Chapter 15 #2
I pull back into the doorway to keep from being spotted by the Grey as he approaches.
The soldier holding Flora has gone pale, his attention fixed on the Grey.
Faolan takes advantage of the distraction and draws his sword.
Steel rasps as it slides from the scabbard, and the soldier holding Flora whips around to face him, using Flora as a shield, the tip of his blade pressed into the hollow of flesh beneath her chin.
Faolan stops.
My mind races. I’ve seen soldiers like this—caught up in situations they can’t escape. Even the slightest movement now risks Flora’s life.
I’ll need a weapon, every scrap of magic I can summon, and the element of surprise.
Calculating odds, I glance at the Grey. Then I step out into the doorway.
Flora spots me. Her eyes widen, and she shakes her head. A small shake, scarcely visible. She’s telling me to stay back, and damn it, I don’t know why. Every instinct screams at me to help her.
The commotion in the kitchen tower spills into the courtyard as three black-and-white herding dogs bolt outside, teeth bared and bodies bristling with rage. Two bleed from gashes on their backs and haunches. Blood drips from their mouths.
Flora snaps an order, and they run towards her. Then they notice the Grey and launch themselves at him instead.
The Grey barely reacts. Eyes locked on Flora, he lifts his hand almost casually. The dogs jerk to a halt mid-leap, their throats caught by invisible fists of air. Legs thrashing, they hang helplessly suspended.
I flinch towards them, then make myself stop. The Grey is an air wielder, like I am, and his magic will feed on Flora’s anguish. I have to be smarter.
The sound of approaching hoofbeats pulls my attention to the gate. The second Grey—the female—trots across the bridge. So now there are two to deal with.
The first Grey reaches Flora. The soldier still holds the sword at her neck. Her mouth moves, pleading with the male Grey, her hand gesturing to the dogs.
That’s a mistake. She’s shown what matters to her.
The Grey turns his head—a slow, flesh-crawling motion like a carrion crow. Then his hand flashes out. The soldier holding Flora drops to the ground, unmoving, and his fallen sword is replaced by the Grey’s hand clamped around Flora’s throat.
My lungs squeeze shut. Rage roars in my ears.
The Grey whips Flora around and hauls her up against him, her toes barely on the ground. Her eyes are huge, round with fear.
And everything else be damned. I have to help her.
A faint shadow passes behind the Grey as a thin cloud mutes a corner of the sun. I throw myself into it, praying to the Father of Light that it will be enough.
Pain and cold tear at my limbs. The shadow is too thin to accept me. Caught in the in-between, I try to force myself through. The pressure grows crushing.
I should go back. I push harder instead, stuck in an endless loop. Then the air finally sheets flat against my skin, and I’m released into the courtyard. I drop to a knee and drag a thin cloak of shadow over me, concealing myself while I try to pull breath back into my lungs.
The Grey is enjoying Flora’s fear too much to notice me—or to kill her yet.
He turns her face towards the dogs and sweeps his other arm wide, unleashing a magic so ugly that it makes mine crawl beneath my skin.
The dogs fly ten feet, and their small bodies smash against the stone wall of the chapel with a gut-churning crack. They slide down in a heap of broken bones and fur.
They lie still. Then a woman screams.
It isn’t Flora. Dangling where the Grey holds her, Flora makes a raw sound—half snarl, half sob—and goes rigid in the Grey’s grasp, her eyes fixed on the small, still bodies.
The Grey closes his eyes in ecstasy, feeding on her sorrow, her rage, her terror.
The wrongness of his magic hits me like a physical assault. It’s dizzying, nauseating, making it even harder to force myself upright through the wave of weakness. My foot catches in the stupid skirt.
Then three things happen at once. Flora’s mother breaks from the stairwell and rushes out into the courtyard. Flora screams, “No!” And the Grey twists his hand, releasing his air magic in a tight coil of power.
Flora’s mother crumples to the ground, her neck snapped to an impossible angle. The courtyard falls still, no sound, no motion. Then Flora’s scream knifes through the terrible silence. The sound carves into my soul.
Fury pulls magic from me.
Drawing from the Veilstones with the last of my strength, I twist air into a cord of wind, wrap it around the hilt of the Grey’s sword, and wrench the weapon from its scabbard.
I pull the sword into my hand. Then I lunge forward and plunge it through the Grey’s back into his heart.
Flora stumbles as he falls.
The female Grey is off her horse and running.
She flings a mist of black and red emotion at me—the remembered anguish of victims she has tortured.
All their terror, pain, and loss of hope.
I’ve seen this attack on the battlefield, seen how the red mist sinks into men and claws through their skin until they go mad.
But I’ve learned from that.
I send a burst of fire at the mist and sear it to harmless ash.
My body is nearly empty—weakness pulls at my limbs until every step feels like I’m wading a river of mud.
Desperate, I drag every last scrap of magic from the cooling Veilstones and use the stream of wind I crafted to slam the iron portcullis closed.
Then I coil the stream around the female Grey and the six soldiers with her and fling them all back against it.
They slide down the portcullis and fall in heaps to the stones beneath. The men stay down, barely moving, but the Grey crawls to her hands and knees.
Every fibre in my body burns—the price of emptying myself of magic. The bandage feels wet against my chest, and I suspect I’m bleeding again. None of that matters. My knees buckle, but I force myself upright. Push myself into a run.
The sword I took from the Grey feels almost too heavy to lift, but I swing it to sever the head of the female Grey while she’s still disoriented and slow.
I can’t tell how many of the human soldiers are still alive, but Faolan—the old armsmaster—is already beside me, his sword poised to finish them off.
Flora kneels on the damp cobblestones, tears flowing down her cheeks. She cradles her mother’s body, shock and grief etched on her face and in her stillness. When she lifts her head and finds me, there is only pain where there should be accusation. She should blame me.
Her silence breaks me open.
I want to go to her, but I’m the last thing she’ll want now. I’m the one who failed her. And there are still soldiers here, those who arrived with the first Grey.
It’s almost a relief to spot them scattered around the courtyard, hanging back. The one by the chapel backs away when he sees me and darts back inside the building. The three others can’t seem to decide whether to advance or retreat.
Fighting humans is hardly a fight at all. I may be weak and empty of magic, but I’ve had centuries to learn my craft. I am very good at killing.