Chapter 21 Declan #3
Dozens of soldiers burst into homes, a deadly dance choreographed for maximum devastation. Those not killed are dragged, many still in their nightclothes, into the gravel road, where they are silenced forever with blades or bows.
Lachlan, another of my troop, races from his hiding place behind the inn.
A half dozen arrows find their mark.
He falls to the cold, hard ground.
And then the Mages come.
Men in long coats of quilted pelts emerge. They stride slowly, deliberately, ancient words dripping from their lips.
Their eyes blaze.
Fire leaps from their palms.
In moments, the ancient town is ablaze.
Archers bar the gates. None may leave.
An old man, hobbled by age, staggers forward. His thin robe is torn and edged with sooty blackness. His eyes are desperate. Angry bolts tear through him, one after the other, until he falls atop the rising heap of those who had sought mercy before him.
Mages ring the Rangers’ Compound.
Their hands lift toward the sky.
Their bellowing chorus rises above destruction’s roar.
Blue-white flame erupts from their palms and blasts through the ancient structure.
The roar is deafening, the flare blinding.
The building falls.
I tried to block out the screams of Rangers trapped inside the inferno.
I covered my mouth and nose, desperate to keep the stench of death from my lungs as scorched flesh and charred pine floated on billowing black smoke.
The Mages finally tire and lose their fury.
Nothing remains of Melucia’s ancient Order of Rangers.
The scene shifted again.
Soldiers fade back into the forest.
Mages retreat.
A lone man strides through the lifeless town.
He stops and turns as if listening. Yes, he heard something—or someone.
He rolls his shoulders and grips his bloodthirsty sword, then creeps toward the mysterious sound.
A house has survived the flames.
With a powerful kick, he wrenches the door from its hinges. His quarry cowers on the floor before him.
A mother, her weeping child clutched tightly, begs for mercy.
His sword offers none.
My eyes opened to find órla staring down from my chest as I lay on my back in the snow. I felt the back of my head, and my numb, ungloved hand came away wet with blood.
“Are you all right? You hit your head pretty hard when you fell.”
Bile was sour in my mouth.
I sat up slowly, trying to make my head stop swimming. “Yeah, I think so. I had another vision. This time it wasn’t the future.”
“I know. I can see them with you now.” Her voice carried little joy in our newly shared Gift.
I reached into my pack and drank deeply of the healing wine, then braced myself against the door as I gained my feet. Images from the vision flooded my mind. A maelstrom of grief and anger welled within my chest. I turned away from the door, forcing myself to take in the town’s devastation again.
My feet carried me forward on their own.
Before I realized it, I was standing in the center of town.
I looked down at the Ranger I’d uncovered before, a man I had trained beside when I was a cadet.
Righteous fury rose.
My magic raged.
Without thought, I called air from every direction, demanding it bend to my will.
The tornadic cacophony was deafening.
When I could hold no more, I screamed my anger toward the sky and threw my palms outward, releasing the powerful pulse. Like a crater carved by a fallen star, snow billowed around me for a hundred paces.
Ancient trees bowed against the powerful gust.
Loosened boards flew from buildings and fences.
What remained of the town’s walls shattered and flew.
The thick blanket of snow was blasted away, forming massive drifts well beyond the wall.
Freed from their frozen tomb, broken bodies stared up in anger and anguish, frozen in their final agonizing moment of life. Some lay buried under fallen roofs. Others bore gashes from swords. Even more were riddled with arrows and bolts.
“Ayden!” I shouted, knowing my voice would reach no living man, but desperate for anything that might offer hope. “Damnit, Ayden Byrne, answer me!”
No one stirred.
I dropped to my knees and focused all my will. I grasped my Light as one ready to wring a chicken’s neck. Its power pulsed and writhed, yet I held firm.
In my mind’s eye, I conjured Ayden. His hair blazed beneath the bright sun. “Hear me, Ayden. Where are you? Spirits, are you alive? Tell me you still live. Please . . .”
I knew he couldn’t respond. Even if he had survived the devastation, he had no magic. Unless he slept and I entered his dreams, he could receive my mental plea but not reply.
Still, I could not surrender. The enemy had taken so much. They could not tear hope from my chest. I could not let them.
So, I walked among the dead.
“Declan.”
“I must do this. I have to know.”
Tears stained my face as I kneeled beside each of the fallen. I gripped hands and muttering words of comfort and farewell. I memorized each face, seared each fractured pose into my thoughts.
Hundreds—a thousand? How many lay frozen . . . and broken?
My mind could no longer count.
My eyes begged to turn away, to close, but I forced them to see and remember.
The snowy shroud blown aside, I saw them now.
I saw them all.
But I did not see Ayden.