‘That be a close one,’ said Grimra. She had not realised that he’d come with her.
‘Back to the army!’ she told him. A fireball painted the edge of her ward molten red. ‘It’s not safe out here!’
‘Exactly,’ said the ghost.
She began to claw along the ground, pushing against the streams of light. Ahead Fahren also struggled, his hands spread wide as he shuffled on. As the leading edges of his ward and hers met above the Stone, each of them ground to a halt. She reached towards it uselessly, but it was still too far away.
A mistake , came Fahren’s voice in her head, to have sent one who is not a mage herself.
His light began to push into her shadow, creeping towards her. Without magic of her own to push back with, she was reliant on the shadow mages channelling to her from a distance.
‘Come on, you fools,’ she muttered, as Fahren’s brightness made her squint.
‘Fly away!’ said Grimra’s voice urgently. ‘They do not be protecting us much longer – we must fly!’
‘Losara …’ she whispered. She could not leave. She would die here and never see him again. Despite the warmth touching her face, she continued to strain forward, the Stone gleaming brighter than all around it. If she could but touch it, maybe she would touch him again, somehow, somewhere …wherever he had gone. But she could not reach. A single tear broke loose from her eye, the first since the death of her mother, since she’d vowed never to cry again. It lived on her cheek for only a second, evaporating quickly in the heat. Her strength left her, and Lalenda lowered her head to rest on the grass.
The horrible heat disappeared, the blazing light too. There was a thump nearby, and a footfall. Wearily she looked up. Fahren’s ward was gone, as was hers. Fahren himself lay on his back, the air around him fizzing slightly. Over them both loomed a man Lalenda did not recognise.
He was broad and muscular with tree-trunk arms, his fingers aimed at Fahren still crackling with residual violet power. His clothes were strange – a jerkin of incredibly smooth animal hide, and matted trousers that looked like the forest floor beaten into shape. Piercing grey eyes flecked with gold stared out from a stormy face framed by a wild green beard. Around his bare feet, the grass curled anew around his toes.
Pages of books turned in her head, and she was intrigued, despite herself. This man could only be a Sprite, of fuller blood than any seen in recent history. She realised that the zap and crackle of spells had grown dim …and fell breathless when she saw the reason why. All around them stood a ring of Sprites, each one conjuring an Old Magic ward, and the spells of the forces beyond could be seen breaking on the other sides.
The man bent to pluck the Stone from the grass. Fahren managed to rise on his elbows, his brow furrowing.
‘Corlas?’ he asked disbelievingly.
‘Aye,’ said the man.
Befuddled, Lalenda still registered the name. ‘Losara’s father,’ she breathed.
Grimra swirled small near her ear. ‘Looks nothing like him,’ he said.
‘But …but …’ Sitting up now, Fahren was taking in the Sprites nearby, and the wards they’d erected. ‘You wield Old Magic now?’
‘Aye,’ said Corlas.
‘But how can this be? What has happened to you?’
‘Remembered who I am,’ said Corlas. He held the Stone out in his palm. ‘What have you done to my boy? Is he dead? Or is he in this?’
‘He cannot be dead,’ murmured Fahren.
Lalenda stared desperately as Corlas closed his fist around the Stone.
‘Stay low, flutterbug,’ whispered Grimra. ‘We cannot be fighting these.’
She did not know if she was terrified of Corlas holding Losara or not. Surely his father did not wish him any harm?
A blond Sprite woman arrived at Corlas’s side, took his arm, and they turned away.
‘Corlas!’ cried Fahren, scrabbling to his knees. ‘What are you doing?’
Corlas paused. ‘Reclaiming my son from you,’ he said. ‘For the last time.’
Suddenly he and all his folk blurred, their wards streaming towards the river, flinging aside the forces in their way. Once they had headed out onto the water, they shimmered and disappeared.
‘Corlas!’ shouted Fahren, to no avail.
The opposing groups of mages found themselves staring dumbly at each other over the clear space, while elsewhere the battle continued to rage.
•
Far too many questions at once vied for attention in Fahren’s head. Of all the eventualities he had considered in terms of what might happen this day, Corlas turning up transformed into a Sprite, with warriors wielding Old Magic at his back, had not been one of them.
You may want to think about moving , came Battu’s voice.
Immediately, Fahren saw what he meant. The Mire Pixie was backing off towards the shadow mages, who had once again erected a ward around her. Others were readying to attack, and Fahren lay in the open.
Or maybe you’re too much the worn-out old dog, his fleas starved for the thinness of his blood.
I thought you were sworn to aid me , said Fahren angrily, getting to his feet.
Precisely what I’m doing.
As Fahren rejoined the ranks, Brahl could be heard approaching, loudly ordering lightfists aside. He rode into view, his armour badly dented at the shoulder, blood oozing from between a join.
‘Take that pauldron off,’ said Fahren. ‘I’ll heal you.’
‘What’s this,’ snapped Brahl, ignoring his offer, ‘about the blue-haired man being kidnapped?’
Fahren paused uncertainly, but Battu stepped forward. ‘His soul has gone into the Stone and hasn’t come out again – quite the surprise, actually. The Stone itself has been captured by Corlas, the boy’s father, you remember, who has most probably taken it to Whisperwood.’
Battu was right of course, though his inexplicable enjoyment of the chaos around them was beginning to grate on Fahren. Still, there was no doubting where Bel and Losara had been taken.
‘Whisperwood?’ said Brahl.
‘The only place Old Magic remains,’ explained Fahren. ‘The last sanctuary of the Sprites.’
‘But why?’
Battu shrugged. ‘Can’t imagine.’
‘We must go and find out,’ said Fahren, giving Battu a glower.
‘But Throne,’ said Brahl, steadying his restless horse, ‘a battle still goes on, if you’ve forgotten. We need mages out there with our troops – there have been too many tied up here for too long.’
Fahren knew he spoke the truth. Every last able pair of hands would be needed here. Quickly he reached a decision. ‘You take command,’ he told Brahl. ‘I shall go. Battu with me, and maybe one other.’ He cast his mind about.
Elessa.
Yes?
You are needed.
You are supposed to release me.
You are needed! he said forcefully, vexed that she would not, could not seem to remember that all the releasing in the world would do her no good if she had no Well to return to …and yet instantly he regretted the harshness of his tone. Please , he added, knowing it was an empty word, and that he was giving her no choice.
Sighing, he turned to Battu. ‘Fetch our horses,’ he said.
•
Tyrellan did not know what to do. A rare feeling, and one he cared for about as much as the sunlight piercing his eyes. He sent his gaze skywards – why didn’t the Dark Gods see fit to interfere, as he had seen them do before in this lifetime? Where were the dark storm clouds rolling in – did they not realise how critical these moments were? Then, as his sight adjusted to the glare, he noticed wispy clouds far above, though they were small and moving quickly. Perhaps the gods were trying, but Arkus was too strong here, and blew their clouds away like wishes.