James Clemens - Shadowfall

The sword’s blade had vanished.

“One stroke,” Gerrod said as they paused in their flight, cowering in a dark section of forest momentarily free of flames. “That must be all the sword can bear before needing to be replenished.”

Kathryn watched Dart again lay her bloody hands upon the sword and draw them along its length. Smoke rose from between her pressed palms, and from that blood and smoke, the silver sword appeared once again, whetted by the girl’s Grace.

Tylar stepped back.

“You two are indeed sword and sheath,” Rogger mumbled. “Both of you had better keep close.”

More blasts echoed from the deeper forest behind them. Ahead lay patches of fire. The heat grew worse with each breath. They dared not tarry in the fiery woods any longer.

“Let’s go,” Tylar said.

Dart glanced back. Kathryn followed. She caught the haunted look in the young girl’s eyes. She had seen too much death for one day.

Kathryn recognized the sorrow. She placed a hand on the girl’s shoulder. “He did his duty,” she said softly. “There will be time to mourn Yaellin later.”

Dart nodded and turned, but her eyes shone brighter with tears.

It was easy to say… harder to do.

Kathryn also glanced back. First the father and now the son. She prayed Ser Henri and Yaellin’s sacrifices had not been in vain. With the last strength of her arms, she would make it so.

The woods finally grew thinner around them. The eternal night of the heavy bower lightened to gray skies and stiff winds. Rain broke the canopy. After the heat and stifle of the deeper wood, its coolness was a relief.

Distantly, thunder rumbled.

They paused to rest one last time.

Ahead the towers of the castillion peeked between the weave of branches. It was afire with torches. At windows, along battlements. The castillion awaited them.

Kathryn sought any other path. She faced the fiery woods behind them. Despite the downpour, the woods glowed and flamed, steamed and smoked. There was no escape that way. There was not enough water across all of Myrillia to douse that fire. To Kathryn, it seemed all the elements had gathered for this coming night: loam, air, fire, and water.

A tree ahead of them burst, engulfed in a spiral of flame.

Tylar lifted the quickened blade and pointed his arm.

Though set by their own hand, the fires drove them forward.

They had no choice.

She remembered Eylan’s tale of prophecy and ordainment. Perhaps they never had a choice.

She stared at Tylar. Traitor, godslayer, sword-bearer. But all she could see was the man she once loved… perhaps still loved. She could not deny this last. The heart did not forget.

Still, she remembered the broken man, the smoky daemon. Tylar was no longer the knight she knew. He had been broken and re-formed. Who was he now? Did she have the strength to find out? Would they ever have the time?

The woods opened before them. More of the castillion appeared in bits and pieces. The rain fell harder.

Reaching the edge of the myrrwood, they saw what lay ahead of them. Torches sputtered throughout the Eldergarden, illuminating brighter pools in the stormy gloom and shivering shadows. The far side of the Eldergarden stirred with dark shapes. Some wore the livery of the castillion guard, but such finery was shredded and torn. Most were naked to the rain.

Ilk-beasts.

All of them.

“He’s transformed the entire guard,” Gerrod said. “Even the house staff.”

“An ilk legion,” Rogger mumbled.

Tylar faced them with his one sword. Kathryn read the despair in his eyes. His daemon was useless against the writhing throng that awaited them. His sword could strike only once before it vanished back to shadow and light. And in the thick of battle, there would be no chance to replenish the blade. How could Tylar even defend the god-child?

Still, behind the despair, a weary determination shone through.

Then the skies over the castillion opened, the clouds parted. A dark shape lowered from the storm, aglow with soft Grace. Then another appeared… and another. Flippercrafts. A half dozen dropped around the towers of castillion. Lightning crackled along the clouds, highlighting the flags mounted atop each ship.

Kathryn stared and knew all was lost.

The flags were black. Each emblem crimson.

The Fiery Cross.

Kathryn pictured the slain young knight on the stone floor. His heart cut out, his blood spilled. She smelled again the burned bones of the charnel pit.

Lit by the fires below, the belly of each flippercraft opened above the towers. Ropes tumbled out, uncoiling, snaking to battlements and terraces.

Figures flowed down the ropes, ravens in a storm.

“Tashijan must have been summoned,” Gerrod said.

Kathryn slowly nodded.

And the Fiery Cross answered.

The six flippercrafts emptied over the towers and battlements. Shadowknights flew down scores of ropes, dropping to stations throughout the castillion and grounds.

Tylar lost count of the number. Over two hundred.

“The Fiery Cross has come to defend Chrism,” Gerrod said.

Lightning crackled in a mighty arc across the belly of the clouds, threatening the airships. It was foolhardy to ride a lightning storm. But such was the determination of Tashijan.

The winds gusted harder. Rain pelted like hail. One flippercraft brushed too near a tower. Starboard skimmer paddles snapped, sheared away. The ship hove up on its side, fighting for balance.

The damaged flippercraft swung away from the castillion-toward them. It wobbled. A pair of unlucky knights fell from the dangling ropes, jostled loose by the sudden canting. The two plummeted into the gardens, wings of shadow billowing out. They disappeared, their fates unknown.

The ship fared no better, dropping swiftly. It belly crashed through an old garden wall. The cracking splinter of wood sounded like thunder.

“Seems a bad day for flippercrafts,” Rogger mumbled at Tylar’s side.

The ship skidded between their party and the castillion, rolled half on its side, port aeroskimmers high. Bluish fires spat up from the stern end. Rain turned to steam, shrouding the craft.

But not enough to hide the rush of knights and crew escaping the ship.

Behind Tylar, another of the myrrwood trees erupted, gouting flames high. The heat rolled over them. Too near. Fiery branches rained down around them and out into the main gardens.

They had to move or be burned.

“This way,” Tylar said and led them from the flaming forest. “Stay low.”

“Where are we going?” Rogger asked as they headed into the gardens.

“To the stoved ship,” Tylar said. “We’re too few. We need to convince those others to aid us.”

“And how are you going to do that?” the thief asked. “Your face isn’t that pretty.”

Tylar nodded to Kathryn. “She’s still castellan of Tashijan, second only to Argent. Shaken up, the few knights here may listen to her.” He lifted his sword. “And if they don’t, we have this.”

Rogger shrugged. “Don’t mind me if I hide behind you, then.”

Tylar took the thief’s words to heart. Their chances were poor.

The group marched through the gardens, trudging a direct route through bushes and flower patches. The rain continued to pour, turning dirt to mud. The crashed flippercraft towered ahead of them.

Tylar stopped by a low stone fence. There was no reason to risk all. “Everyone else stay hidden here. Kathryn and I will go forward alone.”

No one objected. Only Eylan met his gaze.

“Keep the others safe,” Tylar said to her, letting his concern for them ring clear. “That will serve us all best.”