All Spell Breaks Loose

Chapter 21

I dropped the scabbard and pressed my bleeding fingers as hard as I could against my thigh, desperate to get the bleeding stopped. That blazing red glow told me the rock was getting impatient. It must not like long speeches.

Sarad Nukpana tucked the Scythe in his sash and leisurely walked toward us, his own personal spotlight keeping perfect pace with him. This was a game to him, entertainment for his guests, and Carnades and I were the game pieces the goblin was playing with at the moment.

“Raine, do not concern yourself with the Saghred’s intentions,” Nukpana said. “It assured me it would not take you until such time as I give it leave to do so.” His black eyes glittered as he shifted his attention to Carnades. “The Saghred’s loyalty is unquestioned.”

Ouch.

“From her injured hand, it is quite obvious that Mistress Benares was in possession of the Scythe—however briefly,” Nukpana continued smoothly. “But that begs the question of how she came by it. She has been closely watched.”

“Told you so,” I muttered to Carnades.

“She’s a thief who picked my pocket and stole it before I could present it to you,” the elf mage replied.

I had to hand it to him; Carnades was doing a fine impersonation of righteous indignation.

“Nice recovery, but no dice,” I told him.

Carnades bristled.

Nukpana’s voice was amused. “Magus Silvanus, nothing happens in this temple that I do not know—or am made aware of.”

The elf mage drew himself up. “Are you questioning my loyalty?”

I snorted. “He’s already said the rock’s more loyal than you.”

Carnades turned on me and hissed, “Shut up!”

Fear makes a man so much easier to goad. I smiled. “Wrong move. I won.”

The elf mage froze as if the Scythe of Nen had already been plunged into his back. He could feel Sarad Nukpana’s presence looming behind him like Death himself. The goblin was holding out his arm and hand, stopping his personal guard from coming any closer. This was still a game and Nukpana wasn’t finished playing yet.

“Magus Silvanus, I permitted your conversation with Mistress Benares because I wanted confirmation that you had the Scythe in your possession, instead of being forced to be so crass as to have my new partner searched. As a host, I owe that courtesy to my guests. You have abused my hospitality.”

Carnades’s face twisted into something ugly. “You promised that I would be king of the elves.”

“I promised nothing aside from what I have just told my people,” Nukpana replied mildly.

Unlike Carnades, the goblin had himself under complete control. Then again, he wasn’t the one staring Death in the face.

“Any conclusions you arrived at were driven by your own grandiose imagination,” Nukpana added. Then he smiled. “I possess a unique gift of simultaneously speaking and listening from a distance. It is a talent I have cultivated over many years in the goblin court. As Mistress Benares so eloquently stated, everyone hates a traitor. By keeping the Scythe of Nen from me, you have unequivocally proven that you cannot be trusted by anyone. Therefore you have no worth to me.” He lowered his arm, the only thing that was keeping his guards at bay.

Game over.

“Strip him of that robe and then burn it,” Nukpana told his guards. “It’s been tainted. Then prepare him for the altar.”

Carnades Silvanus was in the top 5 percent of the most powerful mages in the seven kingdoms. Did he cut loose with everything he had? Try to take out as many Khrynsani as he could before they brought him down?

No and no.

Carnades knew this was a fight he was going to lose. Badly. So what did he do? The chickenshit coward used me as a shield. I was shackled to the Saghred and couldn’t move, so I didn’t know what he hoped to accomplish.

Sarad Nukpana’s voice dripped with contempt. “Once again, Magus Silvanus, you lay hands on what is mine.”

Faster than thought, Nukpana shoved me aside, grabbed Carnades’s shoulder, and plunged the Scythe of Nen to the hilt in the elf’s chest. The goblin gripped Carnades’s shoulder, holding the elf upright until the last signs of life had faded from his ice blue eyes. Then and only then did Nukpana release him, and Carnades Silvanus’s dead body slid off of the blade and crumpled at my feet.

“Dispose of that,” Nukpana told the guards.

I watched as Carnades’s body was dragged away, his final expression one of utter disbelief.

One of the Khrynsani had retrieved the Scythe’s scabbard from the floor and presented it to his leader. Without another word, Nukpana sheathed the Scythe, tucked it into his sash, and descended the steps to where Princess Mirabai stood flanked by her needlessly big guards. I’d almost forgotten about the wedding. He had to marry Mirabai first to secure the alliance of her family. Then he’d come back to me and celebrate with a night of sacrificing.

Business before pleasure.

Nukpana glanced up at me and smiled. I wouldn’t have been surprised to hear a little sigh of contentment. If my hands had been free I would have given that smile the response it deserved. I had to settle for an aloof glare. He’d finally gotten everything he wanted; he was one happy psycho. A beautiful, stolen bride at his side to secure his political power, the family of his lifelong enemy at his mercy, and me chained to the Saghred’s pedestal, my torture the icing on his wedding cake.

Sarad Nukpana turned to Princess Mirabai and lifted her veil. With an involuntary whimper, the girl stepped back—trapped against the crossed pikes of the guards behind her. Sarad smiled and reached out to touch her face.

“Take your filthy hands off of her!”

The roar came from everywhere at once, echoing off of the ceiling vaults and filling the temple with his rage.

I knew that voice.

I wasn’t the only one. Mirabai’s head came up, her face the very picture of hope.

Her prince had come to save her. Either that or die a really slow and gruesome death.

The people began murmuring and looking around trying to locate where the voice was coming from.

You’d expect one of the most wanted men in the city to stay hidden, or if he was going to taunt Sarad Nukpana directly to do it from afar—way afar. In the time that I’d known him, Prince Chigaru Mal’Salin had never done the expected. The crazy and suicidal, yes. The expected, no. I just hoped he’d had the sense not to be this crazy without backup.

Not only had Chigaru made himself heard; he’d ensured that he could be seen. There he was on a gallery right above the door that Kesyn and the Nathrachs had been brought through, dressed like a king about to go into battle in Tam’s spare suit of armor. Chigaru looked appropriately regal and, if Mirabai’s expression was any indicator, sexy as hell.

The people’s mutterings turned to shouts and gasps of surprise and shock.

While I didn’t doubt that the prince could bellow when he put his gut to it, Chigaru’s volume went way beyond that of a prince being trained to project. There was master spellsinger magic at work. Now it was my turn to grin like a smitten schoolgirl.

Mychael was here and he was close.

Sarad Nukpana suddenly had a public relations problem on his hands.

Yes, Sathrik had named Nukpana as his heir, and had been conveniently assassinated immediately afterward, but Chigaru was the legitimate successor. The goblins in the temple had supported Sathrik Mal’Salin, and had transferred that support to Sarad Nukpana because of his power over them, not due to any dynastic loyalty. They may not have agreed with Prince Chigaru’s politics or even liked him, but he was the only sibling of their late king, and, most important, his last name was Mal’Salin, the family that had been their ruling dynasty for the past two thousand years.

Goblins were big on intrigue, but even bigger on tradition. It didn’t get more intriguing than what was happening right now.

To the goblins in the temple, it appeared that Sarad Nukpana had merely taken the position that was his by right, along with possession of his late king’s bride. However, with only his presence and the demand that Nukpana unhand his woman, Prince Chigaru Mal’Salin told everyone within sound of his voice that the only thing Sarad Nukpana had the right to was his choice of method of execution.

Nukpana could have quickly eliminated the problem by eliminating Chigaru, but he’d risk scuttling his plans. If he killed the prince now, he might be doing the same to a lot of his political alliances. Until I was dead and the Saghred’s power his, Sarad Nukpana wasn’t a demigod yet. I stood perfectly still, and tried not to breathe or otherwise draw attention to myself. Hopefully Nukpana was too focused on Chigaru to use the Scythe of Nen or any other handy, sharp object on me to correct his oversight.

I needn’t have worried; Sarad Nukpana had come too far to let a little thing like the appearance of the legitimate successor ruin his night.

Nukpana stared at the prince impassively for a moment, his eyes steady. Then without melodrama, he said, “Kill him.”

In an instant, two temple guards raised their crossbows and fired. The bolts shattered on impact with some kind of shield. I didn’t recognize the pattern of the bright green lattice that flared when the bolt hit, but I did know it as goblin mage work.

Looked like the newly freed mages had joined our side.

Only a couple of them would have been needed to keep Chigaru shielded. Which left the question: what mischief were the rest of them up to? I couldn’t wait to find out. I normally didn’t like surprises, but I’d gladly make an exception for this one and anything else they’d like to pull out of their collective bag of tricks.

The crossbowmen continued to fire, Khrynsani mages started lobbing fireballs, the shield continued to protect, and Prince Chigaru’s voice rang clear and compelling against the vaults of the temple’s ceiling.

“This treasonous usurper was responsible for the murder of my brother and your king. He has kidnapped with intent to defile my fiancée and your future queen, and he has betrayed the goblin people—your brothers and sisters whose only crime was loyalty to our people, defending our right to live in peace, and holding high the ideals we prize above all.”

Those were the kinds of words that ended up in history books, read by children of future generations—that is, if Chigaru didn’t take a steel bolt or fireball through the throat first. Though that possibility decreased with each word the prince spoke; the Khrynsani firing on him were lowering their weapons and hands, their eyes on Chigaru, their expressions vaguely dazed.

Spellsingers could do a lot with their voices, and Mychael was doing one of the most difficult using Chigaru’s voice, not his own. That took skill that only a very few spellsingers ever attained. It was one of the reasons why spellsingers were so dangerous, and so prized by rulers and the politically powerful. A spellsinger’s influence running beneath the words of a speech couldn’t change minds, but they could make an audience believe that the words being said sounded reasonable and rang true.

The magnifying magic was Mychael’s, but the words and their passion were all Chigaru.

It was one hell of a potent combination.

“You remain free—for now,” Chigaru continued. “Until this creature that stands before you takes your life and the lives and blood of your loved ones to preserve his own foulness, a thing bent on the destruction of the goblin people to feed his own demented appetites. He cares not for you. He loves not our people. He will feed on you until the goblins are no more and he is but a monster bloated from feasting on your souls. Will you allow that to happen?” The prince’s question rang with challenge. He turned to face Sarad Nukpana and his voice dropped to a growl seething with barely contained rage. “I. Will. Not.”

Running under the prince’s words was the message he and Mychael wanted the people to not only hear, but believe: Chigaru would fight to his last breath to prevent even one of his people—any and all of his people—from being sacrificed.

Chigaru Mal’Salin looked like a king, but even more important, he was acting like one. He was a warrior focused on the target he had chosen, the one who had stolen his woman, his throne, and his people. Mirabai was thrilled. I had to admit I was enjoying the sight myself. I enjoyed the other thing I saw even more. Mychael in the rafters. I looked away, but not so fast as to draw attention. Though I think I could have jumped up and down and waved my one free arm at him and no one would have turned from the drama unfolding right in front of them.

I couldn’t help but notice that Chigaru didn’t mention the Saghred. Not once. It was an impressive display of political acumen. The goblin people had missed their legendary stone of power, but it’d been over a thousand years since their ancestors lived and died under the rock’s influence and insatiable hunger. If he survived this, Chigaru would have to remind them that the Saghred hadn’t been finicky about whose souls it took—and many of their rulers had used the stone to rid themselves of people who had become personally or politically inconvenient. For now the prince had his attention squarely where it needed to be—bringing down the true monster.

“The boy’s got potential,” Kesyn murmured in approval.

Sarad Nukpana was in danger of losing them before he officially had them—and he knew it. His hand shot out toward Chigaru, what looked like blue lightning crackling at the tips of his fingers. No shield could stand against that, especially one that had been under constant assault and had to have been weakened.

It happened too fast. The prince didn’t stand a chance.

A pair of armored hands snatched the prince back and off of the balcony at the instant Sarad Nukpana released that spell. Armored hands that were attached to Tam Nathrach. Now it was Deidre, Nath, and Barrett’s turn to be happy.

No one’s happy lasted for long. The lightning that had shot from Nukpana’s fingers closed like a massive fist around the gallery, instantly reducing the wood to charred remains. A temple guard had the supreme misfortune to be standing directly beneath the gallery. The lightning engulfed him as well—but it didn’t engulf his screams or block the sight of him being roasted alive inside the blue crackling sphere. The lightning vanished, revealing a charred corpse that crumpled to the ground in a pile of blackened bone and ash.

Utter silence filled the temple. You could have heard a charred tooth drop.

I couldn’t imagine anyone wanting to stay after seeing a man burned alive, but these were goblin nobles and military—and the goblin who’d dealt the death was Sarad Nukpana. There were a few screams here and there, but they were quickly cut off by either the screamer themselves or muffled by their neighbor. No one wanted to be openly horrified. Self-preservation could justify almost anything. To scream would be to disapprove, and disapproval could earn you a one-way trip to the Saghred’s altar.

Right there was a really big difference between goblins and elves—at least my kind of elves. The first cooked corpse we saw and we’d be the hell out of there.

“Find them,” Sarad Nukpana snarled, “and bring them to me.”

The surviving temple guards on the dais rushed to obey, or to get out of Nukpana’s range.

Nukpana stalked over to Princess Mirabai, seized her by the wrist, and jerked her in the direction of the Khrynsani high priest. “A momentary interruption, my love,” he said, voice tight. “Let us be married.”

Mirabai got her feet solidly under her, and attacked Sarad Nukpana.

It was apparent that at some point Mirabai had been taught to fight, or at least to defend herself. Emboldened by Chigaru’s gallant speech, the little princess began screaming and punching Nukpana with admirable gusto, showing everyone that she felt she didn’t have anything left to lose and had decided to go out in a way that would at least let her keep her self-respect intact, even if she was going to be reduced to a pile of charred ashes.

That was what she wanted them to think.

I knew differently.

Sarad Nukpana pulled the girl close, one arm locked around her waist, the other hand tightly griping her throat. “Patience, Your Highness. We will play soon enough.”

Mirabai stopped struggling, her chained hands clenched together at her waist.

I took a deep breath and held it, and kept my eyes on her hands.

At that moment, a dead Khrynsani guard dropped out of thin air, landing wetly on the goblin nobles in the fifth row, immediately followed by another falling into the section occupied by Mirabai’s parents.

Now, that got the screams started and kept them going. Still others decided that dead bodies falling on them gave them the best excuse they’d had all night to be both openly horrified and get the hell out.

Kesyn was chuckling from the altar. “Disrupt, disgust, and disperse—excellent tactics. Clears out the people you don’t really want to kill to make room to do a better job of killing the ones you really need dead. Our boys and girls are professionals.”

I squinted into the dark beyond the lights, trying to see without really wanting to. Though from what I could see, I had to admit the Resistance’s mages were doing a fine job inciting a panicked stampede. As gruesome as it was, corpses raining down from above did the trick for court goblins who had probably seen it all and done most of it themselves. Falling dead bodies definitely made them want to leave. I didn’t dwell on how our mages had gotten the Khrynsani bodies up in the air in the first place.

I snapped my attention back to Mirabai. The princess was still clutched in Sarad Nukpana’s arms.

Sarad Nukpana looked pleased, and it had nothing to do with his bride-to-be. His black eyes scanned the temple floor, assessing the situation. I didn’t need to look to know; I’d already seen it. All of Nukpana’s enemies gathered in one place, and his allies fleeing for safety. I felt the goblin gathering his will. The son of a bitch was giving his bootlickers a little more time to get clear of the temple before he opened up on the Resistance.

Sarad Nukpana viciously flung Mirabai aside. The princess hit the stone floor hard, rolled twice, and lay unmoving.

Dammit!

Nukpana encased himself in the same ball of blue lightning that had incinerated the guard. Unfortunately, it didn’t torch him; the thing protected him. Both hands blazed with blue flame, which he launched into the darkness toward the left side of the temple. Men and women were illuminated and engulfed in the lightning, burning them alive, their screams turning to shrieks that should have been impossible for a throat to make. They weren’t in Khrynsani uniforms or court dress.

Resistance fighters.

Destroyed in half a minute of the worst agony imaginable.

I screamed in rage and pulled against the Saghred, damned near ripping the skin from my hand. Now I screamed in white-hot pain. I panted to catch my breath. Think, Raine! Think!

Nukpana had left me barefooted. This was going to hurt, but perpetual torture would hurt a hell of a lot worse and for as long as Nukpana could keep me alive. At that point, a broken foot would be the least of my problems. A broken foot would heal. My sanity wouldn’t.

I pounded the base of the Saghred’s pedestal with my heel, and ignored the pain that shot up my leg. Once. Again. And again.

Nothing.

I roared in rage at the pedestal and the smug-ass rock it held.

A deep rumbling shook the marble slab floor beneath my feet, and it wasn’t from me kicking a pedestal.

It wasn’t coming from Sarad Nukpana, but I had a sinking feeling he had everything to do with it. It wasn’t magic. I didn’t feel it in the way that magic could be felt. I felt it in my bones, shaking me from my feet on up. Now would be a hell of a time to find out that the bastard could summon an earthquake on command.

Kesyn went pale. “Oh, hell.”

“What is it?”

“Something we don’t want up here with us.”

“That doesn’t tell me—” I froze.

A crack appeared in the center of the temple floor, quickly spreading in both directions at once, toward the doors and toward the dais—and us.

“Oh, hell” was right.

A monstrous scaled claw reached up through the crack, grasping a chunk of marble the size of the altar Kesyn was chained to, flinging it aside like a chair in a barroom brawl. A pair of familiar scaled heads broke through with roars that made my knees go weak. The fleeing goblin allies screamed in terror as if from a single ragged throat.

The sea dragons liked that.

Sarad Nukpana shouted over the screams and roars, making himself heard—by the dragons. Their heads turned and faced him, like dogs waiting for a command.

He could control them.

This was worse than earthquakes on command.

If those things managed to claw their way into the temple, they’d bring the walls down on us all, and Sarad Nukpana wouldn’t have to lift a finger to do anything else. The Saghred would survive. I was certain Sarad Nukpana would find a way to survive, but no one else would.

I saw a movement of white on the edge of my vision. Mirabai was slowly getting to her feet, bleeding from a cut on her forehead. She raised one hand to her head; the other held something glittering of silver.

Oh, good girl!

The Scythe of Nen. The fruit of her labor for attacking Sarad Nukpana.

The only thing that could have made me happier was the Saghred letting my hand go. But if everything went according to Plan B, that would happen soon enough.

Never come up with only one plan when you’ll probably need two. I’d hoped I could get Carnades to give me the Scythe, then immediately stab the Saghred and screw the consequences. I’d rather have had Reapers to suck up the escaping souls, but Kesyn was chained with magic-sapping manacles, so I’d just have to work with what I had. If that plan had failed (it had), and Sarad Nukpana had taken the Scythe (he did), Princess Mirabai was my Plan B—get that dagger by any means possible. She went with a straightforward, and probably intensely satisfying, attack.

That girl had my vote for goblin queen.

The dragon-ripped chasm in the floor had extended up the stairs to the dais. Between that and the firepower being flung around, Mirabai couldn’t get to me. But we’d planned for this, practicing with that butter knife in Sarad Nukpana’s bedroom. It had been about the same size and weight as the Scythe, and Mirabai had proven herself to have an impressively accurate throwing arm. Now the princess took the time she needed with the aim, then gave it an underhanded toss—just as the female dragon punched through another piece of the floor and began pulling her sinuous body through. The chunk of marble slid along the floor and crashed into one of the pillars, threatening to bring it down.

The impact sent the Scythe of Nen skittering along the dais.

Stopping less than three feet out of my reach.

It was all I could do not to scream in frustration.

Sarad Nukpana’s attention was on directing his new pets in death and destruction, and for the moment, I needed him to keep his eyes, ears, and full attention exactly where they were.

Lightning cackled and killed, the floor shook, and mundane bolts and blades flew and clashed around me.

I ignored it all. Yes, my hand was attached to the Saghred, but I had really long legs. Best of all, I was barefooted. I dropped to my knees, which had the dual benefit of getting me closer to the floor, and out of a lot of people’s line of sight and fire. I twisted my forearm in the manacle as far as I could, pushing the pain aside. A broken arm would heal, too. I stretched out the leg closest to the Scythe as far as I could, reaching out with my bare feet, and wishing I had longer toes. I stretched and squirmed and swore. I blew all of my breath out in the vain hope that maybe it’d make me a fraction taller.

My big toe touched cool silver.

Yes!

I’d never been so glad to be barefooted in my life. It was amazing what your toes could do when you were motivated enough, and right now my motivation knew no bounds.

But touching wasn’t having, and having wasn’t stabbing the Saghred. Kesyn was still chained with magic-sapping manacles and still couldn’t summon any Reapers.

One problem at a time, Raine.

Sarad Nukpana didn’t see me do any of this.

But his mother did.

There I was, stretched out like the perfect—and perfectly stupid—sacrifice.

Sandrina Ghalfari’s eyes lit with homicidal glee as she drew a pair of stilettos from her jeweled belt. The blades glistened wetly with what had to be poison.

Crap in a bucket.