Kathryn shifted her eyes to Mirra. “You taught me well,” she said. “Tears are for later. After you’ve killed your enemy, only then do you mourn your fallen.”
Mirra cackled at her words. “Then I’ll give you much to cry about.” She lifted the sickle high.
“No!” the horsemaster moaned.
Kathryn merely stared into Mychall’s eyes, letting him see her love.
It was such focus that alerted Kathryn to a shudder along Mirra’s raised arm. Kathryn felt something rush through the room like a gust of wind, but the air didn’t move. Still, the passage stoked the fires momentarily brighter, knocking back the ghawls.
Kathryn responded. She kicked Stoneheart, but as usual, he somehow read her intent, knowing her heart or sensing her hips tilting forward. Either way, he burst forward under her.
He leaped the edge of flames that separated her from the witch.
Mirra looked up, a cry on her lips. The sickle fell from her fingers.
Surprised now, are you?
Kathryn whipped her sword down in a savage swipe, but Mirra leaned back at the last moment. The tip of Kathryn’s sword sliced through the witch’s mouth, splitting her cheeks ear to ear as she screamed in rage. But it was not a fatal blow.
Mirra tripped back, sporting a mouth as wide as her face, blood pouring in a river down her chin and jaw. She howled and revealed the full gape of her mouth.
She lifted both arms, ready to unleash her legion upon Kathryn.
It left her belly exposed.
Mychall rose up from the floor, forgotten by the witch. He bore her sickle in hand. Using both arms, he hacked the blade through her gut.
She screamed anew, stumbling back, spilling intestine.
Kathryn had Stoneheart turned. She leaped back to the witch, but instead of attacking, she bent down and scooped Mychall one-armed up to her. He had been about to be skewered by one of the ghawls.
Not this night.
Mirra fell to her knees. She crawled to her staff, but the fire dimmed out of it. She grabbed it like a drowning man might a floating log. But the fires in it continued to die. And as the glow ebbed, the flames in the room brightened, as if a smothering smoke had lifted.
The ghawls shifted about in confusion.
Mirra rocked back, holding her staff, almost shaking it.
One last cry, and she fell back in a pool of her own blood and entrails.
Dead.
Laurelle knelt on the stone. The torch lay nearby, forgotten, still burning. She held her hands over her face. Kytt crouched over her, an arm around her shoulders. He squeezed her tight. She leaned into him.
“Come,” he said. “We must go.”
Laurelle still could not stand. She could still picture Orquell smiling through the flames as he burnt, seated on the witch’s throne. The powder over his body had spread the flame quickly, wafting hay and sweetness. Laurelle suspected she would never again enter a barn without retching.
Though the scent had been pleasant, the sight had been horrible.
His clothes had burnt, his skin had blackened, and the flames contracted his body, as if he were trying to curl in the seat to read a book.
She didn’t close her eyes.
She thought she owed him that much for his sacrifice.
But she failed at the end. The flames and heat writhed his body, twisting and consuming it. She dropped and covered her face. At that moment, she heard whispers in those last flames. Notes of gentle consolation. But she didn’t know if they were meant for her or for the tortured master.
Then came a final fluttering rush of flames, like a hundred ravens taking flight-followed by a heavy silence.
“Come,” Kytt urged. “He’s gone.”
“I know…” she moaned.
“No, I mean he’s gone. See for yourself.”
His curious words finally drew her up. She still needed his help.
Kytt lifted her.
The black column had turned solid white, along with a splash across the arched roof where flames had licked. The rest of the Boil remained glassy and dark, but the heart had been purified.
She stared into the niche, expecting to see a pile of charred bone. But it was empty. The space was the pristine white of new snow. Not even a sprinkle of ash or bone.
She reached out a hand.
“Take care,” Kytt warned.
But Laurelle knew it was safe, purified by the selfless fire. Her fingers brushed the seat. As she made contact, words rang in her head, whether some echoing trace of the master or merely her own memory.
Very good, Mistress Hothbrin…
Either way, she offered a ghost of a smile.
Then the stone underfoot began to tremble.
Kytt grabbed her and drew her away.
Stumbling with him, she glanced around her. “The Boil,” she said, picturing the black flame trapped in granite. “The naether wakes to the plug Orquell planted here. They are fighting back.”
The quaking continued, rattling the roots of Tashijan.
Laurelle and Kytt fled up the stairs. Ahead, loud crashes echoed down to them as large sections of rock struck the stairs.
“It’s all coming down!” Kytt cried out.
Kathryn felt the tower shake. She sat astride Stoneheart. Mychall hugged her back. She brandished a torch toward the few ghawls that still kept to the halls. The rest had fled in every direction, no longer guided by the will of the witch.
Mirra’s body still lay bloody on the stone.
As the shaking grew more violent, the last few ghawls lost their wills and fled, emptying the hall.
A cry sounded behind her as Horsemaster Poll was finally freed from the wall. He fell to the floor, but Bastian caught him around the waist. He regained his legs, hugging his spiked hands to his chest.
“I kin stand,” he mumbled weakly.
“Da!” Mychall slid from Stoneheart’s back. He slammed into his father, wrapping his arms around his waist.
The quaking continued. It seemed to arise from deep underground.
Tyllus must have read her concern. “We’ll get these two upstairs. You’d best see to the pickets.”
She nodded to the two knights. “Keep them safe.”
She nudged Stoneheart toward the stairs. He had refused to climb before, but whether trusting this rider or merely happy to flee the blood and horror here, he burst up the stairs now. Kathryn leaned forward, balancing her weight.
The horse clopped loudly, climbing out of darkness and into the flame-lit upper levels. The picket came into line ahead. Fire and black knights filled the stairs. A small cheer rose from them as they saw her clatter into view, astride the handsome stallion, sweated and shining in the firelight.
She dismounted by the line and left the stallion with a knight she knew was familiar with horses. She forded the picket and climbed toward the level of the fieldroom.
She met Argent as he climbed down from the line above.
“What was that shaking?” the warden asked, breathless.
Kathryn shook her head, but the quakes were already fading away. Whatever had been shaken up below was quieting back down. “I don’t know, but the witch is dead.”
“What?”
“Slain. Her legion routed and in full panic.”
