Lichgates: Book One of the Grimoire Saga (an Epic Fantasy Adventure) (50 page)

She brought her hands together over her head, focusing on the air as she contorted it into sharp daggers that hovered in the space above her fingers. Ten, then fifty, then a hundred arrows surrounded her like a suit of razor-sharp armor.

Raging heat coursed through her as she focused and bent the air as far as she could. The blades circled, speeding around until they left streaks on the low light as they moved. The blur grew faster and thicker, and all she could see was the rush of sharp air. The demons chorused and chattered, each of them screaming.

The ground trembled. They were coming.

She threw her hands away from her body, a grunt escaping as she released the tension which had kept the blades near to her. The strain snapped from her fingers as the blades flew in every direction. They pummeled through the room, slicing through pillars and demons alike. Arms and heads and chunks of rock fell to the floor. The monsters shrieked, their voices shrill with pain.

Support columns cracked and toppled, forcing her to duck and dart her way around raining blocks of stone. Rivers of the demons’ sticky red blood snaked across the tiled floor, the crimson streams the only color in the room besides the orange glow of the hourglass.

A gray hand larger than her head appeared from the shadows and swatted at her like she was a fly, knocking her onto her back. She skidded for a few feet. Another monster leaned over her as she came to a stop. It lunged, its claws ripping her clothes before she could roll out of reach.

Kara pushed herself to her feet and bolted toward the hourglass, throat stinging as she fought for breath, but another demon grabbed her and lifted her to its face. Its claws bit into her arm, the sharp nails ripping apart the skin as the thing clutched her tighter. She screamed in agony as thick lines of her blood ran down to her hands and dripped from her fingers, splattering to the floor. Her feet lashed out on their own, landing a solid kick in what would have been the monster’s nose if it’d had a real face.

The shadow demon screamed and dropped her. She rolled across the ground, her arm still stinging from his grip. Blood bubbled from four holes in her arm, evidence of where the creature’s nails dug into her. She held the wounds and dodged another demon’s hand, trying to ignore the hot rush of pain. There was no time to heal.

This had to end now.

She knelt and set her hands on the floor. The heat from her palms seeped into the tiles, which rippled at her touch. The stone bent to her will, and she sensed poor supports in the ground beneath two of the demons to her right and another to her left.

A smirk spread across her face, the sudden control over life and death dissolving away her fear. A hum droned in her mind, blocking out the demons’ snarling and heavy breaths. There was no pain anymore, no feeling: just the rush of life and magic and power.

Thick tension pulled on her fingers until it seemed they would fall off from the strain. She yelled like the demons she was fighting, and stronger ripples pulsed through the tile. The ground burst. Gray bricks lodged into the ceiling from the force. Deafening echoes of smashing and shattering rock broke through the hall as the ground disintegrated beneath the three unlucky demons. They screamed and fell into the unending blackness below the temple.

She grinned and glanced around for the next fight, but her smile faded. Her adrenaline dissolved into disbelief, and the power was gone.

Moonlight streamed through the broad dome above, now, brighter than before. The depths of the temple were finally illuminated, though the floors were still shrouded in a deep shadow that no light could ever penetrate. She could now see hundreds of rows of the demons surrounding her from wall to wall, allowing her only the small space in which she fought. They stood motionless, waiting for their turn to attack. They could have overpowered her at any time, but chose not to.

To her, this was life and death; to them, this was a game. She forced a hard swallow as the dread weighed her feet to the floor.

The hourglass waited on its brilliant pedestal, visible through gaps in the only row of demons which stood before it. She groaned, unsure of what else to do, and summoned the broadsword she'd mastered in her time training by Hillside Lake. She focused the air around her into one long blade that clung to her hand like a mist. The tension pulled on her mind, stealing energy and focus she didn’t have, but this was her last attempt toward the hourglass.

At least the strain was a distraction from the hopelessness.

A cluster of demons nearest to the door screamed, their roars splitting the tense silence. The crowd surged and fluttered, their cries escalating as a collective frenzy rippled through them. Her adrenaline resurfaced as she prepared for the onslaught.

This is it.

Kara took a deep breath.

But the rows of demons ignored her crouching stance and turned toward the temple doors, which, she could now see through breaks in the monsters, stood open. Moonlight poured in and shed its murky spotlight on a small figure that charged toward her on a flaer. He had dark hair, olive skin, and the glare of someone about to kill something.

Braeden slid off of Rowthe at full speed, running to keep pace until he could get to the first demon on the outer edge of their circle. He jumped, drew his sword, and sliced the beast’s head from its shoulders. The crowd bellowed again, but the sound became indignant hollers against the newcomer who was clearly cheating.

“Go!” he yelled.

Smog engulfed him. His skin faded to gray. The Stelian Heir erupted in black fire, and when he twisted around, his red eyes glowed from the temple shadows. He’d let his daru take over. A demon fell on its hands in front of him and roared into his face, sending a trail of saliva across him. But he laughed and roared back, lost to the fury and madness, before he erupted into even larger, darker flames.

Kara turned to the row of demons between her and the hourglass. Her skin prickled like she, too, was on fire, but the adrenaline contrastingly iced her veins. Her mind was calm and still, despite the chaos. She twirled the sword she’d created from the air and ran toward the creatures.

Her arms moved without instruction. She didn’t watch the beasts as they fell around her or stop to guess what she was doing. The sword swung and sliced and spun, catapulting droplets of demon blood against her face in its torrent. She stopped only when she stood at the first step of the pedestal, her body and mind and satchel still all somehow in one piece.

Her ears rang, blocking out all sound but her breath. She walked up the stairs of the platform and scanned the hourglass as it hung, suspended, in the carved hole of the amber pedestal, reflecting the orange glow along its glass. The silver grains of sand waited at the bottom, where they’d lain useless for a thousand years.

The frosted glass stung her, cold as ice, when she grabbed it, but the hourglass didn’t budge. She pushed harder, trying to turn it over.

Bit by bit, the hourglass inched over on its axis, hardly moving even after she threw all her weight against it. The grains of sand shifted, sliding along the glass without falling into the other chamber.

Movement in the corner of her eye drew her attention. The noise of the battle flooded her ears in a sudden rush, and sweat dripped along her nose. The sand shifted farther. Demons screeched, glaring at her.

A stampede began. They raced closer, galloping on all fours to stop her, to rip her to shreds. Braeden was nowhere to be seen.

She threw the last ounce of her strength into her chore, yelling and cursing at the old hinges until finally, with one last shove, the first grain of sand fell through the opening. It plopped without a sound onto the new bottom of the hourglass.

The demons screamed, some close enough that their hot breath fogged against her arms, but they dissolved into smoke as they ran. Light erupted from the amber pedestal and engulfed the room. The cold sting of the glass disappeared from beneath her fingers, and all sound, even the race of her heartbeat in her ear, faded away. There was nothing to smell, nothing to hear, and nothing to see in this ocean of light. The amulet had lied. No lichgate appeared, and Kara would have to face whatever was coming next alone.

CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT

DISCOVERY

The sound of laughter came first through the intense light. It was the chorus of a studio audience, though occasionally Kara could hear the louder chuckles of two real people who reacted to a mumbling TV host. She smelled popcorn. Pizza. Leather from the sofa on which her dad had spent too much money.

She grinned. It was movie night at the Tallahassee house.

Colors bled from the white light around her, until the memory was visible and real and solid. Her mom and dad sat on the couch, watching television and giggling at the show’s bad jokes. She had no idea what was on, but she didn’t care. There they were, smiling as if the last year had never happened.

Kara laughed, but choked on a sob. She was elated and heartbroken and torn. They were so real.

“I’m impressed,” a nearby voice said.

The Vagabond stood beside her, nothing but gray wisps of light. As she watched, though, he solidified. The shadows under his hood lengthened until he reached for it and pulled it back with two solid hands, revealing his weathered face. He was younger than she’d imagined, probably thirty, and had a scar on his cheek, thick blond hair, and dark eyes.

“Where are we?” she asked.

“Your mind. I know you often wonder what your most influential memory could be. Well, this is it. You realized how much you loved your parents on this night without ever fully understanding why. This is when you told yourself that you would love them forever, no matter what happened.”

“Why are you showing me this?”

He shook his head. “I’m not showing you anything. You’re stuck here. You can’t leave this memory behind. This is your past, one that you’ll never relive, and you can never succeed as the Vagabond until you accept that your family is gone. You must admit they are dead.”

She bit her lip and glanced back to the couch, her body tense, mind racing. Her mom and dad laughed again at the television, much louder than the audience. Her mom stuck a piece of popcorn up her dad’s nose and giggled when he snorted it back onto her. Kara laughed through the sting in her throat.

She walked in front of them, blocking their view, but they looked through her. This was a memory. They weren’t real. She stifled the tears that wanted so badly to be freed and wrapped them both into a tight hug, but neither reacted. The Vagabond cleared his throat.

“I promise that your father will be freed from the isen in the natural course of things, but only if you continue on as the Vagabond. Can you let them both go?”

She sat on the table in front of them and sighed, hanging her head in defeat.

“No,” she said. “They’re my family. I’d do anything to protect them, and since I failed at that I’ll settle for the next best thing.”

“Revenge?”

She scowled at the floor without answering. He reached out a hand, suddenly beside her.

“I need to show you something,” he said. “I’ve seen your memory, so I feel you deserve to see mine.”

She stared at his palm, and her eyes glossed over. It was difficult to move. Her rear was rooted to the table, and as much as she wanted to look back at her parents, she was unable to turn her head. Her hand inched out to the Vagabond’s until the touch of his cold skin made her shiver.

The room flashed with another wave of white light. Her arms were pulled behind her. Spikes dug into her wrists, and she yelled in surprise and pain. Hot blood trickled into her palms. The room from her nightmare blinked into view. The world was clear and vivid, as her memory had been just moments before—there were no wisps, only vibrant detail.

A Kirelm soldier brought in Helen, the stunning woman with dark brown skin. She was limp in his arms, and bright red blood flowed in thin creeks down to her bare feet as she was tossed onto the floor like garbage.

Kara leaned nearer, living through the Vagabond’s eyes and unable to control her movement. Helen looked over and moved her lips, but no words came out. Dozens more yakona—Hillsidians, Ayavelians, Kirelms, and Lossians alike—were dumped into the room in a similar manner. They moaned in pain and hung their heads, arms chained behind their backs.

The Kirelm Blood marched down the stairs from his throne, unsheathing his Sartori before he lifted Kara’s chin with its poisoned tip.

“You offered them freedom, Vagabond,” he said, “but lies and heresy lead to death. None should have the power you bestowed upon these strangers, these enemies of the yakona crowns. Your reign over the yakona people will end here, tonight!”

“Helen,” Kara whispered to the girl, wishing with all her might that she could brush back the bloody hair from the flawless face.

“My love,” she whispered back.

“I’m so sorry. I did this. I failed you,” Kara said. The Vagabond’s sorry flooded her heart with love for the stranger.

“I forgive you,” Helen answered. “And I will wait for you.”

Kara tried to speak, to lie and say that everything would be all right, but several guards grabbed her shoulders and pulled her away. They seized the roots of her hair and yanked her head back as she fought and resisted, so that her neck was exposed. The Blood walked closer.