Witchbreaker (Dragon Apocalypse) (41 page)

“Have you come to surrender to the Storm Guard?” she said, looking at the approaching horses. “Because you’ve got maybe two minutes left to make a decision.”

“I’m going to speak to the Voice of the Book!” Slate shouted at Castlebridge. “Do not stand in my way!”

He stepped forward. Castlebridge lowered his lance. Sorrow willed the iron sheathe of her mace to crumble away, revealing the lighting rod within. There was a loud
CRACK
and a flash that left her blinking her eyes. The crystal rod she held was hot and brightly glowing. In the sky, Castlebridge was frowning.

“I don’t need my lance to deal with you,” he bellowed, flipping his visor down as he dropped his lance and drew his sword. The sword was blood red and had an aura separate from that of Castlebridge. As the knight charged down from the sky brandishing the blade, she had the flicker of an idea that perhaps she should delay her attack in order to learn what enchantments the blade might possess. But the idea vanished as she felt the familiar pressure in her belly of Rott’s power bubbling up from the abstract realms. She quickly found the edges of the portal and focused as she widened the gap. Her body convulsed as she threw her helmet aside and snapped her jaws open. A black whirlwind swirled into the air, engulfing Castlebridge and the horse he rode in on.

To her great consternation, Castlebridge and Sunracer VI emerged from the whirlwind unscathed. Castlebridge leaned in his saddle and swung his blade toward her. She jumped aside, but the tip of his sword sliced through her armor as if it were mere fabric, leaving a three-inch gash along her right bicep. She clamped her hand upon the wound as she sucked air through her teeth. The pain was nearly blinding as the blood gushed between her fingers. Worse, the shock of the blow had once more distracted her from properly closing the energy gate. The dose of dark magic dissipating through her set her nerves jangling from scalp to toes.

Sunracer VI turned swiftly, targeting Slate. Slate stood with his legs spread to steady his stance. The horse seemed aimed to collide with Slate’s chest, veering at the last possible instant to allow Castlebridge to aim his slashing sword at Slate’s neck. Slate’s hand shot out and grabbed Castlebridge by the wrist, halting the blow and knocking the older knight off balance. Slate yanked Castlebridge from his saddle and threw him to the ground. Castlebridge’s helmet tore free from its clasps as the knight rolled across the rocky earth. He wound up on his back, looking dazed, his arms spread to his side. The red sword was still in his grasp. Slate jumped toward the fallen knight, driving his boot into the wrist that held the blade.

“Yield, and face no further harm,” Slate said.

“Fool!” Castlebridge’s face twisted with fury. “You don’t know what you’re doing! It’s you who must yield! Your companion’s already dead!”

“Wrong,” said Sorrow, walking toward them. “Still alive.”

“A fleeting condition, witch!” Castlebridge said as he stared at her scalp. “The wounds inflicted by the blood blade never heal. You’ll bleed to death soon enough.”

Sorrow looked toward the approaching horsemen. She wasn’t feeling confident about trying to use Rott’s power again, and twenty men on horseback seemed like a lot even for Slate to handle.

“Let’s get inside the temple,” she said.

“I’ll fight to my dying breath to stop you!” growled Castlebridge as he rolled to his side, struggling to free his arm. Fortunately, he was in full plate armor. On the ground, his movements were somewhat reminiscent of a turtle.

Sorrow knelt. She still had one hand clamped onto her arm to slow her blood loss, but she placed the hand of her wounded arm upon Castlebridge’s armor. She could feel enchantment within the casing, perhaps a protective spell that had spared him from her power earlier. Enchantment or no, the armor was made from iron, so it was a simple matter to force Castlebridge once more onto his back. She ran her hand from joint to joint, crimping the metal, swiftly turning his armor into a prison.

She tore his cape free. Now that it wasn’t flapping, she could see the embroidered letters spelled out ‘Castlebridge.’ For some reason, this increased her pleasure in tearing the cape into shreds.

She willed her own armor to fall into rust. She wouldn’t be needing it anymore. She handed Slate the strips of cloth and said, “Bandage me. Make it tight.”

“Your hands...” he said, staring at her talons.

“I know. You can stare at them later. Just bandage me.”

He tied the strips around her arm, pulling the cloth so tight it was painful. But the pressure had the desired effect, as the blood loss slowed to a seep.

By now, the horsemen were in full gallop toward them, no more than half a mile away and closing quickly. She looked back and saw an army of knights pouring out of the Temple of the Book. She noticed Sunracer VI returning to the hole she’d originally seen him launch from. Apparently, the steed didn’t like Castlebridge anymore than she did.

She turned Slate away from her and wrapped her arms around his chest. “Hold tight!” she shouted as she spread her wings. Her most powerful flap failed to lift them. For her to carry him, she’d need to already have some momentum.

“Run down hill!” she cried as she pushed him. “Keep your arms out to your side!”

“I can’t leave the coffin!” he protested.

“We’ll be the ones needing coffins if you don’t trust me!”

Slate looked unhappy, but he nodded to indicate her argument made sense. He spread his arms and ran downhill, even though this meant he was now charging directly at the mounted Storm Guard. She waited until he was thirty yards away before running after him, then kicking off with all the strength she could muster. She could feel the weariness of her sleepless night draping over her like a heavy blanket, weighing her down as she flapped as furiously as she could manage. It was enough for her to catch air beneath her wings. By now, Slate was a hundred yards down the slope from her. She glided toward him, building speed, the ground flashing by mere inches beneath the tips of her wings. Slate and the horsemen were only yards apart when she caught him and jerked him into the sky. His left foot caught the lead horseman in the face, knocking him from his saddle and stripping Sorrow of a bit of momentum. Gritting her teeth, she flapped so hard she feared her wings would tear from her shoulders. The effort paid off, and soon she was soaring well above the heads of the thundering Storm Guard.

She banked and cut a long arc through the air. Drawing on Jetsam’s lessons, she found the edge of a steep slope exposed to the rising sun and caught the wind that pushed up from it. She spiraled higher on the updraft, her sweat turning to beads of ice upon her skin. At last she climbed higher than the temple. She tilted toward it, intending to glide the remaining distance. Unfortunately, as she approached, she saw archers in every window. She wasn’t certain she could dodge missiles while carrying Slate.

A curious thing happened as she came within range. All the archers lowered their bows in unison, and vacated the windows of the temple, leaving her a choice of landing sites. She aimed for the largest opening, filled with the brightest lights. It was the only one wide enough to accommodate her wingspan.

“This might get rough!” she called out to Slate. They were flying too fast. Landing at this speed was going to be painful, but if she tried to slow her flight they would drop below the window and crash into the face of the cliff. She would have to turn her wings into parachutes the second they were safely inside. She’d practiced rapid landings with Jetsam, but never carrying an armored knight.

But it wasn’t her lack of practice that endangered her as she flashed through the window. Instead, the second she entered the room beyond, her left eye went blind. She crashed into a chandelier comprised of hundreds of tiny glorystones linked together by fine silver chains. The unexpected net entangled her wings and she crashed to the stone floor. Slate tore from her grasp as she bounced upon the white quartz. The glorystones beneath her tore into her like glass shards.

The world swirled slowly as spots danced before her. No matter how hard she blinked, she had no sight at all in her left eye. She tried to rise on her hands and knees but failed, collapsing to the floor, weak as a baby. It was more than just exhaustion or blood loss. It was as if half the life had been sucked from her body.

Slate had fared better. He was already on his feet, studying their surroundings. As near as Sorrow could gather, they were in a long hall lined with doors. At the end of the hall, she saw a large iron door swing open. A man in black robes stepped through, pausing to lock the door behind him. He walked toward them, his hands clasped behind his back. He was old and thin, with thick curls of snow-white hair that hung about his shoulders like a lion’s mane. His expression was a curious mix of sternness and serenity as he approached them.

“I apologize for telling the archers to stand down,” the man said. “I saw no need for them to get hurt.”

“Apologize?” asked Slate.

“The two of you have a thirst for attacking lawful authorities,” the man said. “A man of your description killed several guards in the Silver City only weeks ago. You’re obviously the same ruffians who abused the port inspectors earlier this week, and I heard you confess to Forthright that you killed the Storm Guards who camped at the pass.”

“You heard... how?”

The man shrugged. “I’ve lived in this place a very long time. I’m spiritually attuned with the very rocks you stand upon. There is nothing that takes place upon this mountain of which I’m not aware.”

“Then, you must be—”

“Utmost Humble, the Voice of the Book,” he said.

Slate knelt before the man. “Sir, I’m a knight of the book, seeking permission to inter the remains of—”

“A knight?” Utmost said, with a scoff. “Stand up.”

Slate stood.

“You’re not a knight. You’re not even human. You’re a bit of clever magic that has broken free of the control of its caster.”

“The blood of Lord Stark Tower beats within my veins,” said Slate. “His soul is my soul.”

“You should be grateful that statement is untrue. Avaris killed Tower with his own sword. The poor man’s soul has burned in the deepest pits of hell for nearly five centuries,” said Utmost, shaking his head as if recounting it was distasteful. “Take comfort that, when you die, you’ll face no such torments. Nothing but oblivion awaits you. It’s almost a peaceful fate, if you contemplate it.”

“It’s not a fate I accept,” said Slate.

Utmost sighed. “I understand. You’re not to blame for the travesty of your own existence. I’m sure you would prefer to live a life that had some semblance of meaning. And perhaps you will.”

Sorrow’s head had cleared somewhat by now. She rose to her hands and knees, contemplating the blood on the stone beneath her. Utmost turned his face toward her and said, “You will lie back down.”

She did so, though she fought with all her will to rise.

“What meaning?” Slate asked. “What meaning can my life have if I am soulless?”

Utmost gave a feeble smile. “When I turn you over to the Storm Guard, your torture and torment will occupy them for a while. It will give tensions time to ebb. Nearly daily, I’m faced with the emissaries of Tempest, threatening to invade this sanctuary and destroy the One True Book. Ordinarily, I would lend no credence to his threats. But after our mission to kill Greatshadow ended in failure, and our plan to kill Glorious left a human intelligence in command of an elemental power, Tempest has become quite anxious.”

“Because he believes he’s your next target?”

Utmost laughed. “No. He’s not our target. He’s our ally. He approached us with a plan to eliminate the other primal dragons. His Storm Guard were the raiders who stole the Jagged Heart. He gave us advice as to which abstract realms would provide the most advantageous battlegrounds. Now that our first two assassinations have gone awry, he’s blaming us for the failures.”

“What? Why would Tempest ally himself with you? Why would you ally yourself with him?”

Utmost shrugged. “This island has been the birthplace of many religions. Tempest knows that even primal dragons may be slain. He wishes to escape death by transcending his draconic nature and becoming a god.”

“And why would you assist him in this?”

“If we trust the truth of our faith, then we trust the truth he will fail. For now our goals are aligned, as he helps us target other primal dragons. Also, there’s the not inconsequential matter that he does hold this temple hostage at the moment. The Storm Guard society doesn’t function well. It’s corrupt, built upon an unsustainable economy of slaves, and fails even to feed its own people. The Silver Isles would have conquered this land long ago, if not for Tempest’s threat to destroy this sacred place.” He nodded toward the door he’d entered. “The One True Book lies beyond that door. This holy ground is protected by wards that bar elemental spirits, but, even so, the dragon would only have to extend his power a few hundred feet to destroy it forever.”

“Then move the book!” Slate said, sounding completely exasperated.

“The book is too holy for human hands to ever touch,” said Utmost. “Until the Omega Reader opens its pages, men’s souls are too sullied by sin to survive a brush with the divine power the book contains. They would burn like a leaf placed upon a red-hot forge.”

“But—”