CHAPTER 88 Wren
CHAPTER 88
Wren
‘Gold will turn to silver in a blaze of iron and embers, giving rise to ancient power long forgotten’
– Prophecy from the Seer Queen of Aveum
A WAVE OF violence washed over the hall as the alchemists, guards, and Warswords sprang into action, their weapons and potions at the ready. Shrieks of panic echoed between the rafters, mingling with the sudden clash of steel.
Magic crackled in Wren’s veins, threatening to overwhelm her, demanding to be released. But the conflict was too close, and her control still questionable. By her side, she could feel the same power radiating from Torj, and somewhere nearby, from Thea as well.
Wren reached for her potions instead, her fingers closing around the familiar vials as she hurled herself into the chaos.
Her movements were a blur of precision and deadly intent. With a flick of her wrist, she hurled a vial of explosive black powder at the feet of the advancing attackers. It shattered, igniting a blinding flash and a concussive blast that sent the masked figures flying backwards.
Using the momentary distraction, she darted forwards, already reaching for the next vials at her belt. She lobbed a series of concoctions into the fray – a smokescreen to obscure vision, a sticky slime to ensnare feet, a corrosive acid to eat through armour.
Torj was right beside her, his war hammer singing as it crushed bones, shattered weapons, and broke men apart.
But for every enemy they felled, two more seemed to take their place. Wren gritted her teeth, realizing they were being steadily pushed back towards the royals.
‘Wren, look out!’ Torj’s shout rang out above the clamour, and Wren spun just in time to see a black-clad figure lunging towards her, wicked-looking blade in hand.
She ducked and rolled as the Warsword himself had taught her, feeling the kiss of air as the blade passed over her head. Coming up on one knee, she hurled a potion at the attacker’s feet, watching with grim satisfaction as the vial shattered and a cloud of choking vapour enveloped them.
Torj was at her side again in an instant, his war hammer swinging. Skulls caved beneath its iron, blood spraying as he shouted orders. ‘Guard the rulers! To the royals!’ he bellowed, carving a path through the enemy.
The warm glow of the graduation ceremony was gone.
The great hall became a battleground.
Poisoner and Warsword moved together in unison, felling anyone who stood in their path as they made their way towards the royals, who had huddled at the front of the hall.
A horn blasted from the entrance, where Audra stood, attempting to call their forces back. Glancing to the main gates, Wren saw that Cal and the other Warswords were dealing with a large force there, smoke pluming into the air from the fence. She leapt over bodies on the ground, the scene all too familiar to the memories she’d been trying to escape for half a decade. But she couldn’t stop. The rebels were closing in on the royals, and she saw King Leiko locked in combat with two of the attackers, his sword flashing in the wavering light as he fought to defend himself and his fellow rulers.
She started as balls of fire shot from his hands, only to fizzle out before impact. When was the last time he’d used his power in combat?
With Torj, Wren reached the front of the hall just as one of the black-clad figures made a grab for Queen Reyna, his hands closing around her arm. Wren didn’t hesitate to use her magic this time. She drew on the well of power within her, the same energy she sensed in Torj and Thea. With a cry of effort, she thrust out her hand, hurling a bolt of lightning at the attacker, watching as he convulsed and fell to the ground, his body smoking.
Torj charged towards the centre, where Thea and Wilder were fighting back-to-back, defending the cowering regent of Harenth. Nearby, another Warsword had reached King Leiko and was shielding him with her body, her sword a blur of silver before her.
All around Wren, blades clashed and people screamed, a symphony she knew like the back of her own hand. From the lectern on the podium, the High Chancellor’s voice rang out above the commotion.
‘The mind is a blade! Use it, for Furies’ sake!’
‘Dessa!’ Zavier shouted. ‘Now!’
Glass vials glinted as they spun through the air.
The pungent scent of chemicals and smoke filled the hall as the alchemists of Drevenor came to its defence.
Zavier led the attack, a sword whirling in one hand as he cast handfuls of strange powder at the enemy with the other. Some fell to their knees, choking, while others clutched at their eyes with panicked shrieks, blinded. The powder seemed to have a mind of its own, seeking out gaps in armour and exposed flesh. Where it touched skin, it left angry red welts and blisters.
Wren gaped at her teammate, distantly wondering if it was a chemical of his own design. Zavier threw her a wild grin as he continued his assault. He moved through the chaos with the grace of a dancer, his sword flashing in a deadly arc. Each strike found its mark, leaving a trail of broken bodies in his wake, while behind him, the alchemists of Drevenor rallied.
The metallic tang of blood was thick in the air and bile rose in Wren’s throat as the acrid smell of burning hair filled her nostrils, too. The sounds of shattering glass and screams of terror assaulted her ears, making it hard to think, hard to breathe.
But she had lived through battle before. And she knew the only option was to keep going.
She hurled another potion at an approaching attacker, watching as the vial exploded in a burst of blinding light and searing heat. The figure stumbled back, clutching at their eyes, and Wren took the opportunity to send a bolt of storm magic crackling towards them, the energy surging through her veins like liquid fire.
Beside her, Torj was a whirlwind of motion, his war hammer smashing through the ranks of the black-clad figures like a battering ram. He was surrounded, and only his Furies-given strength kept him in the battle against the overwhelming odds. But they kept coming, wave after wave of them.
The Bear Slayer’s face was a mask of grim determination, his eyes blazing with a fierce protectiveness that made Wren’s heart ache. She knew in her bones that he would die to protect her, to protect all those he had sworn to defend. And that knowledge terrified her more than any of the horrors unfolding around them.
That was what made her do it.
‘Torj!’ She threw her hand out, summoning lightning to her fingertips.
She sent the bolt soaring for his hammer.
Embers sparked as storm power channelled through iron, setting the ancient runes aglow with blue light. The air crackled with energy, raising the hairs on Wren’s arms, stealing the breath from her lungs.
Torj’s eyes widened as he felt the surge of power, his grip tightening on the haft of the hammer. Tendrils of magic danced along its surface.
With a roar that shook the very stones beneath their feet, Torj raised the hammer high, the brilliance of a captured tempest swirling around its head. He brought it down in a mighty swing, slamming it against the ground at the feet of their enemies.
The impact unleashed a shockwave of pure wrath. Lightning exploded outwards in a blinding flash, engulfing the masked attackers in searing light and thunderous sound. Men screamed as they were flung through the air like rag dolls, their weapons and armour melting and twisting beneath the onslaught.
When the glare faded, Wren blinked spots from her vision, her ears ringing in the sudden silence. Where moments before there had been a sea of enemies, now only smouldering bodies and scorched stone remained.
Torj stood at the centre of the devastation, his hammer still crackling with residual energy. He turned to Wren, his eyes alight with a fierce intensity.
Wren stared, her breath catching in her throat.
Gold will turn to silver in a blaze of iron and embers, giving rise to ancient power long forgotten.
The premonition from long ago came back to her in a powerful wave, goosebumps racing across her skin. In that moment, she saw Torj as the legends painted him – a force to be reckoned with, unstoppable and utterly fearsome.
The lightning-kissed Bear Slayer.
But the battle was not done. As they pushed the enemy towards the rear of the hall, Wren caught sight of High Chancellor Belcourt, his robes stained with blood as he fended off a group of attackers with a flurry of potions. She saw Farissa and Hardim locked in a deadly dance with a black-clad figure wielding a pair of curved blades, their movements a blur.
‘Wren!’ Thea’s voice cut across the chaos.
Wren was already moving towards her, blasting attackers from her path with bolts of lightning. Everywhere, she saw the bodies of those who had already fallen – fellow students, guards and alchem-ists alike. The floor was slick with blood and gore.
The fury that rose up in Wren was uncontainable.
As she reached her sister’s side, they joined forces, as they had in the war.
Storm magic met storm magic, and together they forced back a unit of thirty. A sob rose in Wren’s throat, but she choked it back, forcing herself to maintain her connection to Thea. But even as they pushed forwards, Wren couldn’t shake the feeling that she was missing something.
And then, through the haze of smoke and chaos, she saw him.
A figure clad in black like the others, his face obscured by a mask...but his eyes glinted with a cold, calculating intelligence, and his presence thrummed with the alchemy they had all come to fear.
Alchemy that made Wren’s blood run cold.