Clash (The Arinthian Line Book 4) (76 page)

Robin Scarson, bloody face as white as snow and lips as blue as death, gave Augum a final look. There, in those tired and defeated eyes of his longtime nemesis, Augum saw something he did not expect.

As Robin fell forward, dead; as Giovanni kept jumping around grasping his head and wildly declaring victory; as the crowd roared in wild abandon; as Erika slumped to her knees with an agonized wail; as the Lord of the Legion tilted his head in that strangely curious way of his; as Temper passed out cold at the girls’ feet; and as Bridget and Leera suddenly hugged … Augum could only think of what he saw in those eyes …

Regret.

Face to Face

The long and slow walk up those steps to the judge’s podium was like walking up a volcano to his doom. Yet the crowd was still cheering madly, chanting his name. “AU-GUM! AU-GUM!” Even the drum took up the double beat. Boom, boom! Boom, boom! It was a symphony, a glorious symphony of resistance and victory.

“He won’t strike you down,” Bridget was saying in rapid tones. “Not unless he wants to lose control of the whole kingdom. And be prepared to execute the plan. I’ll have the scroll ready—”

Augum, chest still heaving from the battle, kept focus, preparing himself for the casting of the one spell he hoped would give him a chance. He wiped the blood from his face with his linen shirtsleeve. The vicious throbbing in his head from the battle with Robin remained, but was slowly ebbing. If only he could pace himself and renew his arcane strength. He was desperately going to need it for what he intended to do next.

And so he slowed his ascent even more as he readied himself for the most powerful and ancient spell in his arsenal. He paid attention to the rugged wood of the steps; to the square heads of the iron nails, unevenly distributed across the planks; to the traces of mud and dust and dirt; to the cold wind on his face; to the sharp flap of flags …

At last he stepped onto the platform, a platform swarming with people—warlocks, judges, attendants, soldiers, archers, and the Lord of the Legion and his Red Guard—towering crimson-armored undead warriors, flaming swords hissing by their sides. The Red Guard glanced at Augum through slit helms and he immediately felt their natural Confusion and Fear attack. But unlike before, he was now strong enough to block it.

Augum paced to stand at the edge of the platform, placing himself between the arena floor and the assembled throng of enemies. Below, the audience buzzed nervously. His eyes fell upon a sobbing Erika, who was being comforted by Vulika Vaneek.

“He murdered my nephew,” she kept gurgling. She wavered in Vulika’s arms, clutching the divining rod to her bosom as if it was her baby. The rod was black and embedded with seven polished stones, each a different color.

The third judge, Martus the Black, watched with coal eyes. Surprisingly, he gave Augum the slightest nod. Suddenly Augum realized it was he that had prevented Erika from casting those spells earlier! Was he part of the Resistance then? Or was it revenge?

The Lord of the Legion took a measured step forward. The scions buzzed menacingly around his head, warping the space around him. He reached up and slowly removed his helm, revealing a face that had changed drastically since Augum saw him last—it was skeletal in appearance, the skin so stretched and thin that white bone showed in places. His hair was reedy and unkempt. Those now deep-set eyes, blacker and colder than when Augum had seen them last, still crackled with lightning, but less so than before. They bore into Augum as if the man knew what his plans were. They seemed to say to him,
You are weak and pathetic and I shall smite you from my kingdom when it suits me
.

The Lord of the Legion’s voice flooded the arena. “A noble but useless gesture.” The buzz of the scions momentarily increased with the words, as if tuned to his thoughts.

“As tradition demands, I have come for the prize,” Augum said, voice still amplified and echoing through the stands.

The Lord of the Legion smirked, as if to say,
I know exactly what prize you have come for
. But Augum kept a straight face, until the Lord of the Legion glanced over to a table. A single trophy lifted and hovered over, placing itself at Augum’s feet.

The Lord of the Legion smiled, showing rotten teeth. “To the winner indeed go the spoils.” He gave a lazy glance at Erika Scarson. A gray-robed attendant scampered to her side holding a coin pouch. Erika gritted her teeth and snatched it from him.

A flash rippled through the scions as the Lord of the Legion said, “He shall attempt to steal the divining rod.”

The crowd gasped. Augum’s hopes crashed into his stomach. Suddenly he felt as cold as death itself. His hands went clammy and his throat dried.

“Oh no,” Bridget whispered in his mind. “No, no, no, no …”

His father patronized him with a crooked smile. “Give him the gold.”

Erika marched over to stand before Augum, earrings jingling. She stared at him, makeup running from her tears, cold murder in her eyes. He caught the strong scent of wild rose as she lobbed the pouch at him. He numbly caught it. After just standing there stupidly, he placed it into his pocket. His eyes wandered briefly over the divining rod, clutched in her white-knuckled hands.

“Cast the spell,” Sparkstone said.

His father knew everything. The whole plan. Somehow, Augum should have known. The man was not stupid, and looking back, this whole attempt now seemed as idiotic as it was clumsy.

“Cast the spell,” Sparkstone repeated, eyes narrowing ever slightly.

“Don’t, Aug,” Bridget said in a horrified whisper. “He wants to kill you—”

Augum could barely breathe. She was right—he could see it in his father’s demon eyes. There was anger there, but now he knew what that anger wanted—by killing Augum, not only would the kingdom lose faith in the Resistance, but Nana would lose all hope—and therefore her strength—and be found quicker!

Augum’s head swam. He almost passed out. How could he have been so utterly stupid! So utterly naive! So—

The Lord of the Legion’s skeletal smile widened, as if he could read Augum’s thoughts.

Erika Scarson’s nostrils flared. “Your Lordship, he has murdered my nephew in cold blood. I request vengeance.”

The answer was swift. “And you may have it!”

The crowd yelped. Some cried out in horror, others in disbelief.

“Aug—” Bridget’s voice wavered. She was weeping. “Aug …”

Augum closed his eyes, summoning every bit of courage he could muster. “You want to kill me?” His fist closed around the Reflecting crystal as his voice echoed through the stands. He spoke through his teeth, preparing himself. “Do it then. DO IT!”

Erika did not hesitate. She slammed her wrists together, screeching, “ANNIHILO!”

Augum reacted instantly, meeting her extended palms with the tip of the crystal, being sure to angle it just right and framing his thoughts perfectly. “MIMICA!” he shouted, feeling a massive pull on his arcane stamina. The mammoth fireball made a reverse sucking sound as it was suddenly shot back at her. She burst into flames with a gut-wrenching scream. But he did not stop there, quickly and eloquently evoking, “Centeratoraye xao xen!”

His thoughts instantly sharpened. The first thing he became crisply conscious of was the warping effect from the scions. It was like looking through a great fishbowl. He simultaneously became aware of the clammy sweat on his palms; the face-burning heat from the fireball; the raucous roar from the stands; the pebbles bouncing on the oaken platform.

All became one.

This was it. The true fight of his life had come, except now he faced the most powerful man in Solia—perhaps all of Sithesia. Not to mention the multitude of other foes on that platform.

Under the influence of Centarro, some things became as clear as a mountain stream. The Lord of the Legion knew Augum was going to cast that spell, and he knew it because he had heard him use it to save Nana back at the battle at Hangman’s Rock. He probably did some research on it, but Augum guessed he did not know how to learn it, for each spell had secrets only mentors could pass along. He also knew Augum was going to attempt to steal the divining rod. He knew and expected these things.

So what would he
not
expect Augum to be able to do?

Augum’s heart raced along with his thoughts, instantaneously quantifying the scene before him. The platform rumbled as the heavy boots of the Red Guard charged, flaming swords raised. Erika Scarson thrashed in a burning heap, the divining rod still clutched in her hand. The Lord of the Legion, Vulica Vaneek, and a bunch of Legion warlocks were all casting an offensive spell. Martus the Black was pointing at the platform, also casting a spell, but Augum sensed it was in aid of the Resistance.

He understood all of this in the blink of an eye, and he did so by channeling all his arcane energies into Centarro, the one spell that allowed him to tap into his arcane and strategic genius—a general organizing cerebral troops. It was his finest casting, a casting so acute it intuitively gave him a powerful ally—
overdraw
. Specifically, wild arcanery
and
overdraw. It was madness and the most dangerous thing a warlock could do, but it was the only thing that gave him a chance, the only thing the Lord of the Legion did not expect.

Before anyone actually completed a spell, the entire platform vanished with a
whoosh
. All on it were sent into free fall, interrupting everyone’s spells—except for the Lord of the Legion’s. The man fell as if he had not noticed the platform disappear—his concentration was
that
potent.

And he was about to cast a murderous mid-air lightning attack.

In the same moment came Bridget’s frantic voice. “Casting scroll now—”

Heart in his throat and body falling, Augum focused his over-burdened mind on the flaming and writhing Erika, plummeting just feet away from him. He yanked sharply on the black rod while simultaneously summoning his shield with his other arm, concentrating on reinforcing it, sensing his father’s attack by the rising hairs on his arms. The lightning strike happened a split moment later. It was so strong it plowed through his shield, blasted into his chest, and sent him cart-wheeling toward the opposite side of the arena.

He experienced a jolt and his entire body was seized with an excruciating pain that felt like he was being stung by a thousand wasps from the inside. An instantaneous memory overcame his senses, that of a searing flash he had once felt flying high above the yellow grass of the Tallows.

Except this one was much,
much
stronger.

Luckily, it was only momentary, and in the next twirling instance, under the focus-enhancing effects of Centarro, Augum made a connection, and an old mystery abruptly became clear.

The bolt of lightning from his father should have immediately killed him, for unlike natural lightning, his father’s was arcanely amplified to the 20th degree. Yet in that tumbling mayhem, when Augum was able to glimpse his chest, the area had a gaping hole that went through his robe and undergarments. The edges of the cloth were on fire, but his skin was unbroken.

The lightning had done no damage!

Now, in centarric perfection, he knew why. Herzog the historian had asked Augum if Atrius Arinthian passed down a gift in the blood. At the time, Augum thought surely not, but now it dawned on him he had been wrong—and it should have been clear from the very beginning, for after being struck above the Tallows, Mrs. Stone had noted that the lightning had
not left a mark on him
. Atrius Arinthian had passed down to him one crucial advantage …

Lightning immunity.

It was as if the legend was reaching through the eons with an ancestral echo, giving Augum a fighting chance against his greatest foe.

As he cartwheeled through the air before thousands of screaming spectators, Augum took a quick moment to acknowledge how amazing Centarro was. Only this spell allowed simultaneous understanding on multiple levels. Only this spell allowed him to appreciate simplicity during the most harrowing of moments. The somber and brooding clouds above, laden with eager rain. The wind whistling in his ears. The bulbous throb in his head amplified by spinning force. The oozing of blood from his nose and ears. The multitude of battle cuts stinging sharply—everything amplified by Centarro.

As long as it lasted, of course. And he was acutely conscious of the fact he had not planned for the side effects.

This was all or nothing.

His body was slowing—there was a force pulling on it, willing it to reach the ground safely. Caireen and Leera had come through in their crucial part! The initial plan had called for him to jump off the platform, his fall halted by their combined Telekinetic efforts. Luckily, they adjusted, though it had to be testing their range.

But something else flew through the air beside him, and it was that which he needed to retrieve most. Soon as his feet hit the arena floor, he reached out telekinetically to the spinning rod. But, hearing a massive
whoosh
approach, he purposefully overextended. The rod snapped over so quickly it knocked him back—just as a giant rock slammed into the spot where he had been standing.

Augum stopped rolling in time to see the Legion warlocks were regrouping at the base of the platform, amongst a pile of writhing bodies. One of those warlocks was the Lord of the Legion, and he had just finished casting a spell Augum had feared from the beginning—it was the one that made him move so fast he was a blur.

It gave Augum a final moment to act, a moment he would once again use to dangerously overdraw wild arcanery. There was only one spell that would get him from the far side of the arena to the portal Bridget had cast inside the tunnel to the dressing room. But this time, he knew the words, and he had already cast it once, albeit clumsily. Unfortunately, Centarro’s power was already beginning to ebb. He could feel it draining like a pierced waterskin.

Not yet … not yet!

Augum focused every morsel of his throbbing concentration, pushing his arcane boundaries beyond all his known limits. He ignored the massive volley of arrows, fireballs, mini tornadoes, and vine attacks hurtling toward him. He ignored the blur that was his father, who would most probably arrive before he could utter the words. He ignored the chaos of the crowd, shouting and running and panicking. He ignored the vibrant rumble of the ground, the way the rocks and dust danced on the ancient arena floor, soaked with generations of warrior blood. He ignored everything, instead focusing on the complex arcanery involved in making the spell work while envisioning the spot he had to end up in. Just before casting, he glimpsed something eternal and dark. Centarro allowed him a brief moment of understanding. He was looking at the great arcane abyss, the eternal ether from which arcanery manifested. It was black and cold and so very, very lonely.