Page 83 of The Sundered Blade

He was already riding the wave of intuition that had always informed his magic—a wave that kept him perpetually on the verge of disaster, never more than one step ahead. It was in that place that he felt most like himself, and his magic truly became a part of him. Every sense came alive with the rush of possibility, of adrenaline, of the unknown future that was just out of reach. And as that future loomed closer, he somehow saw the currents of power twisting across the knotted strands and guided them to where they needed to go… just so…

“But sometimes,” he said thoughtfully, “I think we need to look past the rules. Past our assumptions. Forget whateveryoneknows, so that we can find something new. Something unexpectedly perfect.”

From behind him came a grunt and the clash of metal, but he was too deeply ensnared in the bright lure of his magic. The final loop fell into place and he flicked his wrists, just as the wind mage brought her palms together with a whooshing sound, and the fire mage breathed flames from between her parted lips.

A towering tornado of fire sprung up between them, but Vaniell did not flinch. He held firm, grasping the tendrils of enchantment with his strength of will alone as the string flew, flashing across the distance to snare the mages’ wrists in manacles of pure light.

The light flared, the mages cried out, and their magic was cut off as if by a knife.

The tornado died, leaving only a scattered pile of ash on the ground—easily stepped over as Vaniell moved to survey his handiwork.

The imperial battle mages lay back to back, their wrists bound together, unable to move their hands. Confusion and desperation twisted their features as they strained to escape the magical bonds.

“Flexibility,” Vaniell said wryly. “String will hold enchantment well enough so long as you allow your intentions to bend along with it. And speaking of flexibility, when you only know how to form your magic using your hands, sooner or later, someone will take advantage of it.”

He turned away, looking for Karreya, hoping to find that she was holding her own. And indeed, only a dozen paces away, she and Urquadi regarded each other with wary respect. Both were bleeding and breathing with difficulty. Both seemed uncertain of victory, but remained unwilling to yield.

He could not give in to his fear. Could not allow himself to dwell on thoughts of her defeat.

Lifting his gaze, Vaniell glanced to the east and noted the faint gray light of dawn on the horizon. To the west, the flames raged unabated, and the sounds from the city had faded. Had Hanselm’s defenders already fallen? Or was there simply nothing left to destroy?

He turned back towards the duel that might yet decide their fate, but suddenly from the north he heard a rumbling, as if the wind mage had summoned another thunderstorm. But no—she still lay on the ground, her wrists bound, her magic beyond her reach.

Trepidation assailed him as he peered into the gloom, wondering what fresh horror awaited. What more were the imperial troops holding in reserve?

The smoke swirled gently, and the rumbling became hoofbeats. The snorting of nervous horses, the creak of harnesses, and the muffled clang of metal on metal…

A gentle morning breeze stirred the air, and the smoke parted to reveal a line of mounted cavalry. Swords in hand, horses anxious and sweating, their red uniforms awry with the haste of their arrival…

Red uniforms?

Vaniell rubbed his eyes—wondering if it was another illusion—but the line continued to advance, and he finally allowed himself to believe in the impossible.

Against all hope, against all expectations, the Garimoran cavalry had returned.

A wordless howl of victory ripped from his throat, echoing into the dawn sky like an arrow from a bow.

All was not lost. The people of Garimore still had a chance.

Breaking into a run down the low hill, he raced towards the leader and came to a stop just beyond the reach of the commander’s saber-point.

“You’re back,” he gasped out, feeling a wild and triumphant grin pull at his lips. “You came back.”

“P-p-prince Vaniell?” The commander appeared utterly horrified. “What has happened? Why is the city on fire? We saw the glow and the smoke and knew the city had been left undefended, so I… I made the decision to return. Should I have erred, it is my responsibility alone. But what…”

He gazed around in the pre-dawn gloom, his features pale and struck by dismay.

“Zulle actuallydidattack,” Vaniell told him, trying not to wince as he realized that Modrevin’s lies had proven more true than anyone could have anticipated. “With dragons, troops, and mages. The streets are full of their infantry, so we’ve been sending refugees to the palace. But with your numbers, we can hopefully push them back and retake the city.”

He eyed the man, searching his memory for a name, but failed. “And you are?”

“Commander Ibbley.” The man saluted with a hand over his heart, almost as a reflex. But it was no more than a breath before he remembered himself enough to voice what was doubtless his most pressing concern. “King Melger—”

Vaniell cut him off without mercy or hesitation.

“Is dead.” The commander blanched, but Vaniell would not give him the chance to regroup. “Like it or not, I am in command of the city’s forces. Right now, the streets are being defended by a small group led by Lord Kellan, and if you join them, he can direct you to the areas most in need.”

Ibbley gave him a puzzled look that finally melted into an odd expression of understanding and something like relief. “Understood, Your Highness. But what of…”

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