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The blue sphere flattened into a thin disc. Inkeri stilled the roiling power into a pool-like stillness, reflecting her face. She turned it to Timote, and that grin of his returned. “We take a peek.”
Sorcery crackled as it forked through the air. It struck with a boom.
“Hurry, Lady.” He boosted her up four ladder rungs.
Inkeri stretched up. The mirror disc crested the hatch opening. She had to scale another rung to see into the disc.
The sorcerer stood, back to the hatch, evoking another spell. He had robed in gold, mimicking the sorcerers in the old paintings that depicted the ruined days of Dragon Dark. The grey-haired man would be old in magic and experience. How many battles had he fought? He must be strong, for Frost Clime had sent him here, to open a back door to the Great Vale. “I need more power,” he called.
“You want more and more,” a woman replied, her voice faint. “You cannot wield such puissance.”
The voice gave Inkeri a direction to turn the mirror disc. She twisted her hand about and craned to see.
The woman leaned against a column at the back corner of the parapet. She grasped her arm, but blood trickled from under her hand.
She was the source of the sorcerer’s increased puissance.
Inkeri nearly withdrew the disc. Timote should direct his arrow at her; she wouldn’t have a shield. Yet she hesitated. She kept the disc trained on the woman, dark-haired, dark-garbed, willowy and tall.
Another bolt struck the street below. Men screamed.
And the sorcerer cursed. “They scatter.”
The woman raised her head then slowly walked along the balustrade to the building’s front, where the sorcerer stood. She didn’t glance at the open hatch. In the radiance of the sorcerer’s magic, the faint glow of the mirror disc attracted no attention. “Strike the fighters,” she advised. “They remain grouped.”
“That’s my wyres! I won’t risk them. I’ve lost half the pack already.”
“And you lose more. They are not well trained against swordsmen.” The woman raised a bloody hand to her dark hair. She tucked it behind her ear. “I can send a windstorm. That will separate them.”
“No. I will stun them. Give me more power.”
“You have enough,” the woman argued and edged away from the man’s grasping hand.
And Inkeri had seen enough. The woman had pointed ears. She was full Fae. A Dark Fae.
Dark hair, dark intent, Dark Fae: her mother had drilled that into her. Never trust a Kyrgy.
And here was one allied with a sorcerer.
She nearly fell down the ladder.
“Well?” Timote whispered.
She cast the power back into her right hand. “Splash more water,” she ordered.
He didn’t hesitate but doused her glowing hand. Flattening her palm, she sketched a square around it then pointed to the center. “Hatch,” she whispered. “Sorcerer.” She drew a line to the side. “Dark Fae. Your bolt goes to her. I take the sorcerer.”
“The Fae’s not attacking our men.”
“Dark Fae,” she stressed. “Dire trouble. Go now.”
He scaled the ladder. Inkeri stayed right beneath him.
He shot from the hatch then cursed, scrambling to get a second bolt into his crossbow.
The fire hit him in the face ... and burned out his scream. He toppled down the ladder, nearly taking her with him.
He didn’t move when he landed. The fire crept over his body, burning, burning. She looked away as it consumed his head.
And re-directed her plan. She kept the main elemental power in her right hand but extended a stretch of the blue into a shield. The sorcerer needed time to form his spell. A Fae didn’t.
Another bolt crackled into shape then boomed. Inkeri flew up the ladder.
A fire sphere struck as she scrambled out of the hatch. Her shield held, dousing the fire.
She caught a dark movement to her right, but she focused on the sorcerer. An icy spear shot out of her grip, a long shaft, a bitterly-sharp blade—and she threw it at the sorcerer. Magic could not shield against elemental power. The spear pierced his back. He screamed as he toppled forward, over the balustrade, into a long drop to the street below.
Even as the spear left her hand, she whirled to face the Kyrgy.
The woman laughed. “What have we here? A little Dark Fae? No. Oh, you are interesting. Half-Fae, aren’t you? And weak.”
“Strong enough to kill your sorcerer. Strong enough to kill you.”
“We shall see. Fire against water? I think not. Have you confronted Air, little Half-Fae?”
. ~ . ~ . ~ .
A body struck the paving slabs.
From the corner of his eye, Rhodren saw a flash of bright color then heard the horrible sound as the body landed. He couldn’t look, for the Prime wyre before him was slashing out. His blade met claws with a clang.
Then the wyre sprang away. He held up his hands. The claws receded, becoming a man’s blunt fingers. “Stop. We go. We leave.”
He didn’t trust the sudden peace—but around him the other weaponless wyre had disengaged, propelling back from the fight. Seven shifters in all, with several bleeding. Whatever spell had powered their partial shift had died with the sorcerer. Inkeri had succeeded.
“Hold!” he shouted to the men still fighting. “Stay ready.”
He looked at the rooftop. Why don’t I see her?
A gleam of blue magic flashed brighter than the dissipating miasma. She lived.
Then he heard a whoosh, and the yellow-green fog around the roof whisked away, sucked into a swirling whirlwind. Is that Inkeri’s power?
The wolfen retreated further from his men, edging toward the tower gate.
The tracery spell on the gate had vanished, winkling out completely. Patches of the magical miasma hovered but had thinned, admitting peeks of the blue sky.
“We leave,” the Prime said again.
“To go where?” he demanded.
Another whoosh of air swooped around the rooftop. Even the wyre looked up. This windstorm gathered up the last patches of the sickly vapor, spinning it into a swirl before releasing it in a burst that scattered tiles from an adjoining rooftop. They rained onto the street, breaking on the slabs between his men and the shifters.
His men looked exhausted, but they stood ready, willing to fight.
The wyres looked at the open gate.
When the tiles stopped clattering, a few men peeked out from recessed doorways. Rhodren had forgotten the rescued men. Their numbers looked reduced. The lightning strikes, he realized, and was fiercely glad that sorcerer had died.
It was hard to meet the Prime’s wolf-clear eyes, but he managed it. “Where do you go?”
“North, to our homes. Our binding to the sorcerer ends with his death. We leave. We will no longer fight wizards and Fae and men.”
He remembered the Argent king’s terms of peace with the Cortes king, allowing the solders to return home with their weapons. These shifters were enchanted creatures, but they deserved the same peace. “I accept those terms. You know the way?”
The Prime gave a touch to the center of his chest. “We always know our home lair.” He motioned to his pack. Two headed for the gate.
“To me, men.”
The troop backed away from the grouped shifters. Gaulter came to his side, keeping wary eyes on the departing wyre, following two by two after the first.
The Prime still faced them.
“Go. We won’t follow. I, Baron Rhodren of the Bois Argent, give you my word.”
The wyre glanced at the rooftop then back to Rhodren. “A warning, Baron. We leave. We do not return. You leave, too. There remains one wyre who serves the Kyrgy and a danger that kills. Leave before it finds you.”
He reckoned Timote had killed that wyre, but the danger that kills? “What is it? This danger, what is it?”
The Prime looked away. “That remains a vow I will not break. Be wary of the Krygy.”
“I don’t know what a Krygy is.”
The wolfen looked up. “You will.” Then he abruptly turned and loped for the gate.
Gaulter shook his head. “We’ll fight them another day.”
“Aye, you said that about the Cortes men. They returned home. I believe this Prime will also take his men home, to their lair.” He glanced around. His men stood ready, Naklon and another archer at the edge, their crossbows aimed at the gate. They hadn’t engaged the wyre, not wanting to risk striking their comrades. Not a man had new injuries, but by his count two more were gone. He rubbed the ache centered at the back of his head. “Where are Johrin and Storrist?”
“They were with the rescues.” Gaulter turned to point them out.
They had hidden, sheltering in doorways.
The lightning. He’d counted eight bolts. Two of his men, six of the rescued. Gods, how many more before this day ends?
Black birds flew in and settled on the ramparts, silent and eerie as ever.
“Not them again,” one of his men groaned.
His aching nape turned into that prickling sense, stronger now. The watcher.
Is that the dangerous thing that kills?
He had a sudden recollection of the cells far below, the fearful merchant and the one that had staggered away, senseless yet walking toward that dark sigil.
What was that sigil? It had nothing in common with the sigil he’d used to track Captain Walsing.
The wyre—the one who served, what did he serve?
And what was a Kyrgy?
Light flashed, sunbright and blinding. Rhodren shielded his eyes. He didn’t drop his hand until the after-image no longer burned in his eyes. Then he looked at the rooftop. “Inkeri is still up there.”
The light flashed again.
That wasn’t the blue of Inkeri’s power.
Rhodren ran for the building.
. ~ . ~ . ~ .
Inkeri lunged aside. The swirling Air and battle had dried her mouth. The water on her hand had dried and with it her power.
The Dark Fae laughed. “Your Fae father should have taught you better.” Still bloodied from feeding the sorcerer, her hand flashed up. More bright fire flamed out.
Inkeri dove into the hatch. She tumbled down the ladder rungs and sprawled onto ash. Timote. She heard a crack and screamed at the broken bone. The Krygy laughed, a manic high-pitched trill. Desperation sent her rolling away from the base of the ladder, into deeper shadows.
The light in the ladder well dimmed as the hatch opening was blocked.
She scrabbled upright.
The Krygy leaned over the hatch, peering into the beshadowed room. She held her flaming hand behind her head. That blocked any light from penetrating the gloom of the ladder well—and saved Inkeri from exposure. “Come out, come out,” she chanted. “You cannot hide from me.”
Faint shouting came from below. Inkeri couldn’t make it out, but she knew it was Rhodren, coming for her.
Coming straight to the ladder well and a Krygy with Fire, ready to use the power on someone. As she’d used it on Timote.
She reached backward and drew her long-bladed knife. A mundane blade against elemental power. The Kyrgy might see the glint of metal.
But she wouldn’t expect it.
Pain screamed through her, demanding attention, but Inkeri blocked it away. She would pay for that later—if she survived. She drew back her hand, prayed she wasn’t shaky—and let the dagger fly.
