The Sentinel Mage

CHAPTER SEVENTY





BY THE TIME they were halfway across the desert, the wailing was no longer audible. Silence surrounded them. Silence, and the muffled sound of horses’ hooves on sand. Harkeld watched the sandstone mount loom larger and larger. A strange sensation grew in his chest, as if he was holding his breath. You’re afraid, he accused himself.

Ahead, the dark hawk reached the outcrop. He saw it soar up, a tiny shape outlined against the blue sky, and then swoop and vanish inside the dark gash of the cave.

Harkeld unslung his waterskin and gulped a mouthful of lukewarm water. What was there to fear? Nothing. All he had to do was place his hand on a stone, spill a little blood.

He glanced to his left, where Justen usually rode, recalling the armsman’s words: I don’t care whether you’re a mage or not, sire. You’re the one who cares.

Justen wouldn’t be so imperturbable, so cheerfully indifferent, if he were found to be a witch.

The remembered sensation of flames licking over his skin, under his skin, made panic spurt inside him. It will never happen again, Harkeld vowed silently. Ever.

But it had happened once—fire bursting from him—and he’d had no control over it. No control at all.

Harkeld re-stoppered the waterskin. If he could cut out the part of him that was diseased with witchcraft, he would. Anything, to avoid the feeling that flames ate him from the inside out, that he was burning alive.

An idea burst into his mind, so bright, so dazzling, that he was momentarily blinded by it. He blinked. The desert came into focus again—the orange drifts of sand, the outcrop looming ahead, the slash of darkness at its base—but behind those things was memory: a campfire in the forest, rain dripping from trees. We strip them of their magic, Dareus had said. It’s one of the tasks we’re charged with.

The witches could remove the magic from his blood, could remove the fire, the flames.

Relief surged inside him. It was suddenly easier to breathe.

Harkeld slung the waterskin over his shoulder and glanced back. He narrowed his eyes. “There’s someone behind us.”

Tomas turned in his saddle. “Who—”

Riding hard towards them, a couple of miles distant, were horsemen. Sand puffed up from the horses’ hooves.

“Assassins,” Cora snapped. “Gallop!”





THE CORPSES WERE resting uneasily in their niches. Innis heard them stir, heard little rustlings as she completed a circuit of the catacombs. But her owl’s eyes saw no movement; the creatures weren’t prowling the dark, narrow aisles. Satisfied, she glided back towards the entrance.

Shouts drifted in from outside, faint and urgent.

Innis flew faster. She swept down one of the aisles, stone rising high on either side, and burst out into daylight.

She saw it as an owl does, in dull colors and shades of gray. Horses and men milled in front of the cavern as Tomas shouted orders. The two archers ran forward, readying their bows, quivers slung over their shoulders. A soldier followed, carrying an armful of arrows.

Riding across the desert, a low plume of sand billowing behind them, were five horsemen.

Cora crouched in the cave entrance, a litter of bundles around her. She looked up. “Innis! Come here!”

Innis swooped down to land, shifting into her own shape before her feet had fully touched the sand. The world suddenly became full of color. “What happened? Petrus—”

“We don’t know,” Cora said tersely. She thrust an armful of clothes at Innis. “Dress! You’re to go with the prince.”

Was Petrus dead? Innis scrambled into her underbreeches and trews. Distress tightened her throat, making it difficult to breathe. She pulled the shirt over her head. Her fingers fumbled with the buttons.

“Archers, ready your bows!” Tomas shouted.

She turned her head and watched as the archers nocked their first arrows. Spare arrows stood in the sand alongside them, thrusting up like the spines of a porcupine, ready to be snatched up and used once their quivers were empty. Behind the archers, the swordsmen waited with their blades bared.

Prince Harkeld stood in the shadow of the cavern mouth, watching the horsemen approach. His sword was unsheathed, clenched in his hand.

Innis shoved her feet into the boots. He can’t be dead. Not Petrus! Tears filled her eyes. She blinked them back.

“Sword,” Cora said curtly.

Innis took the baldric, settling it hastily across her back.

“You know what to do?” Cora peeled open a cloth-wrapped bundle. Her plait fell forward over her shoulder. She flicked it back impatiently. “His blood and his hand on the stone.”

“Aren’t you coming—”

“I’m needed here.”

The noise of the horses was louder. Innis glanced up. The assassins would soon be within bow-shot.

“Torches,” Cora said.

Her attention jerked back to the bundle Cora had unwrapped. Pieces of wood lay on the cloth, stout and strong, bound with pitch-soaked rags at one end. Cora lit two with a snap of her fingers. “Hurry!”

Innis snatched up the flaming torches. “Sire!”

Prince Harkeld thrust his sword into its scabbard and ran towards her. “One of the hawks is here.”

Innis looked up. A pale-breasted hawk glided towards them, lopsided, trailing one leg.

“Go!” Cora said, pushing her.

Prince Harkeld grabbed one of the torches. He headed into the cave.

Innis followed at a run, passing under the broad overhang of sandstone. As darkness enveloped her, she glanced back. Petrus had landed. He half-lay on the sand, panting and naked. One of his legs was clearly broken. “Give me a bow,” she heard him say. “And arrows.”





“WHERE’S THE STONE?” Harkeld asked. Everything beyond the flare of his torch was as black as ink.

“In the middle,” the witch said, pushing ahead of him. “Follow me!”

They plunged into what seemed like a canyon, walls of sandstone towering on either side. The floor was littered with broken stone and mortar. Tombs surrounded them, tier upon tier, their occupants exposed—gray-white bone, parched-leather skin.

The witch stopped so suddenly that he ran into her.

Harkeld grabbed her shoulder to steady himself, and released it. “What?”

“Shh!”

He held his breath and listened. He heard his heartbeat, heard shouts echoing from outside, heard—

Furtive rustling sounds.

“Is that—” The words dried on his tongue as something moved ahead of them. A skeleton groped its way from a tomb and stood unsteadily, extending bony legs. Its head turned towards them, blind.

“They’re waking up,” Innis said. “They know you’re here. Get back!” She turned, pushing him.

They ran, stumbling, back the way they’d come. Withered hands snatched at them as they passed.

The black became gray. They were almost at the entrance. “Stop!” The witch grabbed the back of his shirt.

“What—”

“We need to climb the wall. It’s flat on top. We’ll be safe up there.”

He looked up. Sandstone loomed above him, more than twice his height. Three tiers of tombs were cut into it. Inside them, corpses stirred.

Shouted voices came from the entrance, and the thunder of hooves.

Harkeld hastily laid down his torch. He bent, cupping his hands. “Climb!”

“No, you first!”

They matched stares for a brief second.

“Sire, you’re more important—”

“Fire when in range!” Tomas shouted outside.

The witch dropped her torch and crouched. “Hurry!”

Harkeld placed his foot in her cupped hands and allowed her to heave him up. His fingers scrabbled for purchase, catching on the lower lip of the topmost tomb. He found a foothold in the next tomb down and hauled himself up. Brittle bones crunched beneath his boots. He groped for the top of the wall and shoved his knee in the uppermost tomb. Movement skittered across his thigh, bony fingers plucking at his trews.

Harkeld hauled himself up on top of the wall. He looked over the edge. He saw Innis’s pale face, her dark eyes. She held up one of the torches. “Your belt!”

He removed it hurriedly, threaded the tongue back through the buckle to make a loop, and dangled it down. Light bobbed and flared around him as he pulled the torch up. He could suddenly see the top of the wall—as wide and flat as a road, stretching into the darkness.

He thrust the torch aside and lowered the belt again. Innis reached up with the second torch flaming in her hand.

“Leave it!” he cried, seeing movement flickering at the edges of the ring of torchlight. “Climb!”

One of the corpses stumbled forward as he spoke, reaching for her. Innis turned and struck at it with the torch, slashing like a sword. In the flare of light he saw a gaping, gap-toothed mouth and leathery skin stretched over a gaunt skull. The corpse had been a woman; long, brittle hair hung down her back.

“Climb!” he shouted again.

Innis dropped the torch and grabbed the belt, heaving herself up, stretching to get her foot on the edge of the first tomb.

Harkeld helped as best he could, hauling on the belt as she climbed. More corpses lurched into the circle of light cast by the fallen torch. They reached gnarled hands after her.

When Innis was close enough, he grabbed her wrist and pulled her up. She lay for a moment on her belly, catching her breath, her legs dangling over the edge. “Thank you—” She uttered a choked cry and began to kick. The corpse in the topmost tomb clung to her legs. “Get it off me!”

He grabbed her around the waist and hauled her fully on top of the wall. The corpse came too, its arms clasped around her legs. Its teeth snapped savagely at him.

Harkeld kicked, breaking the creature’s neck, sending the head ricocheting down to smash on the ground. He kicked again. The torso disintegrated in a cloud of dust and bone shards. Only the arms clung to her now, the skeletal fingers digging into her trews.

He ripped them off, snapping the brittle bones, sending the pieces spinning down to the torch burning on the floor.

“They’re wearing mail,” he heard one of the soldiers cry outside.

“Aim for the horses!” Tomas shouted.

The witch pushed to her feet. “We must hurry!”





INNIS LED, HALF-RUNNING, holding the torch aloft. Their footsteps echoed back from the cavern roof. Dark chasms yawned on either side, filled with the sound of corpses moving.

Urgency pushed her to run faster. Her thoughts were full of Petrus, Cora, the two archers standing bravely to confront the Fithians.

The canyons on either side became narrower. Innis slowed. “We must be near the end.”

A dozen more paces and their path ended abruptly, dropping away like a cliff. In front of them, darkness swallowed the torchlight.

Innis crouched at the edge, holding the torch out. The space ahead was filled with milling corpses. In the dim corona of torchlight, it was a vast sea of gray and brown, surging, moving in eddies and currents, with the shadow of Ivek’s curse floating blackly on top.

Prince Harkeld crouched alongside her. “Where’s the anchor stone?”

“In the middle.”

The prince was silent for a moment, while the sea of corpses heaved and rustled below them, then he said: “How do we get there? Could an oliphant—”

“There are too many of them.” Scores, she could cope with, perhaps even hundreds—but this cavern must hold thousands of tightly-packed corpses. They’d overwhelm her, as a swarm of ants overwhelmed a single beetle.

A strong fire mage could clear a path to the stone.

She turned her head and looked at the prince. She knew what his reaction would be if she asked him to use his magic.

So, don’t ask; tell him. You’re a Sentinel. Act like one.

Innis took a deep breath and spoke: “Sire, you must use your magic.”





HARKELD JERKED HIS head around. “No,” he said flatly.

“You have to, sire. It’s the only way.”

Harkeld stood. “We’ll get Cora.”

“She’s fighting.” The witch scrambled to her feet. “She may even be dead by now!”

He turned back the way they’d come. Innis grabbed his forearm, halting him. “You need to burn a path.”

“No.”

“You’re strong enough to do it.” She gestured at the milling sea of corpses. “The way you burned that assassin, you’re far stronger than Cora—”

“No!” It was a yell.

“You’re afraid of it.” She met his eyes, her gaze oddly compassionate.

Harkeld shook his head. It wasn’t fear, it was terror. A cold sweat of panic broke out on his skin at the memory of fire bursting from him, coursing through his bones and arteries, hissing over his skin—

“You can do it, sire.”

He shook his head again. I can’t.

The compassion left her eyes. Her mouth became scornful. “I thought you were braver than this.”

Harkeld inhaled sharply through his nose. “Are you calling me a coward?”

“Isn’t that what you are?”

The words were like slaps across his face. Painful, because they were true. He inhaled again, clenching his hands more tightly, rage mingling with terror inside him. “I’m not a coward.”

“Then do it!”

The rage flared more brightly inside him, and with it, the sensation of fire igniting in his chest. Harkeld shoved her aside and stepped to the edge of the wall. Sight of the corpses seemed to fuel the flames gathering under his skin, as if the witchcraft inside him recognized what it had to do. His skin felt as if it were smoking, his ribcage as if it would burst from the heat and the fire contained inside him.

In panic, in terror, he thrust his right hand outwards. He tried to visualize what he wanted: a path, burned through the corpses below. “Burn!”

Flame roared from his palm, incandescent, searing.





INNIS STUMBLED BACK, dropping the torch, falling to her knees, shielding her face with her arms. Her hair felt as if it were on fire, her clothes as though they were on the point of igniting. Roaring flames filled the space ahead of them, too bright to look at. She squeezed her eyes shut. Her exposed skin felt as if it was stretching, bursting, burning.

The roaring seemed to last forever, punctuated by sharp retorts as bones splintered in the fierce heat. When it died, silence rang in her ears, almost deafening. Cautiously she lowered her arms and opened her eyes. Prince Harkeld was also on his knees, looking outwards.

He’d done much more than clear a path. The sea of corpses was gone. Their charred remains carpeted the cavern. Fires burned fitfully and greasy smoke rose up.

The prince turned his head and looked at her. His face was ashen.

Innis swallowed. I’m sorry I made you do that. She pushed to her feet, grabbing the torch. “Come! We must hurry!”

They scrambled from the wall, dropping the last few feet to land in a hot pile of cinders and ashes. Innis ran, skirting the largest of the fires, plowing through the charred bodies. Heat burned through the soles of her boots, through her trews. “Here, sire! The anchor stone!”





A SMOKING SKELETON lay across the anchor stone. The witch tried to push it aside with the torch, but the skeleton disintegrated into ash and embers. She swept them away with her sleeve.

Harkeld stepped closer. He looked down at the stone. He was shaking, trembling. Panic sparked and twisted inside him. He tried to concentrate on what was in front of him—not the fires, not the smoke and the burning corpses, not the flames that had roared through him. This was the anchor stone? It looked so ordinary, a lump of black basalt, pitted with tiny holes.

The witch put down the torch. She drew her sword. The blade slid from the scabbard with a sleek, hissing sound. She took a pace away from the stone and stood facing outwards, guarding him.

Harkeld fumbled for his dagger. Tiny spurts of flame still seemed to sizzle under his skin. His hands shook so violently he almost dropped the dagger. Memory of the rush and crackle of fire roaring through him, bursting from his skin, was vivid.

He inhaled a deep, shuddering breath—trying to push back the suffocating panic, trying to hold his hands steady—and sliced across his left palm. There was a sharp sting of pain. Blood welled from the cut.

The blood of a Rutersvard prince. The blood of a witch.

He laid his hand on the anchor stone. The basalt was hot to touch, almost scorching. “How long?” His voice was hoarse, as if he’d been screaming.

“I don’t know. A minute?”

Harkeld flattened his hand against the basalt. He counted the seconds in his mind. His palm felt like it was burning, blistering.

“There are more coming.” The witch’s voice was tense.

The stone radiated heat, but at the same time it seemed to suck at his palm, as if the tiny pores in the basalt tried to inhale his blood.

Harkeld counted ten more seconds and lifted his hand. He had to wrench slightly, as if his skin had adhered to the stone.

“Sire?”

He looked at his palm. It was pink from the stone’s heat, smeared with blood. “Done,” he said.

A few drops of blood lay on the anchor stone. As he watched, they sank into the basalt. In a few seconds, the blood was gone.

Harkeld wiped the dagger on his shirt and sheathed it. He clenched his hand to stop the flow of blood and turned away from the stone. The witch was right: more corpses were emerging from the shadows. Not just one or two, but dozens, scores, stumbling through the smoldering remains of their fellows, converging on them.

Fear kicked in his chest. He stepped up alongside Innis and drew his own sword, gripping it with both hands. The flames engraved on the blade seemed to dance in the firelight.

“You must use your magic again, sire.”

Harkeld gripped the sword more tightly. He felt blood leak from the cut on his hand. “No.”

“Sire!” she said fiercely. “You must—”

He turned his head at sound behind him. A piece of basalt broke off the anchor stone and tumbled to the floor.

The witch stopped speaking.

Another piece broke off and then, with a faint, dusty sigh, the anchor stone crumbled into grit and fragments of stone.

As the stone crumbled, so did the corpses, falling where they stood, disintegrating as the witchcraft that had animated them departed.

For a long moment he and the witch stood side by side in silence, then Innis re-sheathed her sword. She glanced at him, her dark eyes reflecting the firelight. “It’s done,” she said.

Harkeld didn’t reply. He slid his sword into his scabbard and turned away from her.

“Your hand,” she said, reaching to take it. “Let me heal—”

Harkeld snatched his hand from her grasp. “No.” He bent and grabbed the torch and strode back the way they’d come—crushing embers and charred bones beneath his boots. He plunged into one of the aisles, his pace quickening as he scrambled over the rubble and skeletons littering the ground. He had to get away from smoldering fires and the choking smell, away from the memory of burning alive.

“Let me go first,” the witch said, as they approached the sliver of daylight.

Harkeld didn’t look at her, didn’t slow down, didn’t acknowledge her words.

Hard fingers gripped his arm, halting him.

He swung around to face her, the torch flaring, his free hand clenching into a fist. His panic, his terror, transformed into fury. “Don’t touch me!”

She pushed past him. “Let me go first. We don’t know if the assassins are still here.”

I hope they are, he thought savagely. I hope they kill you.

“Innis!” A female voice called from the entrance. “Prince Harkeld! Are you there?”





INNIS BLINKED AS they emerged into daylight. The sky was an unbearably bright blue, the sand a dazzling orange. Bodies lay sprawled on that orange sand: men, horses.

She saw one of the archers lying with his arms outstretched and a throwing star protruding from the top of his head in grotesque mimicry of a cockerel; she saw an assassin’s body, scorched and smoking.

Where’s Petrus?

“There you are, Innis!” Cora cried, her voice high with relief. “Over here! We need you!”

Innis hurried to where Cora knelt beside a soldier. His leg was laid open from hip to knee, exposing muscle and bone. Prince Tomas crouched on the man’s other side. A cut slashed across the prince’s cheek. Half his right ear was gone. Blood flowed from these wounds, but otherwise he seemed unharmed. Another assassin lay smoldering on the sand nearby.

Innis knelt hastily, placing her hands on either side of the gaping wound.

“Will he be all right?” Prince Tomas asked.

“Yes.” She glanced up, seeking Petrus, her gaze jerking from one sprawled body to the next: soldier, assassin, soldier, soldier, assassin—

There.

Petrus sat with his back to the outcrop. He was healing himself, his hands gripping his left thigh, his face furrowed in concentration. The last assassin lay a few yards from him, an arrow jutting from his throat.

Petrus looked up and caught her gaze. “You all right?”

She nodded.

“The anchor stone?” Cora asked.

Innis glanced at the prince, remembering the roar of flames, remembering the expression on his face afterwards: a mingling of terror, panic, despair.

Prince Harkeld’s mouth tightened. He turned away and looked out across the desert. His back was rigid, his hands clenched at his sides.

“The anchor stone is destroyed,” Innis said. She looked down at the soldier’s leg. She was aware of the man’s fear—not of being touched by a witch, but of dying.

As if in response, fear kicked in her own chest. One anchor stone had crumbled into dust, but two more remained. How many of us will die before Ivek’s curse is broken?

Foreboding prickled over her scalp. Her skin tightened in a shiver. “You’ll be fine,” Innis told the soldier as she reached for her magic and began to heal him.