Borne Rising Read online

  There he is. Will smiled. He did not show any relief to the horde. To his own ears, his laughter sounded like din’Dael’s. Now he understood the man. Now he could see. He was a walking god amongst a horde of ants. Empowered by the Shard of Night, he carved through flesh and bone and armor.

  Pain tore through his euphoria and brought Will cascading back to the mortal plane. He cried out and stumbled. Something had taken him across the back of the leg—the same damn leg. The limb barely held his weight. Will cursed and whirled the cutlass, but the blade found only air.

  Will stared up into the vacant hollows where the reaper’s eyes ought to have been. The remaining skin had been shredded from its body by the force of Will’s Flare. What stood before him was a hulking mass of charred grey muscle and exposed bone. Of course, idiot. Will snarled. He whipped his Flare back from the cultists and launched its full fury into the creature that had struck him.

  He was so singularly focused on the abomination that he failed to notice the other two. Just before the walking corpse was obliterated, Will’s world exploded into white, blinding pain.

  He was momentarily airborne, knocked back by the force of the blow to his stomach. He looked down as he flew through the air. His injured leg was bent at an impossible angle. At the same moment, the other reaper had struck out with a large club that took him in the gut and lifted him off the ground.

  Time seemed to slow. He couldn’t catch his breath. The club was flying with him, seemingly stuck to him while the reaper drove it forward. Then he saw that it was not a club. It was a handle. An axe handle. The head of the axe was buried in his stomach.

  Oh gods. Oh no, no no no.

  Will thumped into the ground and screamed. The creature drove forward with the force behind the blow. Will pulled his Flare back farther and whirled it about him in a panicked fury. Fueled by Flint and his own rage, nothing could pass through the barrier. It severed the axe’s handle and the decomposed arms that held it. But the axe head was still stuck deep inside him.

  Blood filled Will’s mouth. The weapons fell from his trembling hands and he grabbed at the head. Pain roared through his body. He cried out. Quivering, shaking, Will struggled at the metal wedge. His fingers were slick with blood but he found his grip. The slightest movement sent white pain scouring through his bleeding, fevered body.

  Oh gods, just . . . a bit . . .

  The head came free and slumped to the ground next to him. He was shaking furiously. Will fumbled with numb fingers for his blood fangs. Rate of . . . transference. He’d killed with them since he’d used them on his leg, hadn’t he? Would it be enough?

  Unconsciously, he tapped into the power and felt the flows coursing through the bloodstones. He guided them to his stomach. He spat thick blood and groaned. The world spun. Narrowed.

  Oh gods, I’m going to faint.

  He forced himself back to himself, to focus. The blood fangs were doing their work, he had to trust that. His hands were no longer shaking so badly. Delicately, he probed the wet surface of his stomach. It was tender, but the skin was unbroken. He’d seen pictures of axe wounds, had heard stories of the damage they could cause. He had no doubt that his guts had been a mangled mess, that the acid and bile and intestinal filth might have escaped. Please let those damn fangs be fixing my insides as well.

  He grasped Flint and pushed himself up. He winced and nearly fainted when he tried to move his leg. He looked down and saw exposed bone jutting from his shin. Dammit, how the hell did I miss that? he wondered distantly. From some deep, logical place in his brain came the answer: Shock.

  I don’t have time for shock.

  He grit his teeth. He was fourteen again. He was back at home with his grandfather and Madigan. Mad had fallen out of the cedar and landed on his arm, breaking it. It was a clean break. Grandda was explaining how to set it. Will had watched attentively while Mad had born down with the grim stoicism that always came to him when he was in the most pain. Grandda had set the bone. Mad’s arm had healed quickly. Life went on.

  Steeling himself, praying that the bloodstones still held enough power, Will reached down. This was not a clean break. Compound fractures probably took some completely separate skill set Will didn’t know. He looked around wildly but could see no one that could help. Trying to remember his grandfather’s every word, Will tried to set the bone.

  Will was not his brother. He did not maintain the same composure. Will screamed even more than he had when he removed the axe head. Adrenaline and fear had been his allies then, dulling his senses. But now the pain struck true and deep. The world spun. His head lolled. Will collapsed back.

  His head hit something soft. His head was cradled in it. His eyes flickered open and Rienne was there. How did she get through the Flare?

  “Light’s fall, Noctis. What the blazes happened?”

  His words were thick. “You’re supposed to be on the ridge.”

  “Damn the ridge. You needed help.”

  Despite the pain, Will smiled. There was still a little power left in the stones; he could feel it billowing lightly at his side. At his direction, it flowed over his leg, knitting bone and skin. He reached into Flint’s boundless source and felt energy course back through his body. His skin tingled. His eyes felt dry and his tongue felt thick. The energy was more akin to too many cups of coffee after not sleeping all night, but it was better than nothing.

  Rienne helped him to his feet. He spat out another mouthful of blood. Warily, he touched the torn, blood-soaked clothes about his stomach. The flesh beneath was healed as far as he could tell, but he stumbled when he put weight on his leg. Finding his balance and holding on to Rienne to steady himself, he took a few tentative steps. He frowned. This is wrong. Something isn’t right. The blood fangs had knitted the bone back together as he’d set it, but whatever he’d done hadn’t been enough. The leg ached.

  A problem for another day. He looked around. The camp was nearly empty. He could hear the cries of battle from the tunnel’s entrance. “What’s happening?”

  “Your plan worked, albeit with a few amendments.” Rienne continued to support him while he got the feel for moving on the leg. “Jero din’Dael and Cephora led the Lightborne in a rear assault though the tunnels. The Seekers and a few of the Lightborne remained on the ridge, as you asked, to pincer them in after the trap had sprung.” She shook her head and set her mouth in a thin line. “Things got a bit hairy when we saw you go down. We adjusted on the fly. The Seeker, Shyldd, he led the assault from the rear when they were focused on you. He routed the enemy into the tunnel.”

  “They’re all in there?”

  “As best we can tell. Once din’Dael launched his attack, the majority of the Necrothanians forgot all about the camp and raced for the tunnel. If the quarters are as contained as it looks, their numbers won’t mean a damn thing. They’ll get caught in the crossfire.”

  “They abandoned the camp entirely?”

  She nodded. “Shyldd’s crew made quick work of those who remained to fight the blaze. Now they’re trapped in the mountain. We’ve got them surrounded.”

  Will winced. The air was filled with smoke and ash. The whole place was going up in flames. He let out a deep breath, beginning to feel more himself again. The Necrothanians are trapped. Why did they retreat into the tunnel so quickly? “That will only make them more dangerous. We need to make sure that we don’t overly press them.”

  He stepped away from her, finding his balance and nodding to himself. I can do this. “You know where the others made their entrance?” Rienne nodded. “Good, get back to them and relay how things are going on our end. Keep an eye on them. Don’t let din’Dael deviate from the plan. Slow and steady will get us through this.”

  “Agreed.” Rienne gave him an appraising look. “You’re better than I anticipated. I saw you go down and the storm of Flare that circled you after. I didn’t expect to find much.” She reached out and gave his arm a tender squeeze. “I’m glad I did.”

  “Me too
.” Will returned the gesture. “I’m glad you’re here, Rienne. I owe you my life.”

  She gave a weary smile and nodded. “Let’s finish this and go home.”

  “If there’s anything you need . . .”

  “I’ll ask.” She dropped her hand and drew her weapon. “Back to it, then?”

  “Back to it.”

  32

  Legends Collide

  “I . . . I know I have already said it, sir. But I . . . it is good to have you back, sir.”

  Madigan smiled and turned. He leveled his gaze at Ynarra and shook his head slightly. “Time and time again, Ynarra. You don’t need to call me ‘sir,’ you know that.”

  The sweet, playful smile that he’d begun to finally get used to danced across her face. “I . . . know.” Her eyes flitted down briefly then rose to meet his own. They were a startlingly beautiful green that always caught him off guard. “It’s just . . . old habits. Madigan.”

  She reached out and tentatively placed her index finger against his own. Hot damn. Madigan smiled and returned the affectionate gesture. “It is good to be back, Ynarra.”

  It was good to be back. He hadn’t expected it, to be honest. His previous time in the Nordoth under the Crow’s hospitality had been secluded, isolated from the world other than Will and Ynarra. But this time? Things were different. It was as though he were an honored guest. He’d dined with the Crow on multiple occasions, large, opulent feasts with all sorts of Undermyrian citizens of prominence. The commander, Shifter, had spoken to him repeatedly and, Madigan dared to say it, they were very nearly becoming friendly.

  And then there was Ynarra. Madigan grinned and squeezed her finger lightly. “I appreciate your help, Ynarra.”

  She smiled and gave a slight curtsy, then stopped herself. She looked at Madigan in surprised embarrassment. He returned the smile and sent Ynarra into a poorly hidden fit of giggles. She turned and sped down the steps that led from the hidden entrance to the Crow’s office. Madigan grinned after her, feeling light and airy, before turning and rapping quickly on the door.

  “Enter,” came the rough voice from within.

  Madigan did as he was bid, lifting the small latch and silently entering the room. “Lord Crow,” he said, inclining his head in a bow.

  “Ah, Shadowborne.” The Crow was seated at his desk, quill in hand. He dipped it in a nearby ink pot and did not look up. “One moment and I shall be with you.”

  He makes it sound like I asked him to come down here and not the other way around. Ignoring the seeming slight, Madigan entered and crossed to the decanter of wine. Pouring himself a glass, he approached the Measure that was set against the wall. The wisps of black and white within spun and whirled but never mingled. The black, though, something about it seemed different—darker—than he remembered. Probably just my imagination.

  The Crow cleared his throat and Madigan turned just as the office door opened. One of the Crow’s men, a runner Madigan had seen more of lately, entered. The Crow finished placing his seal on the document he had been writing and then handed it to the man.

  “You know where this goes.” It was not a question.

  “Aye, my lord. I’ll see it dispatched at once.”

  The Crow waved a hand and the man left. Madigan sipped at his wine and approached when the Crow beckoned him over. Gesturing to the closing door, Madigan raised an eyebrow. “He seemed in a hurry. Important business, I take it?”

  The Crow smiled his mirthless, toothy smile. “Very. A matter that concerns you, actually.” Madigan shifted a bit at that and raised the glass to his lips. “Have a seat, Shadowborne.” The Crow’s tone was cool.

  Madigan did as he was bid, a sudden wave of unease clouding his mind. “I hope I haven’t outstayed my welcome already.”

  The Crow’s harsh laughter grated on Mad’s ears. “Far from it.” The dark man leaned forward, slouching over his elbows as he peered across the table. “There is a war coming, young Shadowborne.”

  “That’s hardly news, Crow.”

  The Crow sniffed and leaned back, disapproval plain upon his face. “You have grown rather familiar here, haven’t you?”

  “I prefer to think of it as”—Madigan smiled—“comfortable.”

  The Crow steepled his hands and nodded. “Yes, comfortable. Good. We shall need that.”

  I’m really getting tired of this man’s vague mutterings. Madigan sighed. “Right. Listen, Crow. What’s this all about? You’ve got me, alright? Fealty. It’s what you wanted. So”—he spread his arms out wide—“what’s all this, then? Why the wining and dining? You’ve never struck me as the type.”

  The Crow closed his eyes and shook his head. “You and your brother both have a penchant for speaking your minds without restraint.”

  “Yeah, well, I guess it’s a family trait then.”

  The eyelids snapped open. “I daresay that I have taken a gamble on you, Madigan Davis. That I have assumed much of you.”

  “Well you know what they say about you when you assume.” The Crow stared at Madigan blankly. Or maybe you don’t. “That you make . . . never mind.”

  “Provisional command, Madigan.”

  “What? No, that’s not what they say. What I meant was—”

  “I know what you meant.” The Crow smiled sardonically. “You were trained in battlefield tactics by your grandfather, yes?”

  Madigan gave the Crow a wary eye. “To some degree, yes.”

  “And you are Shadowborne. One of only two known to exist at this time.”

  Madigan’s thoughts drifted to Ileta. He had yet to receive word from her. She’s not going be happy about much of what’s happened since we parted ways. “I count three. Valmont.”

  The Crow ignored his words. “And you’ve sworn an oath. To the Thirteen. To the Nordoth. To Undermyre.”

  Madigan’s lips drew to a thin line. He rolled his eyes. “Yeah, I hardly need reminding on that point.”

  “Provisional command,” the Crow said again. “That was the document that was just dispatched to the war councils of Nordoth and Undermyre. You have been granted provisional command of the counteroffensive that shall be launched against Dorian Valmont and his Necrothanian horde.”

  Madigan paused mid-sip, his eyes flicking to the Crow’s. “What?”

  “The Nordoth does not sit idly while the peoples of this world suffer, Madigan.” The Crow reached for his own glass of wine. “And you were bred for the battlefield, it would seem.”

  “You want me to lead an assault?” Madigan asked incredulously. “An assault on what? Where? None of us know a damn thing about where Valmont is or what he’s planning. Hell, he’s still trapped in Cascania.” The Crow merely raised an eyebrow. “What, are you suggesting we go back there to hunt him?” Madigan shook his head. “That’s insane.”

  “It is not your place to question, Commander. You swore an oath. It is your place to follow orders given.” The Crow set his drink on the desk and let his gaze fall past Madigan to linger on the room. “Valmont will come to us.”

  “Why the hell would he do that?” This day just got a whole lot more complicated. Why is everything here so goddam complicated?

  “You have much to learn about this citadel, Commander. Shifter shall see you educated, presently.”

  Madigan clapped his hands together. “Shifter, right, there you go. He’s your man. He’s far better suited for this. I mean, hell, isn’t it what he already does, pretty much? Captain of the guard, or whatever?”

  “Shifter will be otherwise occupied.”

  “With something more important than your march against Valmont?” Madigan swirled his wine in its glass, watching the legs stream down. “What the hell could that be?”

  “The defense of this city, of course.” The Crow stood and walked to the Measure, gazing at it. “Separate events across the world are converging, Madigan Davis. Undermyre, the Nordoth, we are at the heart of it. The battle shall be here, have no doubt of that.”

  Well that’s jus
t fan-freakin-tastic. “So, you’re suggesting we let Valmont’s force amass here—whenever that happens—and while he’s distracted with the assault, I counterattack, is that it?”

  The Crow traced his fingers along the glass surface of the Measure. “Something to that end. You shall see soon enough, Commander.”

  Madigan sighed and scratched his beard. “And I have no vote in this, I’m guessing?”

  The Crow turned to him and smiled. “You swore an oath. One that I cannot say I recall you setting stipulations around.”

  “Not that there was room for any,” Madigan muttered. “Fine. Provisional command, whatever the hell that ends up meaning.”

  “Excellent.” The Crow turned. Madigan felt exposed beneath his gaze, a lab rat under the microscope. “Shall we, then?”

  Madigan stood tentatively. “Shall we what?”

  The Crow lurched toward the door and caught himself with a gnarled fist. “It is time the people met their champion, Commander.”

  What the hell? Before Madigan could speak, the door was thrown open and the Crow exited the room. The passage was framed by guards, much as it had been the day Madigan returned to the Nordoth.

  What in the goddam hell is he up to this time? He had little time to ponder as he followed the dark-robed man from the chamber. When the Crow stepped into his seat at the head of the room, Madigan, who had been a few steps behind, finally understood.

  The audience chamber was filled to the brim with people. Closest to the Crow’s seat were many with whom Madigan had recently dined, but beyond them stood a mass of people from all walks of life. People in ragged, worn clothes. People in mismatched plate armor and chain mail. Hunters. Bleary-eyed drunks. Children—Madigan couldn’t remember the last time he had seen children in the city. They all stared inquisitively at the raised platform upon which the Crow sat. Except that Madigan realized their eyes were not on the man who controlled the city, but planted firmly on him.