Several Years Later
Trinity had been burning for three days.
By noon, smoke had blotted out the sun, leaving a dim crimson disc hanging over the city. Ash fell on the rooftops, mingled with the rain, and turned into black sludge underfoot. Shards of roof tile, broken arrows, and the bodies no one had managed to remove from the streets lay in it.
Kain ran with his left hand pressed to his side.
Every breath sent pain through his ribs. The rings of his training mail had bitten into his skin, and the shirt beneath it had long since soaked through with blood. He did not know whether it was his or belonged to the goblin whose throat he had been forced to cut at the southern gate.
Most likely both.
Behind him, the bell in the city tower thundered.
Three short strokes.
A pause.
Three more.
The signal for a breach.
Kain turned into a narrow alley and nearly slipped on apples spilled from a shattered cart. A few still held their red color. The rest had been crushed beneath boots and ground into the mud.
Someone had managed to write in chalk on the wall of a house:
Shelter in the Temple of Saint Orian.
A trail of blood ran beneath the words.
The arrow pointed toward the square, where the roar of the Horde now rose.
Kain stopped at the corner and peered around it.
Orcs were advancing along the broad street.
Not as a disorderly mob, as the instructors at the Academy had described them. Not as separate tribes that fought among themselves even in the middle of an attack.
They marched in formation.
Heavy shields of wood and forged plate led the way. Spears followed behind them. Archers kept close to the walls, covering the flanks.
A shaman stood at the crossroads.
Bones, leather straps, and dried scraps of skin hung from his body. Three black horns jutted from his staff. A round stone covered in jagged symbols hung between them.
The shaman raised his staff.
"Vrak! Nar sha!"
The orcs stopped as one.
Not gradually.
Not with the order passing from the first rank to the last.
At once.
Dozens of heavy bodies froze as though governed by a single will.
Kain stepped back behind the corner.
The Academy had never taught them about anything like this.
The Horde was not supposed to move this way.
An imperial horn sounded somewhere to his right. Another, farther away, answered it. Then a crash rolled over the rooftops, and the upper floor of a stone house burst outward in a cloud of dust.
Kain covered his head.
Stones rained onto the street.
Beyond the wall, the shaman spoke again:
"Ser nhaar. Kel ath."
The words were foreign and heavy. They seemed to scrape at his hearing from within.
Kain did not understand them, but his body reacted all the same.
Cold ran down his spine.
His heart missed a beat.
Every orc turned toward the eastern square.
Toward the Academy's Third Reserve.
Toward the place where Laurent de Morval's detachment was supposed to be.
"Shit," Kain whispered.
He darted out of the alley and ran the other way.
The shaman caught the movement.
The staff came down.
"Sakh!"
The shields parted.
Three orcs broke from the formation.
Kain heard their heavy footfalls and forced himself not to look back.
The square was fewer than two hundred paces away. If the reserve had held its position, they could meet the orcs in the narrow passage between the market stalls. If Laurent had obeyed an order for once in his life, there should be shields, two mages, and eight senior cadets waiting there.
Kain veered beneath a stone arch.
An arrow struck the wall beside his head.
A second glanced off his pauldron.
The third would have hit him in the back if he had not thrown himself forward.
Kain rolled through the mud, sprang to his feet, and drew his sword.
The first orc was already upon him.
It was enormous, nearly a head taller than Kain, clad in torn mail and a helmet pieced together from three different parts. It carried a short axe with a broad blade.
The orc struck downward.
Kain stepped back.
The axe split the air in front of his face and struck sparks from the paving stones.
Kain channeled what remained of his Aura into his legs.
The inner nexus in his chest responded—weak, depleted, and painfully hollow. Golden warmth spread through his muscles, but there was far too little of it.
He lunged forward anyway.
His blade slid beneath the orc's arm and entered its side.
Not deep enough.
The orc roared and smashed its forehead into Kain's face.
The world lurched.
Kain flew back against the wall and barely kept hold of his sword.
The axe rose again.
Almost none of his Aura remained.
He heard Halvar's voice as clearly as if the old smith were standing beside him amid the fire and smoke:
Power you cannot stop does not belong to you.
"I know," Kain breathed.
His heart was beating too fast.
One beat.
A second.
A third.
He found the heat in his blood.
Not the calm current taught by masters of Aura. Something else—alive, furious, ready to devour anything if it could give him a few more moments of strength.
Kain let it flare in his right leg.
Pain tore through the muscles.
He pushed away from the wall just as the axe came down.
The Blood of the Gods seared him from within.
Kain appeared beside the orc and swept his sword across the back of its knee. The giant's leg buckled. Kain turned and drove the blade beneath the rim of its helmet.
The orc collapsed.
Kain wrenched his sword free and nearly fell after it.
His heart hammered in his throat. Dark spots drifted across his vision. His right leg trembled as though the bones inside it had gone soft.
The other two slowed.
One was younger and lighter, armed with a spear. The other carried a curved sword and a round shield.
Kain raised his weapon.
His Aura had almost vanished.
The Blood was already burning in his leg, and feeding the Flame any further would be madness.
The orcs did not know that.
Kain bared his teeth.
"Who's first?"
They spread apart.
The spearman attacked from the left.
Kain knocked the point aside, stepped inside its reach, and drove an elbow into the orc's jaw. It staggered. The other orc slammed its shield into Kain's shoulder.
He fell.
The curved sword cut through the air above his head.
Kain rolled, felt the blade scrape across his mail, and thrust his sword beneath his opponent's ribs.
The orc howled.
The spearman struck Kain in the face with the shaft.
Something cracked in his nose.
Kain lost his sword.
The orc turned the spear and aimed the point at his chest.
Kain caught the shaft in both hands.
The point stopped against the mail covering his palm.
The orc leaned into it with all its weight.
Kain felt its breath—hot and foul. He saw yellow teeth and fine scars around its eyes.
He had no strength left.
So he ignited the blood in both arms.
The world flashed red.
His muscles locked in a spasm. Kain wrenched the spear aside, pulled the orc off balance, and smashed his forehead into its face.
Once.
Again.
On the third blow, the orc released the spear.
Kain drew the knife from his belt and drove it up beneath the orc's chin.
The body went limp.
For several moments, Kain remained on his knees, still gripping the knife.
Then he let go.
His hands were shaking.
Blood ran from his nose. His mouth tasted of iron. Every breath hurt as though his lungs were packed with shards of glass.
A fresh cry came from the street:
"Vhar vel! Khar nar!"
Dozens of voices answered.
Then hundreds.
Kain picked up his sword and ran on.
When he reached the eastern square, the reserve detachment was gone.
The barricade stood unfinished.
Three carts blocked half the passage, but the sandbags still lay by the wall. The crates of arrows had not been opened. An abandoned signal flag lay on the roof of the watch post.
Only two dead legionaries remained where the Third Reserve should have been.
One had been killed by an arrow.
The other's belly had been torn open.
Kain stopped in the middle of the square.
"Laurent!"
There was no answer.
He walked to the barricade.
Boot prints covered the mud. Many of them. Every trail led away from the assigned position, toward the old artisans' quarter.
They had left before the fighting began.
Kain tightened his grip on the sword.
"Laurent!"
This time, a voice came from the passage between the houses:
"Stop shouting."
Laurent de Morval stepped out of the shadows.
Even in the middle of a ruined city, he looked as though he had just left the Academy's training yard. His fair hair was swept back. The emblem of his House gleamed on his breastplate. His training cloak was gone, but his expensive mail was almost untouched.
The others emerged behind him.
Rufus, a thin mage with a burn scar on his cheek.
The brothers Edran and Merek Loen.
And one more cadet whose name Kain could never remember.
Four instead of the required ten.
"Where are the others?" Kain asked.
Laurent looked at his bloodied face.
"Dead."
"Their bodies aren't here."
"Because they did not die here."
"Your orders were to hold the square."
"Our orders became meaningless when the southern wall fell."
"The southern wall is still standing."
"For now."
Kain looked at the barricade.
"You didn't even finish the defenses."
Rufus lowered his eyes.
Laurent remained calm.
"The detachment took losses. I made the decision to save those who could still escape."
"And leave the passage open."
"The city is already lost."
"Then why are you still here?"
No one answered.
A heavy crash sounded from the far street.
Not the measured tread of orcs.
Something larger.
Slow.
Every impact made the paving stones tremble.
Laurent looked toward the sound.
"Because the western route was cut off."
Kain understood.
They had tried to run.
Not withdraw to the next line.
Not join the legion.
Simply flee the city.
"You deserted."
Merek stepped forward.
"Watch your words."
"Or what?"
"Kain," Laurent said gently, "this is no time to quarrel."
"We'll return to the position. You'll finish the barricade. Rufus will signal."
"No."
"Then I'll find an officer."
Laurent tilted his head slightly.
"And what will you tell him?"
"The truth."
Rufus licked his lips nervously.
Edran looked at his brother.
Laurent's face revealed nothing.
"The truth," he repeated. "Of course."
Kain sensed the danger before he saw the movement.
He tried to raise his sword.
Rufus spoke two short words.
The air tightened around Kain.
Silver threads burst from the broken stones, wound around his wrists, and jerked his arms behind him. Kain fell to his knees. The sword slipped from his fingers.
He tried to kindle the Blood.
Pain tore through his chest.
His body did not respond.
He had already burned through too much of his strength.
"What are you doing?" he rasped.
Rufus approached without meeting his eyes.
The magical threads wound around Kain's shoulders, chest, and legs. They were thin and almost weightless, but every movement made them bite deeper.
"Laurent."
"You were always too loud, Alseif."
Kain struggled.
The threads tightened.
"Untie me."
"So you can run to the first officer you see?"
"You abandoned your post."
"We saved lives."
"You were saving yourselves."
Merek's face twisted.
He kicked Kain in the stomach.
Kain doubled over as far as the bonds allowed.
"Enough," Laurent said.
Merek stepped back.
Laurent crouched in front of Kain.
"You don't understand what happened."
"I understand enough."
"No. You still think the Academy made us equals."
Kain raised his head.
Laurent's voice was calm. Almost friendly.
"The decree opened the gates to people like you," he continued. "And for a time, the Empire chose to forget the difference. It seated us at the same tables. Gave us identical training swords. Made us listen to the same instructors."
"You're afraid some poor northerner saw you run?"
Merek started forward again, but Laurent stopped him with a gesture.
"That is why you never understood your place."
"Do you understand yours?"
"My name will outlive this city. Yours will vanish with it."
Kain looked at the others.
"You're going to let him do this?"
Rufus said nothing.
Edran stared away.
The younger Loen gripped his sword so tightly that his knuckles whitened.
"We don't have to kill you," Laurent said. "The Horde will do it for us."
"How noble."
"This is war."
"No. This is cowardice."
For the first time, irritation flickered in Laurent's eyes.
He stood.
"Drag him behind the barricade."
Edran and Merek took Kain by the arms.
He tried to resist, but his legs barely obeyed him. They dragged him through the mud and threw him beside an overturned cart.
Rufus anchored the threads to the iron axle.
"They'll find the body," the younger Loen said.
"There are thousands of bodies in this city," Laurent replied.
"What if he gets free?"
The mage looked at his bonds.
"He won't."
Kain pulled at his hands.
The threads flared and burned his skin.
"Rufus."
The mage froze.
"You can still change your mind."
He swallowed.
"I'm sorry."
"Don't you dare."
Rufus turned away.
Laurent headed for the passage.
"When they find you," Kain said, "I'll tell them everything."
Laurent stopped.
For several seconds, he stood with his back turned.
"There will be no one left to tell."
They left.
Their footsteps quickly dissolved into the distant thunder.
Kain was alone.
He tried to tear the bonds apart again.
Useless.
His Aura barely stirred within him. His blood was so depleted that a single attempt to raise the Flame sent his heart into a violent spasm.
He forced himself to calm down.
Inhale.
Exhale.
Examine the knots.
Find a weakness.
Halvar had taught him that every force had a limit. The Academy taught the same lesson, only with more words and longer terms.
Kain turned his wrist.
The threads tightened.
The pain grew worse.
So not that way.
He pressed his hands against the iron axle and tried to sense the structure of the spell. Rufus was skilled with binding formulas, but he was not flawless. No cadet was.
There had to be an anchor somewhere.
A stone.
The axle.
A broken plank.
Kain closed his eyes.
The square trembled.
The heavy footsteps drew closer.
One.
A pause.
Another.
Roof tiles slid down from above.
Kain opened his eyes.
A huge figure appeared at the end of the street.
A troll.
It walked hunched between the houses. Iron clamps and plates had been driven directly into its gray-green flesh. Chains bearing fragments of bone hung around its neck. In one hand, it dragged a stone club fashioned from a piece of a city column.
The troll stopped beside the dead orc.
It sniffed the air.
Turned its head toward the barricade.
Saw Kain.
"Come on," Kain whispered. "Come closer."
He reached for his Aura again.
The inner nexus answered with pain.
Almost empty.
The troll advanced.
Kain found a sharp edge on the axle and began rubbing one of the silver threads against it.
It would not break.
The troll passed the unfinished barricade.
Thick saliva trailed from its mouth. A plate of bone covered one eye. The other regarded Kain without anger, almost lazily.
Like food it did not have to chase.
"Faster," Kain told his own hands.
The thread quivered.
A dark mark appeared across it.
The troll raised its club.
Kain heaved with his whole body.
The bonds flared.
Pain blinded him.
The thread held.
The stone club hung above him.
Then a white veil swept over the square.
Not smoke.
The smoke above Trinity was black, hot, and reeked of burning.
This mist was cold.
It poured between the houses, extinguished the smoldering boards, and swallowed the street. The world vanished a few paces from Kain.
The troll froze.
A quiet footstep sounded from the white haze.
Then another.
A silhouette appeared at the edge of sight.
Tall.
Slender.
Almost motionless.
Two crimson eyes opened in the mist.
The troll roared and brought down its club.
Kain did not see the strike.
He heard only a brief hiss through the air.
The troll's head parted from its body and fell into the mud.
The heavy carcass remained upright for several moments, then sank to its knees and toppled onto its side.
The silhouette approached.
Kain tried to reach his sword, but his fingers would not obey.
The crimson eyes settled on him.
The creature—a man, a woman, or something else—knelt beside him.
A cold hand touched the silver threads.
The bonds crumbled as though they had never existed.
Kain tried to rise.
His legs gave way.
The silhouette caught him before he struck the ground.
The crimson eyes drew closer.
There was no mercy in them.
But neither was there any desire to kill.
The indistinct figure's lips moved.
Kain heard a voice, but the words were lost beneath the thunder of the distant battle.
The white veil closed around him.
The last thing he felt was cold fingers against his neck.
Then that vanished as well.
Darkness came.