58. CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT
Sinope’s raspy voice shattered the surrounding stillness. “What have you done?”
An icy wind tore through the camp, stabbing Katell’s bare arms and legs like a thousand needles. Yet it was nothing compared to the sharp ache in her chest.
“Why do you side with the enemy?” The Amazon took slow, deliberate steps towards her. “Didn’t I suffer enough at their hands?”
Like a blade, Sinope’s words shredded Katell. She staggered back, trembling before the friend she had killed.
“Katell, pick up your sword!” Pinaria cried out. “Whatever that thing is, it isn’t your friend.”
Sinope stretched out a pale, bloodied hand. “Come with me, Katell. Come with me and be free of this place. Be free of your wretched life. You can be at peace.”
Shaking her head, Pinaria tugged on Katell’s arm. Her mouth moved, but Katell couldn’t hear a word. Time seemed to slow, the world fading away and leaving her in the dark with her nightmares.
The arena’s frenzied crowd, Sinope’s bruised face, the blood tainting her lips.
Through it all, the Amazon’s outstretched hand was her only salvation. Her only relief from all the horror and chaos.
“Peace?” Katell asked, her voice a distant echo.
Sinope’s smile was radiant and achingly familiar, a stark reminder of the days they’d spent together, chained in the belly of the arena. The Amazon had bathed Katell after the fights, watched over her in the healing room, and kept her alive day after day when all hope was lost. Katell owed her everything.
She reached out and clasped Sinope’s hand.
“Katell, no!”
Swift as a shadow, the ghost closed the gap between them and plunged a dagger into her side. The blade pressed against her flesh, making Katell gasp, but the pain felt distant and unreal. When she glanced down, the weapon disappeared in a swirl of fog.
“Katell!” Pinaria rushed forward, stabbing Sinope with her short sword, but the blade passed right through the Amazon as if she were also made of fog—an illusion in the night.
Time sped up again, and crippling pain spread through Katell like fire, stealing her breath. The blade must have reached her lung.
All at once, the camp and her surroundings were very real again, screams piercing the night sky from all directions. Doubling over, she coughed up blood, her magic struggling to heal such a deep wound.
Sinope loomed over her, the same eerie smile curling her lips.
“Katell!” Pinaria’s relentless assault with sword and knife proved futile, everything passing harmlessly through the translucent figure.
Two gaping black holes stared back at Katell. “I befriended you. I took care of you, and you killed me. You betrayed me.”
“No.” She pressed a trembling hand to the gash between her ribs, trying to staunch the bleeding. “No, never. You were my friend.”
“Then why did you join their army?” the Amazon hissed.
“Because the world isn’t as you described it, Sinope.” She gasped for breath, chest heaving as her healing magic combated the fiery pain. “Not every Rasennan is the enemy. I understand that now. Among the very Rasennans you detest, I was saved by one. He freed me from the arena. He helped me control my Gift, and I believe in his cause. I want to fight at his side to keep the peace.”
Pinaria’s eyes darted about, searching for a way to help. Her gaze fell to the campfire, and tearing a piece of her tunic, she began crafting a torch.
Sinope’s focus shifted to the Rasennan girl, but Katell seized the ice-cold, spectral hand to hold her back.
“I see you’ve moved on and made new friends,” the Amazon whispered, her bloodied face reflecting a profound longing. “I fear that with time, you’ll forget about me.”
Katell’s heart twisted in her throat. “Never, I promise.”
She blinked, and Sinope was on her knees as well, clasping Katell’s face between freezing hands. Had her silver eyes not been destroyed, Katell knew they would have been filled with tears.
“Do you remember that night we tried to escape?” Sinope’s voice wavered. “You and I, working together… I really thought we could succeed. Together, I thought we could have done anything.”
“We would have been unstoppable.” Her throat tightened with tears, and she rested her forehead against Sinope’s, remembering how beautiful and majestic she had once been. “I would have followed you anywhere, my friend.”
In the next moment, Pinaria threw the burning torch at the Amazon’s feet, and Katell reeled back. Bright orange flames came to life, licking Sinope’s legs and tunic as if she were made of wood. The ghost gave an inhuman howl, and with a final burst of light, she was gone.
Katell dropped her head to the ground and sank her fingers into the soil. The aching hollow in her chest gaped wider as Sinope’s words rang through her mind.
Her accusations. Her attack. The naked fear in her voice.
It had felt so real, and yet, it was just another Westerner trick.
Pinaria knelt beside her, ripping another piece of her tunic. “Katell, are you all right?”
She drew a shuddering breath against the damp ground. “I… I don’t know.”
Biting the inside of her cheek, she reined in a sob.
She couldn’t break. Not now. Not with the camp under attack.
Pinaria helped her sit up and pressed the ripped fabric to the wound in her ribs. Her healing magic worked on repairing the damage to her lung, and her breathing eased.
Faded screams and cries echoed through the foggy darkness, and in response, Pinaria’s hands lit up with a purple glow.
Katell wiped her cheeks with the back of her hand. Now wasn’t the time to sit on the ground and weep. The legion needed them.
Taking a steadying breath, she staggered to her feet. “We need to help.”
Pinaria’s eyes widened. “No, you’re still badly hurt.”
“I’m fine,” she hissed through clenched teeth, holding the strip of tunic against her wound. “If these ghosts can be beaten with fire, then we need to warn Dalmatius. We’ll need his Gift. I’ll go to his tent while you warn the others.”
Pinaria’s gaze darted between Katell and the direction of the screams. In the end, she picked up the burning torch and handed it to her. “You see any more of these… ghosts… you light them up. I’ll spread the word through camp.”
Katell nodded and stumbled away towards Dorias’ tent. Thick fog blocked her sight, but she headed in the general direction, holding her torch out, thankful for the legion’s neat rows of tents to guide her. Her feet caught on ropes, stakes, and even a dead body, but at last, she spotted the praefect’s larger tent ahead, surrounded by tall torches planted in the ground.
Only one guard remained by the entrance, crouched with his head in his hands. A translucent old woman wrapped in a black shawl stood over him, whispering.
A blade glinted in the ghost’s hand, and Katell darted forward, setting fire to her shawl. The spectral figure howled, her wrinkled face whipping around before it disappeared in a burst of light.
Heart racing, Katell burst inside the tent. “Dorias!”
She froze at the sight that greeted her. The praefect stood by his desk, his bandaged chest exposed, and a torch between his hands. Face pale with shock, he faced the two ghosts before him: a pregnant woman and a small toddler.
The woman’s voice was a soft whisper. “Dorias, my love, come with us. We’ve been waiting for you. All these years, we longed to see you again. We can be a family again.”
They were his dead wife and son, who’d been killed during the Western attack on the Rasennan coastline. Dorias’ gaze was riveted on the little boy who resembled him so much.
His throat bobbed, and without a word, he threw the torch at their feet and stepped back. The flames licked up the ghosts’ ragged clothes, and their screams filled the tent.
Katell rushed to stamp out the torch before the rug caught on fire. Still fixing the spot, Dorias dug his fingers into his hair and released a heart-rending cry, which broke Katell’s heart.
In two quick strides, she closed the distance between them and pulled him into a crushing embrace. A moment later, he locked his arms around her shoulders and buried his face in her hair.
Chest to chest, she could feel his heartbeat racing, and she breathed in his scent.
“What are they?” His voice was a deep growl.
She glanced up. “We’re not sure.”
His arm brushed her side, and she winced.
“You’re hurt.” He furrowed his brow and pulled away, taking note of her blood-soaked tunic. “What happened?”
“I had my own ghost to deal with.” She inspected the wound. Although the bleeding had stopped, the skin underneath was still raw. “Don’t worry, I’ll be fine soon.”
She helped him back to bed, and he leaned against the thick cushions with a grunt. His leg wounds weren’t healed enough to walk, let alone fight.
“I’m fine,” he rasped as she surveyed his bandages. Blood seeped through one of the linens wound around his calf. “The screams woke me up, and I grabbed my sword, but I wasn’t prepared to see those things walk right through the tent wall. Steel didn’t hurt them, but I noticed they avoided the candles and grabbed the nearest torch.”
Snatching some clean linen from the stool, Katell re-wrapped his wound. “Why didn’t you use your Gift?”
Dorias’ muscles tensed under her care. “I’m not strong enough yet to call on Laran’s Flame. It requires more magic than usual.”
Katell opened her mouth to ask why, but warning shouts cut her off. She whirled around, grabbed her sword, and then hesitated.
Dorias jerked his chin towards the entrance. “Go. They need you.”
“I’m not leaving you like this.”
He gave a dry huff. “Are you saying Dalmatius, the Undefeated, can’t defend himself?” The pained scowl on his face belied his attempt at humour.
She pinned him with a glare. “You’ll be Dalmatius the Dead if you leave this tent.”
The flaps rustled open, letting a chill inside, and Atticus’ bulky frame appeared.
“Praefect Dalmatius.” He strode towards them, a deep crease etched on his brow. “Praise Laran, you’re all right.”
“What happened?” Dorias demanded.
The Black Helmet’s armour was covered in blood, and magic danced in his amber eyes. “An attack, sir. The camp is swarming with apparitions, deceased loved ones it seems, that have come to torment the living and physically harm them.”
Katell ground her teeth. She’d been right, the ghosts were another cowardly Westerner attack.
“Did you find Pinaria?” she asked.
“Yes, she’s at the gates. Once she revealed the key was fire, word spread through the camp and helped repel the enemy. However, the Westerners are pouring down the hill, hiding amid the darkness and the unnatural fog. They’re preparing to launch an attack.”
Dorias shot up. “They’re what?!”
His face twisted, and Katell clicked her tongue, pushing him back against the cushions. “Lie still, or you’ll reopen your wounds.” She was about to tell Atticus to mind his tongue when more panicked shouts echoed in the distance. Her patience wore thin, and she huffed out a short breath.
“Stay put,” she told Dorias. “We’ll handle this.”
She grabbed the second-in-command, pulled him away from the bed, and lowered her voice. “How many Westerners?”
“Several thousand at least, and I spotted their priests among them. If we don’t stop them, they’ll keep sending the ghosts, and then amid the chaos, they’ll strike.” The situation was dire indeed if the Westerners were confident enough to leave the safety of their hillfort. “We need the Undefeated to lead the men. We need Laran’s Flame.”
“Absolutely not! He’s not going anywhere. He can barely make it out of the tent, much less into battle.” What they needed was to come up with a different plan.
But Atticus was already shaking his head. “We have no choice. The legate sent orders, and the cohort commanders are waiting for Dalmatius to lead. Without him, morale will be low.”
Katell grumbled a slew of nasty words, annoyance bubbling up within her. As much as the Rasennan Legions were organised, they seemed to quickly fall apart without their leaders. Why couldn’t the legate lead his own men? Why couldn’t the soldiers find the courage within themselves to fight without waiting to be led?
But Atticus was right. Morale was an important aspect of war, and the Westerners had known exactly how to break theirs.
I would rather lead one hundred brave men into battle than one thousand soldiers filled with fear. Damocles had once taught her those words, uttered by an Achaean hero before battle, although she’d forgotten which one.
Shouts rang through the camp, tearing her from her thoughts.
“Well, what about you?” she asked.
“Atticus can lead from afar.” Dorias’ deep voice cut across the tent. “His Gift makes him the best tactician in the whole army, but he can’t fight in the front lines. Katell, you’ll have to go instead.”
He was meant to be resting, not eavesdropping. She shot him an impatient look. “I can’t lead the charge; the men won’t follow me.”
“Use the Tears.” Dorias motioned to the altar by his desk. “If you take three, you’ll be able to wield Laran’s Flame, and any wounds you sustain should heal faster as well.”
Three for battle.
She wavered, uncertain about taking so many all at once. The vivid surge of magic from her previous experience made her wonder how much more powerful she could be if she consumed three. But with the chaos reigning outside, time was running out to contemplate their options, so she agreed. She picked up the small vial and poured three black pebbles into the palm of her hand.
Atticus brought her water, and she swallowed all three Tears at once. They tasted like dirt.
The shouts came closer.
“Take the masked helmet.” Dorias watched her with grim determination from the edge of the bed.
From the shelf, Katell picked up a black-plumed iron helmet with a bronze face mask to hide her features.
Atticus grabbed one of Dorias’ smaller breastplates, and she unclasped her belt, taking off her chain mail vest. The power of the Tears pulsed through her, and the lingering pain in her ribs disappeared. A surge of invigorated power coursed through her veins, and her body thrummed with strength.
Atticus fitted the leather cuirass around her, tying the straps, while Dorias focused on rubbing his fingers together. Tension rippled along his jaw until a single small flame materialised at the tip of his finger.
“Here, take it.” He held his palm out. “Laran’s Flame is stronger than regular fire and can’t be extinguished easily. With it, you can make them pay for the terror they brought upon us tonight.”
Katell nodded and held her hand out, touching the flame and growing it with ease until it consumed her entire palm. Just like the first time, the flames danced over her skin but did not burn.
Atticus’ eyes widened, and then he snapped his gaze to Dorias. “I’ll send soldiers to guard the tent. Hold tight while we get revenge.”
“Once the men see you holding the fire and wearing my helmet, they’ll follow you into battle, Katell.” Despite his injuries, Dorias’ voice was strong. “The enemy won’t know the difference, especially at night. Atticus, you and the Black Helmets will guard her back. If the tide of the battle allows you to storm the hillfort, then take it and find the Megarians. The Emperor wants them alive. Forget Brennus and the Westerners, and capture the Megarian rebels. They’re more dangerous.” His steel gaze locked with hers. “Lead with courage and bring me victory.”
She slipped the plumed helmet over her head and lowered the mask. “I won’t fail you, Praefect.”
Atticus saluted, and they walked out, adrenaline coursing through Katell’s veins. Magic brewed inside her like a storm, hotter and brighter, filling her with unrivalled power. When she peered at her fist through the slits of her mask, the flames had engulfed her arm up to her elbow.
Cohort commanders and soldiers waited outside. Shock marred their features when they spotted her.
“To the wall,” Atticus ordered and strode past the rows of tents, Katell trailing close behind.
The fog had lifted, and the camp lay in chaos, ripped tents and dead soldiers littering the pathways. They headed towards the palisade then through the nearest gate, towards the enemy. The commanders and soldiers followed without a word, armed with swords and shields. More rallied to them as they marched.
Atticus frowned at the handful of archers along the walls and called out orders to one of the cohort commanders. The other leaders relayed them, and soldiers rushed to the battlements and watchtowers.
At the gate, Pinaria’s silvery purple magic covered the thick wooden gates, lighting them like a beacon and illuminating the slope ahead.
Katell followed Atticus up the narrow staircase of the watchtower. The first parapet was higher than the palisade, offering a perfect view of the hill. In the shadows, Western warriors stood just beyond the defensive ditches. Dozens of helmets, shields, and swords glinted in the darkness, still and silent. At their feet, wisps of fog swirled.
Sinope’s torn expression and Dorias’ anguished face flashed through Katell’s mind, and a savage bloodlust rose within her, begging to be sated.
“I’m going to kill them.” Her hateful words reverberated inside the helmet like a dark echo.
“Hear me, soldiers of Laran!” Atticus bellowed at her side, facing the soldiers along the parapets and on the ground. Arnza and Larth stood by the gates, flanking Pinaria. “The enemy has breached our camp with magic. They have killed our friends with vile illusions, but our anger and swords are very much real. Tonight, we don’t let them overrun us. Tonight, we stand our ground. Tonight, Laran is with us!”
Magic, raw and all-consuming, carved its way through Katell’s limbs and the flames burned brighter in the night. They swirled upwards, covering her shoulder until her whole sword arm was engulfed, lighting up the watchtower.
Atticus unsheathed his sword, holding it up high. “Rasenna victorious!”
“Rasenna victorious!” Hundreds of chants answered in kind, and then hundreds more banged their swords against their shields throughout the camp.
In the next beat, low, mournful sounds came from the lines of Westerners further up on the hill. They weren’t like anything Katell had ever heard before—powerful rumbles like the groans of a dying stag.
The call of an attack.
And yet, none of the warriors moved.
“The fog!” an archer called out.
Atticus peered over the stakewall, and Katell cursed as the thick mist seeped through their barricades.
“Brace yourselves!” Atticus bellowed. The cohort commanders shouted orders to their men. “Stand by the torches!”
The unnatural mist closed in all around them, slithering through the cracks of the palisade and covering the ground on either side. Soldiers and tents drowned in it and soon, the first screams followed.
“Stay by my side,” Atticus said, and Katell shifted closer, holding out the flames in defence.
“Kat,” a deep voice echoed.
She whirled around, milky wisps of fog swallowing her whole. Atticus’ broad frame disappeared, and she raised the bronze face mask to get a clearer view.
“My brave Kat.”
Her heart stilled at the familiar voice.
A figure emerged on the walkway. He looked just like he had the day of the accident, dressed in his hunting gear with shaggy blond hair, a clean-shaven face, and a scar running along his jawline.
Her throat dried up. “Father.”
“It’s good to see you again, Kat.”
“You’re not real.” She grabbed a knife from her belt and threw it at him. It sailed right through his bloodied chest and disappeared over the wall.
“I am here, and you will listen to me.” His voice rang out, drowning the distant sounds of battle and screams. “You will stop this madness and remember your duty to the Freefolk. To our family.”
She held out her arm, swirling with Laran’s Flame, in a threatening stance. “You are not my father.”
Damocles’ dark gaze stared at her. “You’ll do what’s best for the family.”
A roaring pulse drummed in her ears, and she lunged, the flames lashing out from her hand. The ghost disappeared at once, and she screamed in the milky fog, “You lied to me! All those years, you lied to me about the camp. About my parents. About my Gift!”
She pivoted in the relentless fog, her surroundings obscured behind an impenetrable veil. When Damocles reappeared, she swung around, cursing at him. “You are nothing to me now. Nothing!”
She attacked again, but her legs hit the top of the palisade, hidden in the fog. Sharp wooden stakes scraped her cuirass, but she caught herself before toppling over.
By the time she recovered her breath, the mist thinned, and Atticus emerged, torch in hand, locked in battle with other apparitions.
She searched the walkway, but Damocles was nowhere to be seen. At last, she spotted his ghostly figure at the foot of the palisade, watching her. Anger tore through her, hotter than Laran’s Flame, and pulsed with each beat of her heart.
Appraising the drop, she planted her foot between two wooden stakes and jumped.
“Katell, no!” Atticus’ roar waned as the wind whipped about her ears.
With a grunt, she landed on the muddy ground, her helmet rattling and her bones aching. Already, her healing Gift was taking care of the pain. In her palm, cradled against her chest, Laran’s Flame had survived.
Katell called for her magic, and it came to her at once. The flames grew in her hand, raced up her arm and down her body in perfect control, licking the ground in a tight circle.
They grew with every step she took towards Damocles, illuminating everything around them—the palisade, the ditches, and the rows of Western warriors standing on the slope.
Shouts resonated from the walls, trumpets sounded in every direction, and the gates groaned open, revealing a shield wall of Rasennan soldiers. In the next heartbeat, a wave of arrows shot through the sky and rained down on the line of Westerners, who hid behind their shields.
The low moan of the Western horns blasted in response. Fair-haired warriors, carrying weapons of all shapes and sizes, roared into the night and descended the slope, blocking arrows with their shields. They surged forward like a tidal wave, breaking on the Rasennan lines.
Clashing steel, horns, and shouts filled the night air, but Damocles remained still, indifferent to it all. Up close, his left hip and leg jutted out at an odd angle, just as they had after the accident.
“I was keeping you safe.” He stood by the edge of a ditch, his posture crooked. “I was following orders.”
Katell glanced into his greyish-pale face. “Whose orders?”
“Your mothers.”
She shook her head, refusing to be fooled again. “Another lie.”
With unnatural speed, Damocles’ apparition shot forward with a snarl, their noses a handbreadth apart. “Remember your duty, daughter. Protect the family, no matter what.”
Damn him, and damn his words! She was so sick of them.
She had protected the family.
She’d done everything she could to protect Alena, but now her sister was lost, and the Black Helmets needed her.
But there was no point trying to explain herself to a mere illusion.
It was time to end it.
She let the fire crackling at her feet swell and envelop them in a wall of flames that licked Damocles’ leathers and hunting boots.
“I am protecting the family, Father.”
The flames closed around him, and Damocles’ mouth opened in a silent scream.
She smirked. “The Black Helmets are my family now, and I will protect them no matter what.”
With a final burst of light, the illusion was gone. The battle, however, still raged at the gate.
Slipping the mask back over her face, Katell unsheathed her sword and charged into enemy lines, releasing a fiery blaze upon them. “Rasenna victorious!”