"You...whelp," she hissed, ducking another blow and racing back to regroup with the remaining three assassins.They formed a line.The two with crossbows crouched and loosed a volley of arrows with incredible speed, their limbs blurring as they set off bolt after bolt.
Calista intercepted the volley with a barrier of wind, the projectiles veering off course and embedding in the cave walls, where they hissed and melted stone."Now, Guwayne—end them!"
He nodded, surging forward.The warrior met him head-on, his blade clashing against Guwayne's sword in a series of brutal exchanges.Guwayne feinted left, then unleashed an earthquake—a localized tremor that buckled the ground under the warrior's feet.As the man stumbled, Guwayne's blade sliced across his throat in a clean arc.Blood arced, and the warrior toppled.
The archers panicked, firing wildly.One arrow grazed Guwayne's arm, but he ignored it, shadows leaping from his fingers to bind their bows, crushing the wood.Calista finished one with a lightning bolt that charred him to the bone, while Guwayne closed on the last.The archer drew a dagger, stabbing desperately, but Guwayne parried with ease, his sword a blur.He disarmed the man with a twist, then drove the blade through his chest, feeling the resistance give way as life fled.
Seryth, wounded but defiant, made a final stand.She blurred toward Calista, dagger raised for a killing blow.Guwayne intercepted, his sword clashing with hers in a spark-filled lock.She pressed, her free hand weaving a curse that made his vision swim again.But he countered with shadows, wrapping them around her throat, squeezing, choking her.With a roar, Guwayne twisted his blade free and thrust, piercing her heart.She gasped, eyes dimming, and slumped to the ground.
The cave fell silent, save for their heavy breathing and the distant sound of the sea.Bodies littered the floor—twisted forms leaking blood, weapons scattered like broken toys.Guwayne leaned on his sword, exhaustion crashing over him like a wave.His wounds burned, his muscles screamed, but he was alive.Calista lowered her staff, her face ashen but proud.
"We...we did it," Guwayne panted, wiping sweat and blood from his brow.
Calista approached, her steps weary.She placed a hand on his shoulder, her eyes meeting his."A true pupil doesn't just follow and copy what he is taught and shown," she said, her voice edged with something new, respect."He takes that knowledge and molds it, develops it to his own self.That is what you did today, Guwayne.You didn't wield the Confluence as I showed you—you made it yours, blending it with the warrior's fire in your blood.You've become more than my student; you've become its master."
Guwayne managed a weak smile, the commendation warming him against the aching chill of fatigue."We have a respite, at least.Time to heal, to plan the next—"
A soft glow emanated from the cave's entrance, cutting him off.They turned, tense, but what emerged stole Guwayne's breath.A figure stepped into the light—a woman with silver hair, her eyes fierce yet filled with maternal love.Her gown, though tattered, carried the regal bearing he knew so well."Guwayne," she whispered, her voice echoing with impossible clarity."My son...you're alive."
"Mother?"Guwayne's sword clattered to the ground.Emotion surged—relief, joy, disbelief.Gwendolyn, here?Alive and safe?The visions of her peril, the guilt of his abandonment, all dissolved in that moment.He rushed forward, arms outstretched, tears blurring his vision."How?I thought...the coup, the nobles—"
Calista's eyes widened in horror."Guwayne, no!It's a trick—"
But it was too late.As Guwayne embraced the figure, the illusion shimmered, dissolving into a tall, cloaked mercenary with eyes and a cruel smile.The shapeshifting magic unraveled, revealing a dagger poised at Guwayne's back."Foolish boy," the mercenary hissed.
Calista lunged, staff blazing, hurling a bolt of energy.It struck the mercenary's shoulder, but he twisted, the dagger flashing toward her instead.She took the blow meant for Guwayne, the blade sinking into her chest."Run...child," she gasped, collapsing, blood bubbling from her lips.
Guwayne staggered back, the realization crashing down."No!Calista!"But the mercenary's hand clamped over his mouth, a cloth soaked in some alchemical slumber pressing against his face.Darkness swirled, claiming him as he fought vainly, the cave fading into oblivion.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
The modest stone walls of Riverhold, a quiet trading town nestled along the Whispering River, stood battered against a sky choked with smoke and ash.Once a place of bustling markets and cheerful taverns, it now reeked of burning thatch and echoed with the distant clash of steel.Sir Kellan rode through the splintered wooden gates at the head of a weary column, his armor dented and streaked with blood from the desperate flight from Castle Larkridge.
The journey from the dungeon had been tough and hard fought, but the information he had gleaned on the way was harder to take.As his small group had been joined on the road, their numbers swelling by the day from members of the Silver and the Shield Guard finding the resistance leader they had been waiting for, for as well as food, weapons, and horses, each brought more tales of woe about what had happened since Kellan had been captured and was still happening.
The nobles’ conspiracy, which had sought to seize the Ring under the guise of stability, had collapsed into chaos.Rumors abounded that Lord Aldrich had made a pact with Vargul’s barbarian hordes—intended as a theatrical ruse to cement support for his coalition—but it had spiraled into a merciless conquest.Villages and towns had been burned pillaged and looted, what resistance there was, had been trampled.
Refugees had flooded Riverhold’s narrow streets like a river breaching its banks.They had sought safety, only to find it was short lived.Vargul’s hordes had been seen on the horizon.
Kellan reined in his horse, a sturdy bay that snorted nervously at the chaos.The cobblestone lanes teemed with terrified townsfolk—mothers clutching crying children, traders abandoning stalls of grain and cloth, elders stumbling with sacks of meager belongings.Shouts filled the air: pleas for help, curses at fleeing militiamen, and wails of despair.The barbarian war drums thundered closer, their forces getting ever closer to Riverhold’s fragile walls.Aldrich’s mercenaries had fled like cowards, some cut down in their own betrayals, others slipping into the night with stolen coin.The so-called “Council of Protectors” was a broken dream, leaving the town exposed.
Kellan refused to let Riverhold fall without a stand.The fight to retake the Ring would start on these very streets.Now, dismounting in Riverhold’s muddy square, he felt the thrill of leading a band of loyal men into battle once again.It was what he had been born for.What he lived for.
“Form ranks!”he roared, his voice rising above the clamor.His men snapped to attention, their faces gaunt, bloodied but resolute.They numbered a hundred or more, many had fought alongside Kellan before, but those who hadn’t knew him by reputation.The Silver, knights of legend who had once been the Ring’s pride made up half of the men.They had been waiting, they said, scattered by the coup but never broken.Branded traitors by Aldrich, with a price on their heads and a target on their backs, they had hidden in cellars and outlying farms, watching for a spark of resistance.In Kellan the Steadfast they had seen that spark and were determined to kindle it into a flame and then an inferno that would sweep across the kingdom they loved and had sworn their allegiance to.
“Riverhold’s our first stand,” he called out to the ranks massed in front of him.“This is the start of our fight back.The first step in taking back what is rightfully ours and has been torn from our grasp, and the hands of our beloved King and Queen by treachery and deceit, greed and ambition.”He looked at the men stood in front of him, heartened that the soldiers had been joined by farmers and builders from nearby villages, hamlets and from Riverhold itself.Armed with whatever weapon they could find.Some clutched rusted swords, other simply scythes or hammers tools of their trade.
It was for people like them that he fought.And it was also people like them that would take back this kingdom.
“We’re outnumbered, kin.Vargul’s hordes are ten thousand strong, by scout’s count.But we stand as one—Silver, Shield Guard, and the people of this great and noble land.For the Ring, for Thorgrin and Gwendolyn.”
A hoarse cheer rose from the gathered warriors, defiant despite their weariness and fear.Kellan issued orders: patrols to curb looting in the streets, scouts to track the barbarian advance, teams to shepherd the townsfolk.“No chaos,” he barked.“We hold the walls as long as we can.Guide the weak to the southern trails—toward the coastal forts if possible.We must fight with cunning, not just courage.”
The square became a makeshift headquarters.Tarps stretched over market stalls served as tents, maps spread on barrels.Kellan studied them by flickering torchlight, marking Vargul’s progress with chalk.Eldridge Village was ash, Fort Grimwald’s walls breached, Wavecrest’s port a graveyard of charred ships.The barbarians moved with chilling precision, not the chaotic raids of savages but a disciplined campaign.Catapults lobbed flaming pitch, siege towers lumbered across fields, and shaggy northern cavalry cut down fleeing defenders.
Yet the greater challenge was calming Riverhold’s panic.Townsfolk surged toward the gates, shoving and trampling in their terror.Kellan climbed onto a cart, his voice booming with a horn-bearer’s aid.“People of Riverhold!Hear me!”The crowd stilled unevenly, faces upturned—pale, dirt-smeared, eyes wide.“The barbarians come, yes, but we do not break.The nobles’ treachery brought this, but we are stronger.Form lines—children and elders first to the carts.Take only essentials.The Silver will guard you.We fight for our homes!”
The words took root, barely.Lines formed, guards directing families to wagons creaking with weight.Kellan moved among them, offering a steady hand to a trembling mother, a nod to a grim-faced baker.“The queen lives,” he whispered to those who knew his face.“Gwendolyn endures.Hold fast.”Truth or hope?He couldn’t say.
