the king and his paladin in the lead. Jarrod met his gaze, though the distance was great. Eyes locked, he brought his fingers to his mouth, pressed his lips, and released three sharp whistles.
Cold flames shot from the ground, coating the road in a crimson blanket. It writhed towards the opposition, neither burning nor smoking. The cackling drowned the call for retreat, and the illusionary inferno continued to the forest edge where it rose taller than the trees. The magic shifted to form a wall of translucent, pulsing energy with a violet tint.
“Your highness?”
Jarrod flicked his gaze from Gregory back to Altan, who stood a safe distance from the wall, glaring inward. “Darius’s doing.”
“How?”
“Planned.” Because his brother knew he would never betray him.
Sudden darkness fell, thick clouds of sparking energy rolling over the forest. Wind ripped through the trees, howling in insane rage, while the horses neighed and pranced in panic. Jarrod’s horse galloped through the forest at his command, and stopped only when the trees lay at their backs an hour later.
The anomaly seeped from the castle, the storm raging around the towers, lightning crashing over the land. Crimson mist rolled from the structure, coating the ground and spreading to the horizon. Rain poured over everything, yet all remained dry. Jarrod held his hand aloft, allowing it to become saturated in the liquid energy. The glimmering substrate evaporated.
Jarrod clenched his fist and returned his attention to the castle. The sinister grooves of the structure appeared to sneer at him, as if taunting him for his cowardice. Fear would have gripped him were it not for the formation of blackened eyes over the castle, familiar and insane.
“Father.” Caution was trampled bythe rapid beating of his galloping steed’s hooves.
8
Chaos reigned. Fires raged in the town, men trying in vain to douse the infernos ravaging the wood of their homes, curtains alight with flames reaching through the broken windows. People stumbled about, screaming and crying, fear and pain predominant. The pungent odor of scalded flesh permeated the air, blending with gaseous clouds of smoke and red magic. Yet no one ran from the town.
“Evacuate!” Jarrod rode through the torment, his warhorse leaping over flailing men and women and dodging falling wood. The flames reached for him, vicious demons hungering for his death. “Leave the buildings to burn; homes can be replaced, not lives! Flee to Prillian Gyre; the stronghold will be safe!”
His bellow set reason to some, and those souls took his place in yelling and directing as he continued his dash. The distance between him and the castle diminished at a rapid rate, the terrifying sounds of death ebbing behind him and silence beckoning him forward. The billowing smoke thickened, the energy creating it infiltrating his lungs offering a distorted view of the world. Everything appeared shades of crimson in nature with only black remaining true.
He catapulted off the horse and darted through the castle entrance, slipping on the blood of two decapitated knights. Death settled in thick ooze over every surface, dripping and creating soundless splashes on congealed puddles. Bodies hung from flag poles or decorative armor, protrusions piercing their navels and holding organs on display. A maid lay over the stairs, bent in half with her entrails stretched over the rails.
Shock controlled him, weighted legs creeping through the carnage. A hand rested over his nose and mouth, blocking the stench while holding back the molten bile rising from the depths of his bowels. Body parts littered the halls, bread crumbs leading to the source. Not one departed soul held laceration from a sword wound; all had been ripped asunder at the hands of a beast. Dead eyes stared as he passed; a quiet plea for justice.
The trail of carcasses led him to the throne room where a magic battle ensued. Darius knelt with dense violet energy flowing from his outstretched hands. The field of liquid mass rose over him and the handful of servants huddled behind him against a wall. Shards of crimson magic struck his shield in even increments, exploding on contact and causing Darius to wince.
Standing in the center of the room with the red haze seeping from his flesh and the offensive energy setting his hands aglow, was Kinian. The king’s face distorted in malicious rage, flesh folded and crimped and mouth open. Bathed in blood, he threw bolt after bolt of raw magic at his son, never pausing. Irises and pupils joined to create a blackened void of insanity, the sclera red.
“Father! Stop!”
Jarrod tackled the man, rolling over the carpet. Kinian pushed from the floor while shoving him, using the dark arts to throw his son into a support beam hard enough to leave an indent. Air rushed from his lungs on impact and sharp pains assaulted him, moving from skull through the spine. Vertigo held him, the room pulsing as he fought to remain conscious. He lifted his gaze to find his father glaring in his direction, magic building in orbs before him. His father lifted his arms, and he closed his eyes awaiting death.
A clap of thunder shook the room. Jarrod opened his view of the world to see his brother standing before him with hands alight. Unlike Kinian, the magic Darius boasted radiated a soft blue light; warm and welcoming rather than cold and foreboding. Father and eldest son faced each other; one face set in stone, determination driving, and the other still holding to insanity.
Kinian threw a blast of magic, and Darius countered. The clashing energies waged war between them, forming a mass of swirling red and blue that expanded and constricted. Both men fed more power to their assault, the anomaly growing with every moment to pass. Arms shook and sweat formed on brows, yet the duel continued with a chorus of hissing.
Darius grunted and took a step back. “Jarrod, see that those people escaped the castle and then flee with her. Be wary of the few remaining possessed knights.”
Illness ebbing, Jarrod stood. “What about you? Father?”
The prince grasped his extended arm at the wrist and pushed forward, forcing Kinian back with a renewed flow of power. “I accepted my fate the day I discovered I had the forbidden arts budding in me, and I sealed it when I accepted the dark arts to prolong father’s decay.” His lip curled in a sneer. “This beast before us no longer holds the man we love. You must get her away from here, for if I fall and he gains hold of her the devastation here shall seem like a minor scrape in comparison to the evil he shall release.”
The revelation choked him. “I can’t leave you!”
“Is that the way a king speaks, knave?” Darius growled, releasing power in a blue burst that surrounded Kinian and his energy. “Run and live. I charge you with rebuilding our kingdom.”
Darius stomped and blue energy rushed Jarrod. He jumped aside and then ran when another rolled his way. The assaults continued until he reached the door and turned. Kinian bent forward, sucking in the red magic before releasing it with a bellow. The blue shield around him shattered, throwing Darius across the room. The prince jumped to his feet in time to avoid another attack, and began releasing lightning in sharp bursts.
Jarrod watched for another moment. “Please live, brother. I promise to hold to your wish, but I would rather do it alongside you.” With that said, he ran towards the west tower.
9
Jarrod’s path was paved in blood spilled by his sword. His brother’s warning regarding the possessed knights proved valuable, especially when a group of three clad in leather armor charged him. He knew each: the men, their wives, and their children. Yet their eyes glinted with the same insanity plaguing the king, and he fought them without hesitation. Their wide, embellished swings made them easy prey, and he rolled from their blades and drove his through their chests one after the other.
He sliced their necks to ensure death while murmuring silent prayers and begging for forgiveness. When he stood, the shock of his actions struck him. His heart raced and blood pulsed through his veins. Never once had he thought of the prospect of killing his people. These men were his family, and his father stole their minds and his blade their lives. He clenched his eyes shut and tried to calm, yet gained no headw
ay.
Even so, he had a task to complete. Altan would arrive in time, and Jarrod needed to flee if he hoped to hold to his promise. He ran up the stairs and fumbled for the key to the sealed room before unbarring it and bursting in.
Myraza sat before her vanity, brushing her radiant hair, oblivious to the death and torment surrounding her. She placed the brush on the dresser, turning with a smile half-formed. It froze on meeting his gaze, uncertainty holding it at bay.
He realized how frightening he must appear, but he lacked the time to explain. He moved to her and took her hand. “We have to get you out of here. Father has gone mad and three armies are breathing down our necks. You are not safe.”
She pondered his words, her lips drooping in confusion. “Everyone is safe so long as I remain in here.” Delicate fingers wiped blood from his cheek, staining them red. “Were you painting? Did you mark the walls? Is this why Kinian is mad?”
Her innocence forced a dry laugh from his flaming lungs. “Yeah, you could call it that.” He grasped her fingers again. “We need to move. We are losing time.”
Her head tilted, hair tumbling over her brow. “Time for what, Jarrod?”
Long strides and a firm grasp moved them closer to the door with him in the lead. “To leave. We must escape before—”
Myraza halted, and Jarrod