Paedrin was still in a crouch and launched himself at Tyrus again, amazed at the older man’s reflexes. He held up his hand and Paedrin saw a ring on his finger flash red. Paedrin remembered his earlier battle too late and found himself thrust violently backward, his own momentum suddenly reversing and spinning him.
“Calvariae!” Tyrus screamed in the Vaettir tongue. It was a word Paedrin had never heard before in context. It meant “place of the skull.” It was an ancient term for a graveyard.
The word contained power.
Deafening explosions rocked the chamber, stunning Paedrin. Multiple thunderclaps, cracking stones, searing light as sharp and ferocious as the commotion of a thousand steel blades clashing with stone. The Paracelsus surrounding them were thrown back as their amulets and rings all shattered.
For a brief moment, Paedrin’s mind was free. Then he heard the Arch-Rike begin to scream in fury in his head.
Spirits filled the prince’s manor, wisps of violet and purple light, mingling with sparks and glittering ribbons of magic. Annon realized what had happened instantly. Tyrus had broken the bonds of their servitude, freeing them all at once and killing many of the men who had worn their charms. There was a frenzy of emotion and voices as the spirits, recognizing their sudden freedom, exulted.
“They are yours, Druidecht,” Tyrus said to him, his grin triumphant. “They will serve you now.”
Annon felt the first ray of hope. He did not even need to use words, for they responded to his thoughts, his desperate need. A flurry of spirits launched at the Kishion, swarming him with stinging pricks of pain and searing color. A blast of lightning came from one, blowing aside a team of soldiers rushing against Khiara and the prince. The fury of their magic was unleashed on the soldiers from Kenatos. Stabbing, stinging, blistering magic began to weave through the air at them. Annon stared down at Hettie and sent several to revive her, healing her damaged bones and restoring her strength.
The buzz of magic filled the room as the spirits darted throughout the chamber, unleashing their power on the mortals who had trapped them for so long. They focused on the Arch-Rike, turning their savage fury on him. Annon watched in horror as the Arch-Rike withdrew a cluster of black sticks and his hands turned blue with flames, igniting them into brands. Smoke began to fill the air from the sticks, and spirits began dying.
“Come to me!” he shouted to his men. “The smoke will protect you! Cut them down! We still outnumber them! Kishion, now!”
Hettie placed herself in front of Tyrus again. Paedrin batted away the blinding lights that dodged and taunted him.
“Paedrin, please!” she begged. “Don’t make us kill you! Fight him! Fight him off!”
“Hettie, get away from him!” Annon warned. “Nizeera! Protect Tyrus!”
The Bhikhu had welts across his face, but he launched at Hettie again and found himself colliding with Prince Aran. The two faced off for only a moment before they fought, exchanging a dizzying series of blows and strikes, each one moving like twin whirlwinds. Feet, fists, elbows—all in a mesmerizing series of strike and defense, retaliation and leverage. Paedrin started to rise in the air, but some force drew him back down again, as if his abilities were being smothered somehow.
Annon watched the struggle from the corner of his eye, moving closer, gathering near Tyrus. He watched for his uncle to withdraw the Tay al-Ard again and wanted to be ready to disappear with him. It was their only hope of escape. If they did not touch his arm or the device, he would not be able to take them with him. Khiara saw his intent and moved closer as well, using the long reach of the staff to smash skulls and cripple knees. There were still too many soldiers and several Rikes leading them.
Spirits rushed this way and that, sending blasts of energy into the soldiers and Rikes of Seithrall, but the smoke from the firebrands was beginning to permeate the air. Soldiers grabbed them from the Arch-Rike and charged back into the room, waving them to spread the smoke. Most of the Paracelsus had risen from the original explosion, their chests smoking from where the amulets had been. Annon saw the death grimaces on their faces. Some were retching violently, unable to stand. Then he saw Erasmus, moving like a shadow from one Paracelsus to the next, dagger in hand, making sure each one was dead.
Behind you!
Nizeera growled in warning and launched at the Kishion, who appeared even closer now. The mosquito-like pests had not stalled him. He walked through their vapors without harm and closed in, bringing up a dagger to throw at Tyrus.
“Tyrus!” Annon warned, sending a blast of fire into the Kishion, knowing that it was hopeless, that not even Tyrus’s flames had stopped him before.
Paedrin let out a roar of pain.
The prince torqued Paedrin’s arm around, planting him face-first into the ground. The angle of his arm was excruciating. He tried to do a front roll to unwind his arm, but the prince dropped to one knee, making that impossible. His arm was locked and the rest of his body shrieked in pain.