Warrior Witch: Malediction Trilogy Book Three Read online

  Fred was staring through the arrow slit down at the screaming islanders, not seeming to be paying attention to anything we said. I jabbed him in the ribs with a finger. “Suggestions?”

  He nodded slowly, and in a tone that was alarmingly similar to one I often employed, he said, “I think I have a plan.”

  Chapter Fifty-Seven

  Cécile

  It was deathly quiet on the wall, every half-blood in Trianon grim faced as they held their portion of magic reinforcing the stone. Down below, almost every soldier Fred had at his disposal stood armed to the teeth, waiting. Ready to fight the moment the wall was breached.

  Almost every soldier.

  I paced up and down the narrow walkway, stopping to peer carefully through an arrow slit from time to time to see if I could pick out a familiar face in the horde below.

  Under Marc’s watchful eye, several of Tips’s crew had carefully opened the tunnel they’d dug to get under the city wall when they first arrived, allowing Fred and a hundred of his most trusted men to leave Trianon undetected. Dressed in civilian clothes with cloaks to cover their weapons, they’d joined the mass of islanders trying to push their way through the wall, mimicking their wails and mannerisms. Waiting.

  “Please go back to the castle, Cécile,” Marc said. “Sabine, Marie, and Joss could use your help, and there is nothing you can do here.”

  The women had taken cartloads of sleeping children back to the castle, and it was true that many were injured and needed a witch’s touch. But I couldn’t bear to leave. “My brother’s out there,” I whispered. I’m afraid of losing him, too.

  “I can’t spare anyone to stand guard over you.”

  “Then don’t,” I said. “I know the risks, and I’m not helpless.” I pulled open my coat to reveal a pair of pistols and a set of blades. “Besides, the castle will be the first place they look for me.”

  Out of the corner of my eye, I saw him shake his head, but he voiced no further argument.

  “Let us in, let us in.” I tried not to hear, not to listen, but sweat had already soaked through my shirt despite the chill of the air.

  Marc hissed through his teeth. “Báthory.”

  “Where?”

  “The woman in the red cloak. I’d recognize that strut anywhere.” His hand went to the pommel of the sword at his waist, as though that would be his first line of attack. “There’s another. And another.” Careful to keep out of sight, he pointed out the approaching trolls. All of them wore hooded cloaks that obscured their faces, and other than Báthory, all were doing a fair job of imitating the motions of their human shield. Moving at a speed that would not attract attention, they joined the mob of humans, carefully pushing their way forward until they were hemmed in by islanders on all sides.

  “Mark them.” His order rippled softly down the line of half-bloods, those known to have a deft touch lighting the faintest of sparks behind the heads of the enemy trolls. If I hadn’t been watching, I wouldn’t even have noticed, and I prayed it was enough to guide Fred’s men to their targets.

  Sure enough, men began to move slowly toward the trolls, carefully, making it appear as though those around them were pushing them in that particular direction.

  “Come on,” Marc hissed. “Get into position.”

  And it was then I picked Fred out of the crowd, only a few feet away from Báthory now. “No,” I moaned, my hands turning to ice. “Not her.”

  But he was right behind her, now pressed up against her, the troll not even noticing amidst the bumping and jostling of limbs and bodies.

  “Brace yourself,” Marc said, and a heartbeat later, a horn blared and everything turned to chaos. Pistols fired and then men surged at their targets, steel blades in their hands. I saw a dozen trolls or more go down, but Báthory was not one of them. One hand pressed over the spurting hole the bullet had left when it exited her chest, she screamed and spun, catching Fred’s blade as it descended and wrenching it from his hand. Plucking it from the air, she sliced with a speed no human possessed, catching him on the arm. He went down, the crowd falling over him, and I screamed his name.

  “Báthory,” Marc shouted, then he was over the wall, landing amongst the humans, who even in their stupor seemed to know enough to move. The air charged, magic smashing against magic; then the Comtesse was flying through the air, landing some distance away. Marc sprinted after her, sword in hand, and with a cruel slice, separated her head from her neck.

  But none of that mattered. Not caring about the risk, I hung half over the wall, searching for Fred amongst the teeming mass. “Fred,” I screamed again. “Marc, find him!”

  His silver eyes searched with no more success than mine, but before he could do more, stone shattered and a section of the wall collapsed. Shaking his head at me, he ran in the direction of the breach.

  I didn’t know what to do. Even if I didn’t break both my legs jumping from this height, I was likely to be crushed by those beneath, most of whom were significantly larger than I was. But my brother was down there. My brother.

  There was only one thing I could do, and if it gave away that I was alive, that Tristan was alive, then so be it.

  I began to sing.

  The islanders stilled, then sank down into the mud, their faces serene as they listened. I searched amongst them for my brother, relief crashing through me as I saw him struggle out from under the limbs of a pair of men, then drag himself away from the crush of humanity. His arm was bleeding profusely, but he was alive.

  For now.

  Because amongst the seated humans, there stood several cloaked figures who were unaffected by my magic. Not all of Angoulême’s followers had been killed. Not even close.

  As one, they attacked, hammering against the half-bloods’ shields, and when those fell, the thick rock beneath. Sections of the wall crumbled or were blown inwards, and everywhere, everywhere, there was screaming. Great pieces of stone fell on the islanders below, their serene faces never registering fear as they were crushed, maimed, and killed. The soldiers behind me fought valiantly against the trolls who strolled in through the breaks in the wall, stepping on fallen humans like they were cobbles of a paved street. I hazarded a glance back and saw Marc fighting amongst them, but he was only one against dozens.

  “Drop the wall and fight,” Tips roared, and the half-bloods fell into teams, sprinting down stairs and leaping off the walkway into the fray. Some threw themselves at the full-blooded trolls with no regard for their own lives, while others defended the human soldiers as they withdrew or regrouped. Some of the trolls fell, but only at incredible cost of life. We could not win this.

  My voice was the only thing keeping the islanders out of the battle, but it felt like I was doing nothing. Pulling out one of my pistols, I leveled it at a troll wielding twin maces formed of magic that shattered bodies with each swing. If he was fighting like that, his shields were down. Finishing a verse, I aimed and fired, the bullet passing straight through his shoulder. He bellowed and spun around, eyes searching for the culprit.

  And landing on me.

  I fired with my other pistol, but he brushed the bullet aside, expression feral as he slashed an arm sideways. Half-bloods and human soldiers flung themselves at him, but it was too late, the air was already rippling with magic. Turning to the wall, I lunged toward a break in the parapet, and toppled over the edge.

  I clenched my teeth for the impact, ready to start singing no matter how many bones I broke, because if I didn’t, the resurgence of the mob would trample me to death.

  But the impact never came.

  Instead, arms broke my fall, a familiar face appearing in my line of sight.

  “I’ve been looking for you,” Martin said, winding his way through the islanders as they stirred. He started to say something else, but his voice was drowned out by the blare of a horn. Not the horn Angoulême’s followers had used in their attack, but the great horn of Trollus. It blared again, then I caught sight of movement in the trees and trolls b
roke into the open, sprinting our direction. Hundreds of them.

  “I brought reinforcements,” Martin said. “Now let’s get out of the way.”

  The citizens of Trollus descended on Trianon, some stopping to pluck the oath-sworn islanders up, drawing them back and holding them steady, while others leapt though the breaches in the wall, attacking Angoulême’s followers. They showed them no mercy, ripping them to pieces, and once the soldiers and half-bloods realized they were allies, not enemies, they roared a rallying cry. Not long after, it turned to cheers of victory.

  The battle was over, and against all the odds, we had won.

  But not without cost.

  Chapter Fifty-Eight

  Cécile

  The rows of bodies seemed to go on forever.

  A drop of sweat dripped into my eye, and I wiped a grimy hand across my forehead, not caring that I’d probably left a streak of blood, dirt, and worse behind. The soldier before me was breathing steadily, his chest now a network of scars rather than open wounds, but what was saving one compared to the hundreds who’d died because of my choices, my actions?

  I sat back on my haunches, watching yet another cartload of sleeping islanders trundle past, headed to the prison, which had been deemed the only safe place to keep them. Except for the children – Marie had insisted they all be brought to the castle, where she’d enlisted several of the newly arrived trolls to watch over them in case any woke.

  But it was a stopgap. Asleep, they could neither eat nor drink, and we hadn’t the resources to tend to each individual as we had with Aiden. The young lord remained under my spell – and Zoé’s watchful eye – his mother insisting he remain so until we’d won the day. And if we lost, well… It wouldn’t matter at that point if the King’s compulsion had destroyed his mind or not.

  “Is Tristan still unconscious?” Marc knelt next to me, handing me a steaming tin cup.

  I nodded, trying not to let my fear show. Too easily, I conjured up Vincent’s face, devoid of all that made him him, and wondered if the same had happened to Tristan. Whether he lay somewhere, alone, with a head injury so traumatic that even his seemingly endless power hadn’t been able to overcome it. After all, his power hadn’t been able to help Vincent.

  “Victoria and Chris are looking,” Marc said. “They’ll find him.”

  “I should go.” My eyes burned, but I was so drained, it felt like there were no tears left to spill. “I could find him.”

  “If that’s what you want.”

  His tone was careful, and I knew it was his way of saying that to do so would be a mistake. “Just say what you’re thinking, Marc,” I muttered, knowing I shouldn’t be sharp with him. That Trianon wasn’t in total chaos was all thanks to him and Tips. The injured were being cared for, the dead put to rest, and the walls rebuilt, and though the city had been through hell and back, there was no sense of hopelessness.

  The sound of trolls and humans hard at work fell away, and Marc pulled forward his hood to conceal his lips from sharp eyes. “No one knows that Roland defeated Tristan yet,” he said. “And for now, we need to keep it that way. Trollus has chosen to rally behind him, but if they knew the truth…”

  “That might change,” I finished for him.

  He nodded. “Angoulême likely saw how Trollus helped the people of Courville who were on those skiffs, and he’ll know what that means, so he will be eager to inform them of Tristan’s demise – that their chosen one is, to his knowledge, a dead man.”

  “So what do you think he’ll do?”

  Marc’s eyes went distant as he thought. “The news of Tristan’s death would throw Trollus and Trianon into chaos. The humans would have lost their protector, and the trolls would be faced with the decision of whether to accept Roland or rally behind a new candidate as king or queen. The latter will cause infighting that will lead to even more upheaval until someone lands on top. He’ll want to attack now rather than risk fighting a new, unified front.”

  “If we find Tristan, won’t they fight for him?”

  Marc blew out a breath between his teeth, the expression in his unblinking eyes answering my question, and sickness burned the back of my throat. Whether Trollus remained loyal would depend on what state Tristan was in, and as it was, there was no chance he’d be recovered by the time Roland and Angoulême arrived to attack.

  “Of a surety, some of the Duke’s followers survived the battle, and they’ll be running to meet him with the news that not only are you alive, you’re well enough to perform magic, which will make him suspect Tristan survived the battle with his brother.”

  “Will that keep him from attacking?”

  He shook his head. “I think it will only cause him to move faster – to strike before Tristan has the chance to recover.”

  “Surely we can hold against him,” I said. “We’ve hundreds of trolls here, plus all the half-bloods and human soldiers.”

  “But at what cost?” Marc asked. “Angoulême will walk up to the gates and inform everyone in straight terms that Roland has defeated his brother. He will give them a chance to capitulate or face Roland’s wrath. What do you think they’ll choose?”

  “Then what?” I snapped, my temper fraying. “What do you suggest we do? As I see it, our only hope is to find Tristan and see if I can help him recover. If he were here, if the trolls could see him, then maybe…” It would still be another battle. Hundreds, maybe thousands of lives lost, with no certainty of victory. Was surrender the better option? Was it inevitable?

  “We have one advantage,” Marc said. “For a few hours more, Angoulême believes you both are dead. His guard will be lowered.”

  I threw up my hands in frustration. “So? It isn’t as though Tristan is capable of doing anything about it.”

  “I’m not talking about Tristan,” Marc said. “I’m talking about you.”

  Chapter Fifty-Nine

  Cécile

  We crouched in a copse of trees, twilight upon us. Melusina had delivered Marc, Sabine, and me to the location an hour ago, but we’d waited for the twins to join us before making our move. It had killed me to ask Martin pull them away from their search for Tristan, but Marc couldn’t handle Angoulême and Lessa on his own.

  He’s still alive, I reminded myself. Chris is looking for him – he’ll find him.

  “We’re running out of time,” Marc muttered, sitting back on his haunches to reveal the portal Martin had made. We were waiting for Roland to be alone, but thus far, he’d been unaccommodating. And it wouldn’t be long before the survivors of our victory at Trianon would arrive with word that I was still alive.

  “We could intercept them,” Victoria said, absently braiding her long black hair as she watched Roland. “Can’t talk if they’re dead.”

  “Risky,” Marc replied. “We don’t know who survived – you’d have no idea of who you were going up against.” His jaw tightened. “But I don’t see as we have a choice. Go, and we’ll send Martin for you when we move.”

  If we moved. I sighed, pulling my hood further forward to keep my ears warm.

  “He looks so sad,” Sabine said, leaning against me as we watched the twins disappear into the darkness, Vincent following at his sister’s heels.

  I glanced at her. “Roland?”

  She nodded, and I fought the urge to regale her with stories of the many ways Tristan’s brother had harmed people, including me. Truthfully, she was right. Roland sat across a crackling fire from Angoulême and Lessa, his chin resting on his knees as he stared into the flames. Neither of his companions made any attempt to engage in conversation, and the human soldiers and servants in their camp gave them wide berth.

  “He’s been made to do things he didn’t wish to do,” I said. “That’s why he’s upset. Not because he feels badly for the hurt he’s caused.”

  “A broken child,” Sabine said. “But still just a child.”

  That thought in our minds, we all sat in silence watching the trio.

  “Stones and sky,
Roland,” Marc muttered. “Go take a piss or something.”

  “This isn’t working,” I said. “We need to find another way to lure him away from his minders.”

  “What if we sent him a message,” Sabine said. “A note.”

  “How?” Marc asked. “It isn’t as though any of us can traipse in there and deliver it.”

  “Why not?” Sabine asked, and I immediately shook my head, seeing the direction this was going. “It’s too dangerous, Sabine. He’s too dangerous.” I looked to Marc for agreement, but instead his gaze was thoughtful.

  “What are you thinking?” he asked.

  She shrugged. “I smell cooking, and a growing boy’s got to eat.”

  * * *

  “I should be the one doing this,” I muttered as we approached the group of servants working around the cook fire.

  “No, you shouldn’t,” she replied. “From what I’ve heard, the Duke is wise to all our tricks and he’s not so much a fool to have completely lowered his guard. If any of them were to sense the magic of your disguise, you’d be done. Tristan would be done. And I don’t really care to fight the rest of this war without you.”

  I couldn’t argue with her logic.

  Two of the cooks looked up at our approach, and we both smiled. “She’s going to serve His Majesty his dinner tonight,” I said, a breeze drifting through the camp as I forced power into my words. “You’ve both known her for years. Me, you never saw.”

  Moving at a sedate pace that wouldn’t attract attention, I retreated into the woods to where Marc and Martin waited, their eyes on the portal.

  “Here she comes,” Martin whispered, and we all watched in silence. If it went badly, there was nothing we’d be able to do to help her.

  Sabine and two other women approached the three trolls, trays of steaming food carefully balanced in their hands. She dropped into a curtsey, and the other two followed suit, dishes rattling against each other.