakest of the four wizards. “I need you with me.”

“I can’t.” Markal said. “The king needs me by his side.”

“Narud, then.”

“And I need Narud. He alone can break the gates of the Dark Citadel. It will take all his remaining strength.”

“Then you mean to face the dark wizard alone?” Philina asked. “You are not strong enough, Markal. You know this.”

Her eyes flashed, and there was a hint of her cousin Nathaliey in her face. Nathaliey had fallen in the battle at Arvada, and combined with Chantmer’s betrayal, her death had left the Order of the Wounded Hand weak and disorganized. If only Markal had Chantmer and Nathaliey. The dark wizard was vulnerable and weakened—with Narud to break down the walls, and with Chantmer and Nathaliey at Markal’s side . . . but there was nothing to be done for it.

“Not alone,” Markal said. He nodded toward Whelan, who was giving urgent orders to a second company of knights.

“Tell me,” Philina urged. Narud and Timothe also stared at Markal. There was doubt in their eyes. “What do you intend to do?”

Markal withdrew Memnet’s orb from his cloak and showed it to them. “I will hold the dark wizard at bay while Whelan finishes the deed.”

The doubt deepened on Philina’s face. Timothe stared, visibly frightened. Narud’s expression was dark and troubled. None of them believed in him. He wasn’t sure if he believed in himself.

Hoffan finished organizing his men, and they peeled away toward the rear of the battlefield. Philina gave Markal a final look and nodded to Timothe, and the two wizards rode after the mountain lord.

Whelan had found a horse for his daughter and sent men to gather fresh cavalry to take the place of Hoffan’s departing men. They could only manage a small force, as their mounted forces had already suffered heavy losses throughout the afternoon and evening.

Veyrians had roared out of the gates about two hours earlier. It was a small army of no more than two thousand, but the fighting at the breach had been so hot, Markal hadn’t thought the enemy had additional troops in reserve. For several minutes, the Veyrians drove a wedge in Whelan’s army, until finally, three companies of mounted Eriscobans threw them back. The Eriscobans suffered in the victory and had been left shattered, leaderless, their captains killed. Whelan now collected the remnants. They were joined minutes later by thirty Knights Temperate—Roderick’s former men.

Whelan was thus able to gather a force of some two hundred mounted men in all. They were battle hardened and some of the best fighters in the army, but Markal would have preferred a greater number. These would have to suffice.

Pasha Boroah’s Balsalomians had now been battling for nearly three hours at the breach, and their attack had faltered. Only by sheer will and the similarly exhausted state of the enemy had they remained in the fight. Whelan ordered a trumpet call for Boroah’s men to fall back.

The Veyrians were not so foolish as to rush out in pursuit of the departing army. If they had, they’d have been caught in the open and destroyed by a fresh force of Eriscobans. This reserve of footmen from the kingdoms of Rathlek and Estmor had participated in throwing back Pasha Ismail’s Veyrians a few weeks ago in the fighting along the Tothian Way and numbered nearly four thousand men advancing in two wedge-shaped forces.

Whelan’s siege engines launched a fresh barrage of stones and flaming bolts. A giant ball of flaming pitch soared in a high arc over Markal’s head, and he couldn’t resist tearing a strip of magic from the orb to send speeding after the fiery missile. The ball of pitch flared with bright, flaming light that illuminated the city walls, the two armies, and the entire battlefield in a harsh light. It slammed into the Veyrians at the breach, lighting men on fire. Their screams rose above the din.

In the midst of this chaos, the first advancing Eriscobans slammed into a freshly formed shield wall of Veryians. The fighting raged once more, but the enemy did not fall back into the city.

“Break, damn you,” Whelan muttered. He turned to Markal. “They serve the dark wizard. What devilry keeps them fighting for such evil?”

Markal stared into the battle. The dead and dying were heaped in great piles, and more Eriscobans were falling with every moment spent in the gap, with spears and swords at their front and archers on the walls firing arrows from above. Yet some of the Eriscobans had smashed through to the second rank and more joined the fight every moment.

“They are weakened,” Markal said. “Perhaps now.”

Whelan’s gaze turned sharp, and he leaned forward. His daughter sat tall in the saddle next to him, her crossbow in hand.

“Almost,” the king murmured. “Yes, forward, men. Just a little more. Yes, into that gap.”

Whelan drew Soultrup from its sheath. He lifted it slowly. His men tensed, their horses stamping and snorting. Markal nodded to Narud, who returned the nod.

So intent was Markal on waiting for the king’s signal, that he didn’t spot the movement in the sky until it was right over him, the enormous black shape of the dragon, swooping toward the gap in the walls. There was no sign of Daria. Markal’s heart sank. Where was she? By the Brothers, had she fallen to this monster?

The dragon opened its mouth, and flames roared out. They spewed down on the breach. Fire rolled across the Eriscobans and into the city. The effect was much like Markal’s spell minutes earlier, except tenfold greater. Hundreds of men screamed and flailed. Both armies were caught by the fiery dragon’s breath, and all fighting ceased for the moment as men fled in every direction. But Whelan’s army had taken the brunt of it. The attack was already faltering, even as the dragon lifted high and wheeled around to take another pass.

Narud drew back his sleeves. “I’ll drive it away.”

“No!” Markal shouted. “You must save your strength.”

“We can’t get into the city past that thing. I can buy us a few hours.”

“Do what I say!” Markal snapped.