Nolyn Read online

  Racing past the pottery shop Sephryn found a dead horse whose throat had been torn out. Then she heard a woman scream.

  Without pause, Sephryn pulled three arrows from the sack that clapped her thigh. She trapped the feathered ends between the knuckles of her draw hand. Then she grabbed one more and held it between her thumb and forefinger. These were the newer arrows. She could feel the bone-reinforced nock, and unlike the hawk quills in the originals, these used common cock feathers.

  Rounding the pottery shop, Sephryn spotted three women leading a line of hand-linked children. All were dressed in their holiday finest. In colorful tunics and whimsical hats, they had set off for a day of celebration, oblivious to the attack. Likely thought all the shouts were from riotous merrymakers. Each of the children held tiny green-and-blue flags on miniature flagpole sticks, waving them earnestly.

  Two ghazel ran at them, teeth bared, claws clicking.

  Sephryn had never seen a goblin before that day, but she had asked Nolyn about them. He never said much. “I’d prefer that you didn’t suffer sleepless nights as I do,” was his only comment. He was adept at changing the subject whenever his years spent in the Durat came up. Nolyn had, however, mentioned the claws, teeth, and glowing yellow eyes. In her mind, Sephryn had imagined them as tiny badger-like beasts that snarled and snapped.

  These were nothing like badgers. The goblins were brutes as big as, and in some cases bigger than, men: hunchbacked, thick-necked, oily-skinned fiends with massive arms and monstrous clawed hands. They shambled rather than ran. Their limbs quivered inhumanly, their movements unnatural.

  The solo scream became a chorus as all the women and children took up the shrill song. Their happy hand-clasped line collapsed into a tight group. And as the ghazel came close, hands let go of each other as they were raised in a feeble defense.

  Sephryn didn’t think. She felt. And it was fluid, like throwing a ball.

  Two ghazel crumpled, slapping the pavement without so much as a grunt. The third one—the goblin that the little parade of children and their guardians hadn’t even seen because it crept up from behind—made a little cry as an arrow entered its eye.

  “We’re under attack! Find shelter! Stay indoors!” Sephryn barked at the little troupe as she took the time to stop and reclaim the shafts.

  With her three arrows back in hand, Sephryn was off again.

  How long does Nolyn have?

  “No sense in waiting, is there?” Nolyn asked, tilting his head at the remaining ghazel that surrounded them.

  With the legions powerless outside, Amicus ordered the Teshlors into a semicircle defense with himself at the center, just as they had done in the Erbon Forest. Behind them, men of the First Legion spread out in a line along the edge of the invisible barrier to watch like spectators at an arena contest. The remaining eighteen ghazel—who had broken off from fighting with the Teshlors—were content to wait for overwhelming odds by the addition of their brethren.

  The ghazel fidgeted as they waited. Some licked their lips; others sneered and growled like dogs. Nolyn was looking into the eyes of his own death once more—a bad habit to get into. But this time is different. In so many unpleasant ways, this is clearly a trap. A noose was tightening. Inevitability, when it arrived on such sturdy feet, brought with it a sense of freedom and comfort. With no way to win, he didn’t have to worry about losing.

  “You’re right,” Amicus said. “I’m tired of being on the defensive. Let’s have at them for a change.”

  As usual, Amicus led the way. Driving forward, he charged the ghazel. Using his great sword, he spun, and before anyone else had time to close the distance, he’d killed four. Riley was up next. Using sword and shield, he backed up Amicus, coming into the battle on his weaker left side, becoming the man’s shield—but a deadly one as he laid out a pair of ghazel. Myth took up residence on Amicus’s right and killed two more. Nolyn took down his own with a quick thrust. Jerel, who tethered himself to the prince’s side, killed the one next to him. Mirk, Smirch, and Everett never got their chance to engage. In an instant, the immediate battle had been reduced to even odds. The remaining ghazel didn’t care for the math and retreated to the safety of the onrushing swarm that came out of the city streets like an ocean wave rolling toward them.

  “Back to the arch,” Amicus ordered, and the eight of them shifted position.

  They lined up once more shoulder to shoulder in the familiar half-moon formation with the legions behind them.

  “Astounding,” someone beyond the barrier said. “Did you see that?”

  “It really is Amicus Killian, and the others . . .”

  “They fight like he does.”

  “Amazing.”

  “Such bravery!”

  Nolyn glanced behind him and spotted Jareb Tanator, shaking his head in disbelief.

  He wasn’t the only one. Legionnaires were now ten-deep, all watching as if pressed against a pane of glass.

  “Watch out. They’re coming!” Tanator shouted.

  He needn’t have warned them. His shout was a trifle compared with the roar of charging goblin feet that was powerful enough to make the pavement jump. The soldiers outside drew back, apparently no longer confident that the invisible barrier would hold. In the face of the stampeding horde, which poured down the tiers of the city like a dark wave, the bulk of the empyre’s forces flinched. But standing before them, eight men stood their ground.

  Leaving the narrow corridors behind, Sephryn sprinted the span of the Mirtrelyn Garden. The park, decorated with trees and statues, surrounded the Imperial Arena. Normally filled with crowds bustling into or out of the amphitheater, the place was empty that morning.

  Sephryn killed a pair of ghazel guards clustered in a shadow near the south entrance before they knew she existed. Retrieving the arrows, she climbed the stairs to the high terrace. These were the cheap seats: too high up to see the action clearly, too far away to hear the grunts or feel the spray of blood. But the spot was perfect for Sephryn, who sought elevation and an unobstructed view.

  She could hear them. The rhythmic sound echoed through the stone arches, rising and falling in a communal chant, “Unza hafa, zala hafa, unza hafa, zala hafa . . .”

  As she rushed up the narrow steps, Sephryn held an arrow ready but knew it wouldn’t help if she met a ghazel in such a tight place. She listened carefully for the hint of something above but heard nothing. Soon she was on the terrace, an open ring that circled the top of the arena wall. Carefully, her chest heaving for air, she crept to the railing. She realized she needn’t be concerned. The top floor of the arena was empty, and the group of oberdaza who danced and chanted in the center of the field far below were oblivious to everything but their magic.

  “Unza hafa, zala hafa, unza hafa, zala hafa . . .”

  Sephryn knew the story—everyone did. The Battle of Grandford was the highlight, the apex, the shining moment in the history of the empyre. The conflict at Alon Rhist had all the ingredients of legend: underdog humans facing an overwhelming foe, a final stand in a crumbling fortress, noble heroes facing evil villains, tragedy and victory, prophecies and magic. There had even been a dragon. And Sephryn’s mother had played a pivotal role. She had led her archery corps out onto the field of battle and rained death from above onto the hill called Wolf’s Head, where Fhrey Miralyith conjured their magic. Just like the oberdaza who were now below Sephryn, the undefended, armorless Miralyith of old had chanted and swayed in a circle and wreaked havoc on the human defenders. Moya had been the one who stopped them.

  Sephryn set down the bow, dumped all the arrows out of her sack, and lined them up against the rail. Her palms were moist, and without the three-fingered glove she had used in her youth, she worried the sweat could impair her string release. She might slip or roll the cord.

  “I never needed a glove,” her mother had repeated every time Sephryn put it on.

  “I’m not you,” Sephryn always answered.

  “There’s more of me in y
ou than you think.”

  “Mother, for both our sakes, let’s hope that’s not true.”

  At that point in their ritual verse and refrain, Moya would scowl, and Sephryn would smirk. But her mother wasn’t there.

  Below, she counted six chanting ghazel. The number of arrows wasn’t a problem. Nor was the fear of missing. The oberdaza were much closer than Nyphron had been. Sephryn could see the dust they kicked up from the clay floor of the battlefield, the colorful feathers around their waists, and their necklaces made of human teeth. She was confident that she could drop each one. The issue to deal with revolved around the fact that as soon as the first one died, the others would notice her. The stories of the Great War and the tale of Suri at Neith taught Sephryn that even one wielder of the Art possessed enough power to destroy an entire army. Five of them could definitely ruin Sephryn’s day. She couldn’t afford that, nor could Nolyn. For that matter, the city couldn’t, either.

  The key to success, then, was to kill each of the six at the same instant.

  “I bet you can. I’m sure you’re incredible.”

  Sephryn began taking deep breaths.

  “They say Moya was the best ever because she invented archery and used a magic bow carved from the famous oracle tree of the Mystic Wood.”

  Sephryn picked up Audrey. She felt the old bow in her hand. There was an indentation, a furrow, and a trough in which her fingers and the clutch of her palm fit perfectly. A knot protruded just a hair above the bend of her thumb. Sephryn had no idea if the spot on the grip had been carved by Roan of Rhen or whether it was merely worn down by decades of use. But what she did know was that Moya had held the bow exactly the same way when she faced the Miralyith on Wolf’s Head.

  “But the Fhrey have a dexterity that humans and Belgriclungreians lack.”

  Forcefully inhaling through her nose and out through her mouth, Sephryn pumped air into her lungs. She was still on short supply after the run, but anxiety also shortened her breath. She had to calm down, needed to relax and clear her mind. Sephryn vaguely recalled how Suri had long ago taught her students to hum as a means of tapping into the natural world and its power. Sephryn did that now. She wasn’t an Artist, but she felt the method to be similar. And perhaps she was making the same sort of link. Maybe that’s what everyone did when they prepared for something monumental—searched for the rhythm of Elan.

  “You can thrash your way upstream,” Suri had once said, “or you can enter the current and let Elan lend a helping hand.”

  Sephryn gripped six arrows in her draw hand, index markers all facing to the right. Below her, the oberdaza danced and sang their violent melody.

  “The real Nolyn is also here. At this moment, he’s fighting for his life at the Grand Arch.”

  “Unza hafa, zala hafa, unza hafa, zala hafa . . .”

  “A call for reinforcements has been sounded. So that’s where most of the ghazel are heading.”

  “Unza hafa, zala hafa, unza hafa, zala hafa . . .”

  Sephryn slowly stood up. She nocked the first arrow.

  “They’ll kill him unless you act quickly.”

  “Unza hafa, zala hafa, unza hafa, zala hafa . . .”

  Rather than directly aiming at the ghazel, she aimed high. One last inhale, then she let her breath out slowly and released. As fast as possible, she nocked, pulled, and released arrow after arrow, starting high, then reducing the arc of each shot.

  “In archery . . . the daughter of Moya the Magnificent—who is also endowed with the Fhrey blood of an Instarya father—”

  The arrows didn’t hit their targets at exactly the same time. The little guy on the right died half a heartbeat later than the three on his left, and the remaining two went down a whole three beats behind the rest.

  Blood filled Nolyn’s eyes, making it difficult to see. His face, chest, arms, and legs were soaked. He could taste the iron in his mouth. The blood shower was so intense, he wondered if perhaps it was raining from the sky. His hands were slick where they held the sword; fearful he could lose his grip, he used both hands, sweeping the blade right and left faster then he’d ever done before. The most amazing thing about the blood storm was that it wasn’t his. As far as he could tell, none of it was human; all the gore was ghazel-born.

  The unstoppable stampede of the goblin horde slammed into the unmovable Teshlor wall and fared as well as meat encountering a grinder. Whatever lessons the ghazel learned in that box canyon in the Erbon Forest had not spread to these monsters. Nolyn and his fellows faced neither arrows nor oberdaza magic, and the result was a brutal killing field.

  The ghazel were forced to drag back their dead to create paths to their enemy. Out of growing frustration, a group of more than a dozen charged forward weaponless, running full tilt and trying to knock them down. Without discussion, the Teshlors dodged, letting them through their line. The invisible barrier proved as impenetrable to them as it was to the legions, and the ghazel slammed against it with so much force that a few fell unconscious. The others were easily dispatched.

  Behind them, the legions cheered, “SIK-AUX! SIK-AUX!” But before long, that chant was overwhelmed by, “TESH-LOR! TESH-LOR!”

  Perhaps the spectators were beginning to hope that the intrepid band of eight would pull off a miracle and win the day. Nolyn knew different. He was getting tired. The others were, too. Blood-covered as they were, fatigue showed in their eyes. Exhaustion was setting in, and although they’d already killed many, hundreds more waited in their wake.

  “Why are they here?” Amicus asked as the ghazel once more took time to draw away their dead and wounded. The onetime First Spear stood with drooping shoulders, wiping blood from his face with his forearm, panting for air. “Why waste their time with us?”

  “Where’s the Instarya?” Smirch asked, doubled over, breathing hard. He used his sleeve to mop the blood tears from his face. The sleeve, soaked through, only smeared the gore around. “And the city guard? They were always around when I didn’t need them.”

  “Just a guess,” Riley said, “but if this many ghazel are here, they’ve probably already dealt with the city guard and the Instarya.”

  Nolyn agreed. “They’re fixated on us because we’re all that’s left. With the legions locked out, the ghazel only need to kill us to own the city.”

  “How’d we get in?” Everett asked. The boy looked pale and scared, but he held his panic in check, giving it no foothold.

  “Maybe the barrier came up the moment we entered?” Riley offered.

  “That’s crazy convenient,” Myth said.

  “The Orinfar. Those symbols block magic.”

  “We all got the tattoos,” Riley said. “That’s how we . . . wait a minute, wouldn’t that mean . . .”

  “Are you kidding me?” Smirch asked.

  “Can we all just walk out?” Amicus asked.

  Just then, the wall of teeth, claws, spears, and sword clashed once more.

  Combat, as it was happening, wasn’t something Nolyn could focus on. His mind didn’t freeze up; on the contrary, his body reacted at a speed beyond conscious thought, freeing his mind to the point of wandering. In a real sense, Nolyn felt like an observer watching himself fight. He emotionally cringed in anticipation of a mistake and cheered when he escaped unscathed. He was his own audience, just as invested and emotional as the most ardent fan, but still just a spectator to the event. He wasn’t deciding when to swing or how. His movements were dictated by reflex, the accumulated result of centuries of experience, much of which he couldn’t put into words. Instead, when trying to explain it to new recruits, he used vague terms like dancing or rhythms in music. Hearing himself describe it, he was certain no one—except those who already knew—could understand.

  Careful! There’s one coming up on the left. Be ready!

  He gave himself advice like an onlooker certain the participant was unaware of the hidden threat.

  He’s going to swing high!

  Nolyn ducked and stabbed; he felt
the blade sink in.

  Pull it out! Pull it out! Another one! There’s another on your right. You’re too late!

  Jerel’s blade saved him.

  The shiny warrior always managed to know when to step in.

  It’s the Teshlor training. They see the future; all of them are forecasters of the fight, clairvoyants of combat. Or is it true? Is there one god, and did—

  “Fall back!” Amicus shouted, perhaps hoping they could, indeed, pass through the barrier and that the legions outside may have changed their minds about killing them.

  Nolyn’s foot slipped. Blood on the stone was slick as ice. His balance faltered. The next blow was blocked, but it sent him farther off-center. He was far from down, but the fall was predestined. Even Nolyn, who lacked Teshlor training, knew that.

  Look out! Look out! his mind screamed. Oh, no! You’re going down!

  Facing the end, Nolyn managed to notice a cry from the right.

  Everett’s voice. Got him, too. This is it. It’s over.

  Another strike caught by his blade sent Nolyn backward. His remaining foot went out, and he felt the fall.

  Jerel’s blade blocked, blocked again, and then . . . there was a cheer followed by a roar.

  As Nolyn’s back hit the pavement and his head slapped the stone, he heard a sound like an ocean wave crashing. Loud and close, the roar rumbled over Nolyn as he watched legs running past on both sides. Several leapt over him.

  The barrier was down. The legions had entered.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Telling the Truth

  All of the oberdaza were dead.

  Sephryn had checked. She’d gone down to the arena floor, bow nocked. Then while aiming the razor tip of a brand-new bodkin at each face, she kicked each ghazel one by one. They were either dead or really good at pretending. She relaxed the bow and started pulling arrows. Four came out just fine. One had somehow managed to splinter as if it had hit stone, and the last one wouldn’t pull free no matter how hard she tried.