Mystic (31 page)

A harsh chant filled the air, sounding like thick branches snapping in a thunderstorm. Pomella couldn't recognize any words. She shivered at the thought that this might be a language spoken by people.

The repeating chant struck the air like thunder. With each resonance, the stone tower shook, as if something large had crashed into it. The trees on the border of the clearing swayed with each hit.

Pomella's eyes widened as she reined their horse to a halt. Ohzem was trying to break the tower.

“No,” she whispered.

The lanky bowman Pomella recognized from the mountain cave patrolled behind the others, for the moment looking in another direction.

Ohzem drove his staff down onto Lal's back. The gardener screamed, twisting against his bindings. Broon whimpered.

Vivianna shifted uncomfortably behind Pomella. “Mistress Yarina has to be in the tower. She's probably trying to hold it together. What do we do?”

Pomella bit her lip. “I don't know, but I hope you know how to use that new Mystic staff you found.”

The bowman spied them. With a movement as quick as a sharp wind, he lifted his bow and drew back an arrow. “Zicon!”

The bandit leader whipped his head in the direction the bowman was pointing.

“Shite,” Pomella said, her mind scrambling for ideas. What, by the Saints, had she planned to do when she arrived here? She was unarmed and had a trained soldier pointing an arrow at her!

Vivianna slid off the horse and ran for tree cover.

“Where are you going—ugh!” Pomella gritted her teeth and faced the bandits.

Ohzem turned his attention toward her. He no longer spoke, but the harsh chanting continued to echo across Kelt Apar, swirling like wind, and hammering into the tower. The Mystic jabbed his staff at Lal again. The old man's screams harmonized with the chant.

Zicon ran toward Pomella with one hand on his sword and the other motioning the bowman to follow. The bow never wavered.

Behind them, Quentin started to move toward her, but the Mystic barred his way with his staff. Quentin snarled and tried to push it aside, but Ohzem struck him across the chest. Quentin doubled over and staggered. He glared at Ohzem, then looked toward Pomella.

“I don't know how you escaped that cave, or how you got my horse,” Zicon called, “but this game is finished, girl. Get down, or Hormin will put that arrow through your eye. Don't test his skill!”

Pomella's hands shook on the reins. She silently cursed herself for being such a coward. She doubted somebody like Mistress Yarina would panic this way.

She mustered every ounce of courage she could find. “You—you are not welcome here. Begone from Kelt Apar!”

Zicon chuckled, his broad shoulders shaking. He stopped, and the bowman paused as well. They stood only a short distance away. “Did you hear that, Hormin?” Zicon said. “The little shadow flower is telling us to leave!”

He stopped laughing and his voice grew hard. “She just told me, Zicon of the Black Claws, to abandon the most important commission of my life. You're over your head, girl. Now get off my horse and get on your knees!”

“N-no,” she managed.

Zicon snarled, “Hormin, show her how serious I am!”

Before he'd finished the last two words, Hormin's arrow hissed past Pomella's head. She screamed and ducked, but felt the iron-tipped arrow tug at her hair before streaking into the forest.

She whipped her head up. The bowman nocked a replacement arrow.

Zicon's face contorted in rage. “The Green Man is bound, girl! There is no guardian to protect you! Get down, now! The next arrow won't miss!”

As she shivered with terror, Pomella's mind spun. All sense of reason fled her. Distantly, she thought of Sim and how he'd tried first to warn her, then to save her. He'd gotten himself killed for it, but at least he'd stood for something. He'd been noble of heart, and if he could do that with the last of his strength, so could she.

She ripped her oak staff from the saddle and lifted it into the air. “The guardian is not gone!” she cried. “In Oxillian's absence
I
am the guardian of Kelt Apar! Bring no violence here, or the land will take you!”

Blessed Saints protect her. Where had
that
come from? Fool or not, she held her ground.

“Hormin!” Zicon yelled.

Pomella inhaled her last breath. She thought of her grandmhathir and that gave her enough strength to not close her eyes.

Before two heartbeats could finish thundering in her chest, she felt another whistle of air flash by. She tensed, expecting the jolt of an arrow.

But it never came.

Two blinding streaks of silver, Hector and Ena, zoomed past her, flying like Saint Brigid's arrows toward Hormin. Ena reached him first. Hormin cried out in surprise and loosed the arrow wildly. It sailed in a high arc deep into the forest.

Hector darted right behind his sister and crashed into Hormin's face, drawing a painful scream from the bowman. Both hummingbirds dove again. Flecks of blood danced in the air. He swatted them in vain, crying out each time the birds wove past his wild attacks and drew another red line. Hector jabbed his beak straight into Hormin's eye, causing him to drop his bow.

Shaking off his look of dumbfounded surprise, Zicon snarled and drew his sword. He screamed and charged Pomella. She lifted her staff to try and club him, but didn't need to.

Another streak appeared from behind her, but this time it was much larger and wore armor.

Vlenar's sword struck out and caught Zicon's, the clang of their blades echoing across the wide clearing.

Pomella's heart burst with relief. Moments ago she'd been prepared to die and now, beyond her wildest hopes, help had come.

Vlenar drove Zicon back, the laghart's every motion smooth and effortless. Zicon snarled and tried desperately to block the oncoming assault.

The ranger grabbed Zicon's forearm and twisted the sword out of his hand. He punched up hard against Zicon's elbow, cracking it loudly in a direction it wasn't meant to go. Vlenar spun, sweeping Zicon's legs out with his tail. He flipped Zicon's sword into his hand with the tip of his boot and drove it through Zicon's thigh, pinning him to the ground.

Zicon screamed. Vlenar turned to Hormin, who was still trying to fend off the hummingbirds. The bowman, his face covered with thin, bloody cuts, saw Vlenar standing over Zicon. Scrambling away, Hormin tore off running toward the edge of the forest, pursued by Hector and Ena.

From the northern tree line a herd of silver animals stalked into the clearing. A dozen fay wolves, lions, and elk all made their way toward the central tower, trailing misty smoke. Walking among them was Vivianna, looking like a true Mystic, striding with her staff in hand. Pomella gaped. The noblewoman really
was
good with fay animals.

Not wanting to linger, Pomella leaped from the stallion, her staff still in hand. She ran to Vlenar and would have hugged him, except he gave her a hard look that reminded her they were still in danger.

That, and Vlenar didn't seem like the hugging type.

Hurrying toward the central tower, Pomella saw Quentin still kneeling, clutching his chest beside Saijar, who was blindfolded and bound. Ohzem loomed above Lal, the gentle morning wind rippling his rust-colored robes. The moat of flowers spread around them, fresh and beautiful where they hadn't been trampled.

“Come no closer, ranger,” Ohzem said.

Vlenar sprinted forward, his back bent low, sword ready.

The moment Vlenar crossed the threshold of flowers, Ohzem slammed his iron staff against the ground. Vlenar stumbled, but managed to catch himself. He lifted his foot for the next step, but it moved as if a heavy weight held it down.

The laghart attempted another step, but could not lift his foot at all. Twisting at the waist, Vlenar thrashed silently.

“Struggling speeds the petrification,” Ohzem said without concern. He turned his gaze to the fay animals swarming toward him. He sneered and spit a word in the harsh language that matched the echoing chant crashing against the tower. He snapped a clawlike hand outward, and spikes of iron shot from his fingertips. Iron pellet after iron pellet struck the fay animals, dropping them. They misted away in a cloud of silver smoke as they crashed and slid across the ground.

Vivianna dove to the ground to avoid the iron.

Ohzem shook his head. “Pathetic.”

He turned to Pomella. “I should thank you, for it is because of you that I was given this opportunity.”

Pomella inched her way toward the moat of flowers, eyeing its edge.

Quentin struggled to rise. A trickle of blood leaked from his nose. “Run away, Pomella! He doesn't care about you. He just wants Yarina. Please!”

Pomella's eyes narrowed. She had to keep them engaged so they didn't hurt Lal any further. The old man lay on the ground, shivering. “Don't pretend to care about me,” she said to Quentin. “I trusted you, like a blathering fool.”

To her surprise, he sighed and looked at the ground. “You're wrong. I do care for you. I know that must sound hard to believe, but it's the truth.”

Ohzem gave a rasping laugh. “You're both fools. Your lust and petty affection will ruin you. They make you weak.”

“Like they did for you, Jollin?” said a voice behind them.

Pomella gasped. The High Mystic stood in the doorway of the tower, majestic in the morning light with her staff in hand and dark hair spilling down her back. Not a hint of anger or worry radiated from Yarina.

A smile slowly spread across Ohzem's face. He turned to her.

“That name is long dead, Mystic,” Ohzem said.

Vlenar still struggled to move. His legs were locked solid in what appeared to be iron. The dull gray color rose up his leg, slowly transforming him into metal.

Yarina walked slowly toward Ohzem. “Only in your mind, Jollin. The withered man that stands before me now is the same angry boy that once professed his love to me when we were young. I should not be surprised that you chose to exact your revenge upon me using apprentice candidates, just as we were all those years ago.”

Ohzem clutched his iron staff harder. “That boy is dead. I care nothing for you! I will depose you and take this tower for my own. It was I who deserved to become Master Faywong's apprentice, not you!”

“Of course you still care for me, Jollin AnFollus,” Yarina said, drifting on slippered feet toward them.

Pomella looked at the line of flowers in front of her. Her heart pounded as she debated crossing them. Blessed Saints give her strength! She prayed the strange petrification wouldn't grip her like it had Vlenar. Taking a breath, she stepped across the threshold and waited. A heartbeat passed, but nothing changed. She exhaled and crept toward Ohzem.

“By raging against me,” Yarina continued, “you reveal your hatred. That hate stems from the same fear and bitterness you had when we were young and you realized my life was dedicated only to the Myst. To one who looks closely enough, your emotions today are grown from that same seed. You obsessed for me to the point that it consumed you and carved a hole in your heart that you then filled with poisonous bitterness and iron.”

Pomella was almost within arm's reach of Ohzem. A plan formed in her mind, though she had no idea if it would work.

Ohzem heaved angrily, now squeezing his staff with a white-knuckled grip. “Then I will purge you from my mind, just as I have everything else that holds me back.”

Screaming, he lifted his staff and swung at her. Yarina closed her eyes and waited for the strike.

Without thinking, Pomella swung her own staff and caught his mid-swing. The collision sent a shock through her, rattling her bones. She held on tight with all her strength.

Ohzem turned his terrible face toward her. “Pathetic commoner!”

Quentin surged to his feet and kicked the back of Yarina's knee, knocking her to the ground. She cried out as he stood behind her and yanked her hair back. A dagger flashed into his hand and he held it against her throat.

But Pomella could spare no attention for the High Mystic. Ohzem twisted and struck his heavy staff hard against hers. She adjusted her grip and pushed back.

“Pomella!” Yarina cried, sounding concerned for the first time.

Ohzem loomed over Pomella, somehow finding considerable leverage against her despite his frail frame. “Your dedication to your master is admirable. Perhaps I should raise you up as my own apprentice. The fools who hired me in Rardaria made me agree to take their precious son as my apprentice when I conquered the tower. But you have proven to be made of stronger stock.” He pushed his staff against hers even harder. “Perhaps you are iron to their oak.”

Pomella struggled against his towering strength. Terror surged through her. She couldn't overcome him. Not alone. She remembered the wound on her ribs, and the blood that could empower her. Perhaps, if she could manage to reopen it, or wipe the blood against the metal in Ohzem's flesh …

No.

She couldn't. Ox had said it was dangerous to use blood like that. She wouldn't harm herself to empower the Myst. Ohzem bore down on her, and she saw the wretch he'd become. She would not become that, ever.

Ohzem screamed and slammed her against the ground, driving the wind from her lungs.

The Mystic straddled her belly and leaned over her, shoving their locked staffs into her chest. His staff glowed red and smoked against hers. The red flared to white, heat radiating against her skin.

“You were doomed to fail because you are driven by emotion. Those feelings are weak.” The white-hot staff touched her neck and she screamed as searing heat burned through her flesh.

“A true Mystic knows that life is temporary and filled with nothing but suffering.” His eyes danced wildly. Spittle flew from his mouth as he raged. Pomella thrashed, all rational thought leaving her. “Life is a prelude to death. The only honest emotion is
pain
!”