to rage, his expression murderous. With the surrounding Keltic soldiers cheering him on, Brandon rises to his feet and rushes at Jules. He wrestles my friend to the ground, pinning him with his superior size, and punches him hard in the face.
“You bastard!” I yell, moving to run toward them, only to be caught by my elbows and jerked backward by two Keltic soldiers. Furious, I struggle to wrench my arms free.
If I could only get my hands on that wand! Breathing hard, I try to focus on gathering more power as the crowd of Kelts closes in around Jules, egging Brandon on and cutting off my view of him.
The ax-paladin smiles wickedly, his large chin thrust forward. He gestures to the guards restraining me with a hard flick of his hand.
My feet skid across the damp earth as they drag me to a fenced-in livestock pen to the right of the barn. The soldiers open the gate, and I’m pushed forward, my palms slapping down onto the cold, muddied ground. It’s pitch dark back here, the area devoid of torches. I blink, my eyes struggling to adjust to the dimness.
“Tessie!” A shadowy form grabs at my arm as I rise.
It’s Rosebeth, my sweet Gardnerian friend from three cottages over. I cling to her, grateful to see a familiar face.
“You’re alive!” she sobs, hugging me. “Thank the Ancient One, you’re alive!”
“You embrace her?” A disgusted voice sounds from the blackness of the pen. “She ran off with a Kelt!”
I can just make out the young Gardnerian woman’s hate-filled eyes, large and luminous in a beautiful face. Her skin, like mine, shimmers a faint emerald in the dark. She spits on the ground in my direction, then makes the sign to ward off the power of the Evil Ones. “Staen’en,” she hisses under her breath. Race traitor.
I squint into the darkness. There are five other Gardnerians in the pen, all huddled in a far corner near the hateful girl—all of them elegant Upper River Gardnerians. I can just make out their dark silken clothing in the moonlight, a stark contrast to the black woolen homespun Rosebeth and I wear, like most of the impoverished Lower River Gardnerians.
In another corner of the pen, a small figure is curled in a tight ball, sobbing, and dressed in light-hued Keltic attire. Unlike us Gardnerians, there is no faint emerald shimmer to her skin, and she’s been shorn bald. It’s meek Keltic Daisie, the smith’s daughter.
I suddenly realize that the pen holds only women. Young women. I turn my head and see the shadows of three Keltic soldiers hanging over the fence, watching us. Their eyes glitter in the moonlight.
Trying not to panic, I look back at Rosebeth. “Did you see Wren?” I whisper, taking hold of her arm as she sobs. “My grandfather?”
Weeping, she shakes her head, her face a mask of misery. She gestures toward the barn. “Wagons keep coming. Full of Gardnerians. They’re forcing everyone in there. All but us.” Rosebeth casts a frightened sidelong glance at the young Kelts. “What are we going to do?” she asks me imploringly, her voice quavering. She’s chewing on her lip so hard, she’s bloodied it.
I look toward the men. The Keltic soldiers are passing a flask back and forth as they laugh and leer at us, but over their shoulders, I can see that the crowd around Jules has dispersed. He’s been dumped by the edge of the barn, lying on his side. His face is swollen beyond recognition, one arm cradling the other as if it’s broken.
Anger swells in me, and I turn, my focus honed on the ax-paladin.
“So, are you a Roach now?” The strafeling idly points at the wand that hangs from the ax-paladin’s belt.
The ax-paladin spits on the ground. “Some Roach filth south of here got hold of it and cut down several members of our guard. I’m to bring it to the Tenhold armory.”
“Why not destroy the cursed thing?” the strafeling asks, eyeing the wand with suspicion.
“We’ve tried,” the paladin says. “It is surprisingly hard to break. And it’s oddly powerful.”
My attention lights up. I’ve heard tales of wands like these—wands of great power.
“What will we do?” Rosebeth asks me again in that tremulous voice, clinging to my arm and breaking my focus.
“Quiet,” I order, more sternly than I’d intended, but I need to concentrate.
I’m only a Level Three Mage. Not a huge amount of power, to be sure, but I do have a unique talent. I can pull up threads of magic from the elements and knit them together, amplifying my power. I’ve done this on only a few occasions, experimenting with Grandfather’s wand while making medicines and using the ability once to defend myself. Each time, the spell-linking gave me a fever and scoured me out, as if I’d been grievously ill. It’s dangerous, what I’m doing. Magic can turn deadly when gathered like this, catching on the very life force of a Mage and choking it clear out. The last time I linked spells, I was attempting a complicated medicine to treat Wren’s chronic illness. Grandfather found me passed out in the kitchen amid vials and scattered potions, and he forbade me from ever, ever using his wand again. I was feverish and bedridden for days, but more devastated over the loss of the wand than anything else.
I’ve never tried to pull in and link together as much power as I’m holding right now, and I know I’m playing with fire.
Deadly, raging, elemental fire.
My chest is full of burning pain, but my resolve is strengthened by it. I coldly assess our situation.
We’re completely surrounded by a sea of soldiers—but the men are hardly the only threat. Several Urisk geosoldiers struggle to contain a dragon nearby, the beast’s whole body undulating with rage. The dragon turns its head to look at me and bares its long fangs, pinning me with its eerie white eyes.
Terror claws at me, but I force myself to stand my ground as Rosebeth cries out and hides behind me, her slender body quivering.
A tall, winged figure steps into the clearing, and I feel my bravado slip away.
I take a frightened step back as the Icaral demon casts its glowing orange eyes around. His black wings arch threateningly, and the terrifying evil of his grinning expression is heightened by the torchlight. He balances a bright ball of flame over his palm as he slinks over to the Kelt commander, the strafeling and the ax-paladin.
Eyeing the Icaral demon warily, the Kelt commander unfurls a scroll and glances down to read.
“What’s the word, Lucian?” the strafeling asks, his words elegantly accented and clipped.
“We wait. And march into Gardneria tomorrow morn,” Lucian sighs, rolling up the scroll and passing it back to a young Keltic soldier.
A new wagon pulls in, filled with Gardnerians, all of them well-to-do Upper River folk. They’re roughly herded out, blinking in confusion, the children crying.
They are met by a mob of laughter.
“All hail the powerful Gardnerian Mages!”
“Where’s your Great Mage now?”
A Keltic lieutenant bows toward them. “The Gardnerian Mages! Rulers of Erthia!” Two other Keltic soldiers
