Page 85 of A Thousand Burning Ravens

The wind knocked out of her, gasping for breath and unable to find it beneath the weight of her armor, Myla forces herself upright, willing herself not to be distracted by the bodies of her men slumping to the ground at an alarming rate. Her friends help her to her feet and Rhyland hands her the heavy broadsword that was thrown from her hand during the impact.

“Never,” Myla screams. From the earth beneath her boot, something grabs at her, and she realizes the ground is heaving, bodies buried beneath it clawing their way to the surface. In a panic, she wonders how deep into the earth he has victims buried. Slashing at the hand which pokes from the ground, Myla sidesteps the attack and twists, desperate to get eyes back on Vesperian, whose voice hums an eerie threat from Gods-know-where.

“I will live another ten centuries. You are not the last remarkable woman who will cross my path. If I must kill you and wait for another, I will.” His voice normalizes once more. “Right here, my Ruthless Queen,” he hums from behind her. Spinning on her heel, Myla extends her blade, ready to lodge it in his throat, but misses by a hair when he dissolves into a cloud of black mist, materializing a few steps to the right. Now, Matteo and Margot join him, appearing and disappearing as he does. Myla’s mouth dries as she realizes they are all one: the wolves, the wraith, and Vesperian. He is in every place at once, snarling with teeth like razors, taunting her, again in the form of a charismatic man, and decapitating on a whim, as he travels in the form of a shadow.

It is a push-and-pull battle for what feels like hours. Drenched in sweat, her long hair clinging to her face, Myla tugs at her power, summoning that rope of light and launching it nimbly at Vesperian’s throat. It holds, and the demon lets out a shriek of agony as the light burns away his flesh, melting a grotesque indent around his neck. Bursting from the wound, summoned to the spot, his wraith shatters her light into a million shards, splintering in all directions. It is a deadly recoil, and every sharp spear of light is aimed at her own men.

Watching the mayhem in slow motion, Myla closes her eyes, willing the shards to return to her, to feed her energy once more, rather than embedding themselves in those around them. The light stills midair as she commands it, her hands extended as though she calls to dutiful children, then with a sickening warp of power, the motion is reversed in a rush of energy, which brings her to a full standing position. The light reabsorbs into her pores. To her left, Callum bores his feet into the ground, bracing against a wolf who snaps hungrily at his face. From behind, Rhyland swings his blade, hacking the deadly beast in half, brutally.

Crashing into the heaving surface of the earth, Bryar and a dozen other Ashborn warriors, their king and queen included, loose an assault of vengeful flames, boring holes into the ground at Vesperian’s feet, until it caves in around him completely. Splintered bones, of the dead beneath, slice at his skin, dislodged by the powerful blast. The Blood Stealer writhes and screeches in agony, his dark energy flickering and faltering in the face of Bryar’s fiery assault. Myla sees the lapse in power and falls to her knees, pressing her hands into the ground, ignoring the dead fingers wrapping around her wrists.

“Now!” Already covered in sweat and blood, Bryar yells. The amulet flashes, blinding at his chest, every ounce of energy he has channeling to her as he presses his palms into the dirt next to her. A river of magic forms between them, trickling over the corpses and mounds of earth. Focusing, begging the Gods for mercy, Myla visualizes the methods they have practiced together every night since their marriage.

Slow and subtle at first, a tingling in her body tells her she is on the right track. From her fingertips, a shimmer of translucent blue rises, and the corpses beneath the surface of the earth cease to struggle; orbs fly from their bodies in reprieve, their curse broken.

“Good,” Bryar whispers, as he clamors to her side, a hand on hers, surging energy through her.

Myla’s focus wavers as Vesperian pulls himself from the wreckage caused by Bryar. Callum and Rhyland rush bravely in his direction, though they have little to contest him with.

“Ignore him,” Bryar urges, hoping any amount of Restorer magic summoned will help. His weary glance in his friends’ direction is unmistakable and he shouts in a panic for backup, bidding a wave of soldiers to join them.

Myla forms a small ball of blue between her palms. Shaking and dripping sweat, she raises the stream of energy overhead, trying to strike the Blood Stealer with it. It is not enough. Though it lands on his chest, sending a foul, burning odor into the already overwhelming stench of battle, the assault merely brings their foe to his knees. The energy he pulls from his subjects is enough to revive him, but doing so cripples his nearby forces in the process. Several hundred of his army fall unmoving to the ground, replaced shortly by living armies and mad wolves spilling in, summoned, no doubt by the irresistible call of Vesperian. Battle cries and hungry howling deafens all.

All around Myla, trails of fire sizzle across pools of blood. Overhead, Ashborn wage war with fire, sending balls of furious flames down upon clusters of their enemies. All manner of injuries and fatal wounds flash before her eyes, a sight horrible and sickening. A few yards behind the Blood Stealer, Rhyland and Callum stand back-to-back, each struggling against their own foes. They fight as one, as friends who have had each other’s backs since boyhood.

With a body heavy from exertion, Bryar takes to the sky again and unleashes another wave of blue flame, Myla’s cue to summon the magic of the Restorer while he distracts Vesperian. As the black wraith hurdles in his direction, Bryar’s assault does not last a fraction of the time it did before, and he lands with a crashing thud near her, slow to stand now. Both their amulets flash, each of them exchanging power and energy, neither of them tipping the scale for the other.

“This is not working,” he yells over the calamity of battle. A flash of horror passes across his face as he yanks her to the ground to dodge the swing of a mace, his sword stopping it midair. Another thrust overhead and he has decapitated the wielder. Her husband expends another massive wave of energy from his exhausted body, a ripple of flames pouring from his palms as he incinerates a wall of corpses rushing toward them.

Taking note of the onslaughts which continue to bar them from focusing on Vesperian, Rhyland and Callum make their way closer, along with several other soldiers. Their bodies form a wall at Myla and Bryar’s backs.

“I know,” she responds breathlessly, bracing her body against his as a surge of light breaks free of her body, bleeding white across the entire battlefield. Holding the wave of magic, she watches as Bryar rips his amulet off, tucking it into his boot. No . . .

Her energy expands within her, though horror threatens to distract her as she sees Bryar struggling to summon his own magic, let alone stand upright. He heaves with labored breath and his body is frigid with straining. Those soft green eyes find hers, but they are not soft any longer. They are angry and they are scared. “Again!” he bellows to her, loosing a wave of weakened flames in Vesperian’s direction. The inferno engulfs the Blood Stealer, and Myla places her palms to the earth, grounding herself and her child, once more conjuring the blue mist.

As the battle reaches its climax, the Blood Stealer siphoning another surge of energy; instead of feeling the drain like so many around her, Myla feels a birth of power unlike anything she has ever experienced before. It is vindicating. It is the fulfillment of old prophesies and promises. It is everything she has always known she could be, materializing in a desperate attempt to save the thousands of people here fighting for her.

Bryar holds off the Blood Stealer with inhuman ability in spite of his weakened state; a feat only described as a force of circumstance. Before her, he stands, his body the only shield between herself and Vesperian. His sword swings with deadly intent, aimed for the skull of his foe, stopped short by a flash of the Blood Stealer’s own blade. Overhead, arrows sizzle and volleys of flame fall from the sky like rain. Wolves howl and snarl, while screams of death stab, small defeats, time and time again. Muscle against muscle, set jaws and gritting teeth, the captain and the Blood Stealer lean into one other, neither willing to surrender. One slip of a blade could result in Bryar’s neck being severed. Unrelenting, Bryar lets out an angry growl and pushes harder against Vesperian, a slip of the villain’s heel giving Bryar the edge needed to step back and swing his weapon again. Their deadly blades flash and clank against one another, Bryar holding the Blood Stealer off for now, a feat Myla knows he can not sustain in his declining condition.

“Are you prepared to die?” Vesperian bellows, his black wraith at work once more, launching Bryar to his back. “How many years have you sat back and been the pawn of a woman who would not choose you?” Vesperian plans to weaken Bryar’s mind as well as his body. This is the moment—any longer and they will lose any edge they have.

Myla squeezes her eyes shut, a tremble of fear passing through her body. Her eyes burn as the warpaint seeps into her eyes, and Myla realizes it is not the result of sweat, but tears. Placing a hand on her swollen belly, she feels the will of the child seeping into her bloodstream. She chills with a power that is not her own. In a moment of clarity, Myla turns her eyes upwards toward the mountains, a red haze creating harmony with the blood on the ground beneath her. I beg of you, she whispers a prayer, give me another chance to lead these people well. Give me another chance to love. Give this child a chance to live.

At first, the sensation might be confused with the tightening of the throat felt before tears break free. Awaiting the answer of the Gods, a burning pain scorches her throat, and she realizes this is their answer. The Restorer’s blue glow begins like a sliver of veins, starting at her belly and trailing up her body to her throat. Drawing from every drop of energy around and within her, her child’s magic is condensed at her core, ready to be unleashed from her lungs, in tandem with the Voice of the Gods.

Her body straightens, Sir Roderick’s instruction to always stand tall encouraging her to face this final battle with a dignity most have not believed her capable of. Both hands pressed against her belly, an urge to lift her face to the sky takes over, and Myla surrenders to the will of the Gods. Her body takes form as a powerful vessel for their righteous scourging of the Blood Stealer, and she channels the Restorer Magic in a magnificent marriage of blue light and white fire, all carried from her lungs on the vengeful voices of the Gods above. The same Gods who saw fit to put her on this earth. The Gods who saw fit to give her this gift because they knew she carried a strength others might not see. The Gods who saw fit to set her feet on this path. They are the same Gods she feels with her now as the ground beneath her melts, and the corpses even deeper below turn to ash, glowing embers of black drifting upwards.

With a sickening blow to the abdomen, Bryar is launched backward, Myla’s magic faltering momentarily, but a familiar voice, the voice of the Spirit Mother, urges her to remain calm and focused. Vesperian strides toward her swiftly, black mist expelled from his body with every step, his essence slicing any soldiers near him with deadly precision. To his left and right, bodies slump over dead until he stands before her, looking down in mockery.

His voice is louder than the deafening bellows pouring from her like an undammed river. “If you continue to fight like this,” he scoffs, kneeling to her level, “I might begin to wonder if you even want to win.” Despite the earth trembling at her fingertips and Ashborn warriors landing because of the quake, Vesperian seems only mildly uncomfortable, flinching as she pulses a wave of light at his throat again. Through gritting teeth, he speaks. “Maybe you even want this—to look like you tried, so no one can blame you when you must join forces with me. A brilliant ruse really, my Ruthless Queen.”

Myla screams, though the Voice of the Gods powers her, it is a cry of the most hateful rage. To her right, Bryar crouches, panting and unable to rise as his energy bleeds out, his life source pouring entirely into her. Hot tears of anger and fear run freely down her cheeks, and no amount of death around her seems to drown out the voice inside, the voice of the Spirit Mother begging her to dig deeper. Titonfall soldiers, the Raven’s Veil, Ashborn warriors, and Falkmere soldiers alike clash violently against their enemy, fighting side-by-side, and dying in devastating waves.

Drawing upon the Goddess’s strength and purity to fuel her final, desperate attack, Myla rises to her feet, the round of her belly illuminated and reflecting the hot, unruly fires dancing in every direction around her. “If I have to die screaming,” Myla speaks with conviction, lifting her arms overhead to draw from the energy of those around her, as well as the strength of her child within, “I will; if only to meet my death with every single soul here knowing, I did not go willingly.”

A lazy smile creases her tormentor’s face and he unsheathes a menacing little dagger. “What a pity.”

Energy courses through her veins like liquid fire, filling her with a divine power that transcends the mortal realm. Several feet away, Rhyland to his left and Callum to his right, Bryar is guarded by his comrades, each bringing a halt to assailants as they fly like rabid animals toward the group. But most shockingly . . .