The Path of Flames (Chronicles of the Black Gate Book 1) (52 page)

Asho grunted, rose, and ran forward. His sword singed the air as he swung it, but the demon sensed him coming. It stepped out of his reach and then lunged forward to bite his head off. Asho yelled and dropped desperately to his knees, leaning back and barely avoiding its snapping jaws.

Kethe screamed and brought her sword two-handed through the flesh of its upper arm. Where she cut, a flash of white light bled out into the air. The demon recoiled, but Tiron was racing up on its other side. He had his sword reversed in his grip, holding it point down. Making no attempt to protect himself, he leaped up, back arched, and buried his cursed green blade to the hilt between the demon’s ribs.

It reared to its full height and threw its head back to roar its pain, pulling Tiron’s sword out of his grip as it did so. Despite the numerous wounds that had been opened up across its body, it didn’t actually seem to be hurt. Asho fought to his feet just as it snatched Tiron off the ground, both clawed hands wrapping around his chest. Asho took a deep breath and ran in under its arms and sliced at its knee; his sword cut deep, and the monster dropped Tiron, who fell heavily to the ground in a crash of plate.

“Get up!” yelled Asho, grabbing Tiron by the arm.

“Let go of me!” Tiron shook his arm loose. His eyes widened, and he scooped Asho’s heel out from under him, causing Asho to crash to his back just as claws swooped through the air where his head had been. “Idiot!”

Asho rolled to his side as claws dug deep into the rock where he’d been lying, got on all fours and scrambled out of range. Ser Wyland wasn’t moving. Where was Kethe?

The demon took up Tiron again and raised him high. The older man laughed savagely even as his chest plate buckled under the demon’s strength, then screamed in pain.

Asho’s eyes flared wide as time seemed to slow. He sensed a new presence above him on the cliff face. Like a candle glow seen in the night, he felt the rushing pull of a presence call to him. Kethe. She was climbing to a ledge above the demon. Burning like a white bonfire in the darkness of his mind, he felt her pride and fear, her vulnerability and guilt, her determination and pain.
Kethe
. And he knew that she sensed him too.

Every instinct bade him reach out to her, to forge a connection with her fierce vitality.
No. I stand alone.

Her burning light dimmed and then disappeared.

“Tiron! Catch!” Even as Tiron looked over at him, Asho lobbed his sword up into the air, a move born of desperation. There was no chance. There was no—but Tiron caught it, fingers wrapping around the naked edges of the sword. Blood immediately splattered into the air, but he brought the sword around and took it by the hilt with his free hand.

“You want me?” He sounded almost joyous. “I’m yours!” He drew Asho’s sword back and thrust it right into the demon’s head just before it could bite him.

The demon shrieked again. Its hands flew open, and Tiron fell ten feet onto the naked rock, where he rolled over and lay still. The demon whipped its head from side to side, the sword’s pommel jutting out from the smooth carapace of its face.

Asho heard a scream and saw Kethe leap out from the ledge to which she’d climbed. Fifteen feet up, she soared through the air, lithe and agile as a cat, to land on the demon’s back, her own sword raised high. Asho cursed and frantically looked around for a weapon. There—Ser Wyland’s blade. He raced over to it and picked it up, turning just in time to see Kethe bury her sword to the hilt in the back of the demon’s neck. White fire erupted from the wound and the demon screamed, a sound so shrill Asho could barely hear it, then reached up and seized Kethe by the back of her armor. It tore her free and threw her violently to the ground.

Asho cried out in alarm. Nobody could survive being thrown onto rocks like that, but even as he prepared to run to her, he saw Kethe push herself up, arms shaking, face bloodied, and her expression was grim. Relief surged through him. How had she survived?

The demon fell to its knees. His blade was still buried in its head, Kethe’s embedded in its back.

They both rose and staggered toward it. The demon seemed blinded, turning back and forth as it clawed at the air. Guided by instinct, Asho darted in and seized the sword’s hilt with both hands. It flamed to life, embedded even as it was within the demon’s head. It shrilled in agony. The single rune that was visible just above the point where the blade disappeared into its head burned so brightly that it seared Asho’s eyes. The demon’s head was glowing from within, light spilling out its open maw.

Kethe stepped in behind it and grabbed hold of her own sword. White fire burst forth again. Asho closed his eyes and strained to keep his grip on the sword’s hilt. He sensed a terrible energy flowing between the two swords, building and building as the demon screamed ever louder, until with a cacophonous explosion the demon’s head simply burst.

Asho cried out and let go of the sword. The demon’s corpse thudded over onto the ground, and Asho gazed, wide-eyed, at Kethe. For a moment she held his gaze, and he saw in her eyes an awareness of what had happened, of how they had connected. Then she turned away.

Ser Wyland rose stiffly and staggered over to where Ser Tiron lay on his back, his helm crumpled around his head, dark blood seeping from the rim and pooling over an eye.

Asho wanted nothing more than to lie down, but he forced himself to walk over. “Is he alive?”

Ser Wyland crouched by Tiron’s side and frowned. “Looks like his armor has been crushed. Bones are likely broken. I don’t see how we can move him down to Hrething without killing him.”

Stones skittered down the slope, and Mæva slid down and fell beside them in a graceful crouch. Her eyes were locked on Ser Tiron, and she moved to his side without hesitation. Asho felt a stirring of hope. He stepped back, watching her face, seeking some comforting sign of confidence.

“Not good,” she said. She pressed her fingers to his neck, then ghosted her hand down his chest to where one of his legs was bent the wrong way. Asho shuddered at the sight of it. That injury alone guaranteed an end to Ser Tiron’s career as a fighting man.

“Can you help him?” Kethe’s voice was flat. Asho couldn’t tell if she was disappointed or hopeful.

Mæva shook her head. “I could, but at too much expense to myself. I’ve no animal to cast the taint into. It would warp me beyond anything I’m willing to suffer.”

“Your power is selfish beyond measure,” said Ser Wyland.

“If survival is selfish, then, yes, by all means.” She looked up at him, her face pale. “Are you any different?”

Ser Wyland gave her a mocking smile. “I’d like to think so. I’d sacrifice myself for Ser Tiron or any of my companions willingly.”

Mæva returned his smile coldly. “All right. Then I’ll cast the taint into you and heal him.”

Ser Wyland paled, but nodded. “Do it.”

“Wait,” said Asho. “There has to be another way.”

Mæva rose to her feet and stood in front of Ser Wyland. She reached out and cupped his cheek, then ran her hand down his breastplate. “It will warp you, my heroic knight—your body and mind. You’ll be become a sniveling, whining, broken creature. Your bones will twist and your mind will break. Everything good about you will turn to ash. Are you so sure you’re willing to take this on?”

He caught her wrist and stared down at her. “Are you taking pleasure in this?”

Asho wanted to intervene, but he didn’t know what to say.

“No,” said Mæva. “But your self-righteousness sickens me.”

Ser Wyland smiled. “Well, you won’t have to stand it for much longer. Hurry.”

Mæva crouched beside Ser Tiron again and placed a hand over his chest. She calmed her breathing and closed her eyes. “Goodbye, Ser Wyland.”

Asho felt panic rise up within him. Was this right? He looked up to protest, but Ser Wyland’s expression stilled his tongue. The man was iron and flint.

“Stop,” said Kethe. Her voice was cold with command. “Cast it into me.”

“No!” Ser Wyland wheeled on her, brow lowering. “I won’t—”

“Now,” said Kethe. She looked impossibly slender and battered in her leather and chain, but her eyes matched Ser Wyland’s in determination. “I can take it. Go!”

Mæva stared at Kethe with flat, hooded eyes, then nodded. “There are no assurances here.”

“I know,” said Kethe hurriedly. “Just do it. Quickly.”

The witch nodded and cast a sidelong glance at Ser Wyland. “Looks like I won’t be rid of you yet.”

“Lady Kethe, you can’t—” Ser Wyland cut off what he was about to say as Mæva crouched beside the fallen knight and placed her hand above his body, closing her eyes and muttering to herself. Kethe widened her stance as if expecting a blow, her face pale, staring at the witch with fierce focus.

“Kethe,” said Asho, but she ignored him.

Ser Tiron gave a wheezing gasp and his back suddenly arched. Mæva leaned forward as if against a great wind, forcing her hand down against an invisible resistance. Crimson and sickly green energy erupted from Ser Tiron’s chest like a wildfire and rose up to stream toward Kethe, who lowered her chin, closed her eyes, and took the taint full in the chest.

Asho and Ser Wyland stared helplessly as she staggered back. A faint green glow enveloped her, and she writhed in agony. The weight was too much; she fell to her knees, one hand planted in the dirt. Shaking and shivering, she dropped her head so that her hair fell over her face, and Asho cursed and took a step forward. But what could he do?

Then, with a soft cry, Kethe rose to her knees. Her eyes were locked shut, her face contorted with effort. She raised both hands, and the green glow seemed to concentrate itself between her palms. She closed them together, and the glow grew all the brighter, right up until she smothered it. With a gasp she dropped her hands and fell over onto her side, just as Mæva grabbed Asho’s arm.

“Hurry! Remove his helm!”

Kneeling again, he and Ser Wyland pulled Ser Tiron’s armor off. The man was breathing deeply, and Asho saw that his wounds were healed. It was impossible but true. Blood was smeared over his face and matted in his hair, but there were no cuts. His leg had straightened out. He was breathing smoothly, and his color was good. Asho shook his head and looked up at Mæva, who was staring in disbelief at Kethe.

“That’s not possible,” said the witch. “Even for one such as her.”

Ser Wyland rolled Kethe onto her back and checked her pulse. “It seems our Lady is full of surprises. She destroyed the taint of your magic. There’s only one kind of person I’ve ever heard about who can do that.”

“A Virtue,” said Asho. He stared down at Kethe in wonder. He thought of the Virtues he had seen at the Battle of Black Hill, clad in resplendent armor, glowing with might, figures out of legend and surpassingly wondrous. “But…” He couldn’t string his thoughts together. “But that means she has to go to Aletheia.”

“Or die,” agreed Ser Wyland, voice heavy. He wiped at his face, his expression weary.

“A Virtue,” said Mæva, her voice soft with respect. Or fear. “Is that what Ashurina sensed? No wonder she told me of your coming.”

“It won’t make much of a difference if we don’t stop Laur’s army.” Ser Wyland rubbed at his face. “They won’t care what she is. They’ll only want her dead.”

Asho rubbed his hand over his head. Too many complexities were manifesting themselves too quickly for him to understand. They had an inkling as to Kethe’s potential nature, but what of his own? Had the sword spoken to him? What had he sensed within himself? What had he turned away from? Doing so had almost cost Kethe her life…again. He rubbed his face and turned to the demon. “Let’s focus on the next step for now. Maybe we can grab one of its horns as proof of what we’ve done.”

Ser Wyland stood, looking twice his age. “Indeed. We’ll work on removing one while the others recover.”

Asho nodded with gratitude, raised his blade high overhead, and brought it down with all his strength at the great, winding horn’s base. The shock of the blow shook him right up to the shoulders.

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

Chasm Walk was a vast and perilous gorge that had carved a route through the mountains, making it one of the primary passes through which one could traverse from the rich pastures to the south to the wild and desolate plains to the north. It opened deep in the heart of the territory of the Orlokor, who exacted high tolls on the human and kragh merchants who were loath to travel the four hundred miles to the east to the Dead Sky Pass. Orlokor greed, however, resulted in exorbitant tolls; as such, the gorge was perhaps less frequently traveled than its easy gradient would lead one to assume, its vertiginous walls rarely echoing with the passage of mules and wagons.