Chapter 13

  “Men to your positions!”

  Soldiers ran this way and that, at a frantic pace, digging trenches, calming horses, and turning all defenses towards the river.

  The Auring raged, its surface a churning mass of white foam with dark currents surging just below. Twisting and writhing, it carved its way through the hills, swollen past its banks like a serpent devouring the land, engorged from the weeks of storms.

  On its far side, moving swiftly in the shadows of the King’s Wood, were men. The sun was at their backs, obscuring their numbers, but it was a large force, perhaps too large.

  “Freya!” Malachai called. He stood at the river’s edge, ivory plate sparkling in the sun, the banners of the great white hawk whipping frenzied, at his back. “Don’t let this one disappear in all the chaos.” He placed a hand on Fia, gripping her shoulder in his gauntlet.

  The sorceress nodded, eyes locked on the tree line, her alabaster skin almost translucent in the afternoon light.

  More movement in the trees, and out of the shade stepped a figure. Small, diminutive, just a speck along the river, but the sharp eyes of Malachai spotted her at once.

  “Archers,” he called, throwing out his hand, “Bring her down!”

  Thruum!

  Arrows darkened the sky, hissing towards their mark. But none could touch her. As they fell, a gust whispered along the banks of the Aurin, and the long reeds fluttered in the breeze. The arrows floated on the draft, caught mid-flight, they fell harmlessly to the dirt, scattered in the wind.

  The figure stepped closer, staff held aloft.

  “Again!” Cried Malachai.

  Thrum. Whsst.

  “Again!”

  The figure walked slowly, the wind whistling around them as a storm of arrows rained down in their wake.

  There was a hum as she reached the water’s edge, a low pulsing vibration, and the air around her began to ripple like a desert haze. Threads of wind coiled together, stitching themselves into undulating walls that shimmered like a veil of shifting glass, one on either side of her.

  Between the walls, the Aurin grew calm; smooth and dark like polished stone. But behind the walls, the river roared, a towering fury thrashing against its newfound prison. Its waters spilled over onto land, waves surging into the camp.

  And from the forest they ran, hundreds of them, chasing the flood. They came to the Aurin but their pace did not break. Their feet fell upon the water but did not sink; they flew across its surface, light and quick.

  “Hold your ground, men!”

  The water came halfway to Fia’s knees. It was ice cold and moving quickly. But worse than the water was the mud. The ground swelled beneath her feet, and Malachai’s army, weighed down by their plate and steel, were caught in its snare, unable to regroup, to brace themselves for the coming violence.

  The first wave hit hard. The men of Orent wore no plate and bore no heavy swords or great axes. They danced along the face of the water dressed in leather jerkins, carrying thin polearms, light and agile, free from the mire below.

  The vanguard stood no chance. Great knights in their brilliant armor, waving their steel in frantic desperation, rooted to the soil, drowning in the swamp. The lances made quick work of them, cutting through them from a distance, the charging warriors barely breaking stride.

  Freya and the remaining sorcerers had gathered around Malachai. Their staffs were raised, light pouring from them as they struggled to free the men from the sinking land.

  “To me! To me!” Shouted Malachai, pulling his feet from the mud.

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  Behind the advancing spears, a second group was moving across the river. Dressed in white and gold, covered in the flowing cloaks of the cosmos, they marched in solemn, uniform steps. Heralds of war, the King’s Magi.

  Freya had pushed back the waters, and the men flocked to Malachai, rallying up the hill on dryer ground. They had the numbers, but could they stand against so many magi?

  Anselm’s men moved quickly, falling into rank, forming row upon row of spears. To their front rushed soldiers carrying great shields. They held them up, pressing them together to form a wall. The rest fell behind, jutting their spears through cracks in the formation. They pushed up the hill, pressing Malachai to retreat.

  Braaauwwm!

  Horns bellowed, trumpeting across the field, and in the distance, a rumbling, like thunder. Pounding hooves, horses! The banners of the great white hawk billowed in the wind as they flew behind the racing lines.

  They crashed into the phalanx, cutting through its edge and piercing deep into its core. The formation shattered. Men fled before the charge, leaving their compatriots to be cut down or trampled beneath the churning feet of the mounted soldiers. They were broken flying back to the Aurin and throwing themselves at the feet of their masters.

  The line turned, triumphant, horns trumpeting they made chase streaking towards the river.

  “No!” cried Fia. But it was too late.

  As the horses plowed ahead, a magi flew into the sky. She floated, held up on golden drops of starlight, and stared down upon the battlefield, hair whipping furiously as the wind turned.

  The mounts began to stumble, the ground crumbling beneath their feet. And the earth split, cavernous depths opening up to swallow the cavalry from below. They fell into darkness, lost to the depths, their screams echoing through the hills as the earth closed above them, sealing their fate.

  “Freya! Go!”

  The young sorceress nodded, rising with the wind, borne up upon a coming storm. She flew to meet her foe, and the sky turned dark, the air crackled, and rain began to fall. They met in a flash of flight, and the sound that followed shook the forest and sent Fia tumbling to her knees.

  “Girl!” Malachai’s deep voice boomed, reaching out to her across the field.

  She sat there as he and several others joined her.

  “I do not have enough to fight this,” he admitted, voice cracking, and for the first time, she saw doubt in his eyes. “If you do not lend me your strength, we will fall here, and all will be lost.”

  The storm had reached a frenzy, and the wind howled, tearing at roots and flinging rocks into the swirling vortex above.

  “I’m no fighter… I can’t save you…”

  “I’ll admit you weren’t my first choice.” He laughed, a slow, grumbling chuckle, as the fire returned to his eyes.

  “Fia.” It was the first time he had spoken her name. “It was not mere chance that brought you to me. We have both been given a gift, guided by a higher power, and called to a higher purpose. Fight with me, and I promise you, we can discover the mysteries of our world together! The answers to everything will be revealed when we reach The Tower.”

  Ahead of them, the two armies clashed. Malachai’s forces had the numbers; they were better equipped and better trained, but they could not compete against the magi. Above, Freya had drawn away as many of them as she could, and the crackling azure light of her spears splintered across the heavens.

  “Malachai, I—”

  “There is no more time for words.” The Rebel King smiled, then dashed forward, rushing to join his men.

  So much violence…so much bloodshed. Was this really what Sophie had wanted for her? Trapped in an endless cycle, doomed to watch a war that she could not end.

  And then she saw it—the Tower. A twisting obelisk, spiraling towards the heavens, lost in the clouds. The seat of the God King. The words of Malachai whispered again in her mind, haunting her thoughts. Answers to all of her questions. She could spend the next millennia hunting down treasures for Timor and never find her way out, or she could take matters into her own hands and make the climb.

  She stood. The Golden shields formed around her as she ran towards the fighting.

  Malachai was in the midst of the melee. Swinging his great axe, he cut through lines of men as he surged towards the center and the remaining magi. Beside him was Leif. Together, they battered at the ranks, desperately fighting, besieged on all sides.

  As she reached the edge, she lifted her staff, and golden spears flew from it, slicing through the air and cutting a path to them.

  “Malachai!” she screamed. “Leif!”

  Leif lifted his head, letting out a cheer. He swung a large mace, clearing room for her as she joined them in the fray.

  “Good of you to join us!” Malachai’s voice rumbled. “But we are about to be overrun.”

  Fia raised her staff, and the shields rotated, spreading themselves to surround all three of them.”

  “That’s more like it!” Leif whooped as they charged forward.

  The shields pushed them through, no soldier could stand before its golden light. And suddenly, they were through, bursting out of the battle into a small meadow by the Aurin.

  “They’re here,” a young voice called.

  Fia looked around. Where was the fighting? Where was the storm? It had disappeared from sight and sound. The sun was bright, the sky was blue, and the Aurin babbled peacefully in its bed.

  “Deal with them,” a second voice replied.

  A sharp, high-pitched whine cut through the silence, and Fia felt her skin begin to prickle. Then, in an instant, a beam of light erupted, and the shield around them shattered.

  “One more should do it.”

  A second flash of flight and Fia was flung to the ground. But no pain, a welcome surprise. When she looked up, she saw Malachai and Leif staring in wonder.

  A specter stood before them. A sorceress, clad in white. In her hands, she grasped a golden staff, beset with a great emerald stone.

  It was Ella.

  Cycle: Timor 3-2