Aspect's Ascendance (The Mortal Aspects Book 3) by Quinn Thomas

Author:Quinn Thomas [Thomas, Quinn]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2024-12-03T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter 35

Micol

There were no walls along the southern perimeter of Gatham. There had never been a need. Through millennia, the treacherous mountains had proven deterrent enough to anyone considering attacking from that direction.

So when the Kayns descended upon the city, their orange uniforms reflecting the afternoon sun, they swept through like a plague. Though their numbers were less than a third of what Micol had been told they commanded – perhaps due to a deadly trip through the mountains – there were still more than enough to make short work of the Artesians, particularly after they had been softened by the Wolves.

Micol didn’t even get a chance to fight them. It had turned into a rout by the time he got close.

“Retreat!” one soldier shouted at him, bowstring bouncing as he hurried toward the black tower. Others followed in a ragged line, sprinting away from the new enemy at full speed.

I knew they couldn’t win, Micol thought. Though this is a new wrinkle. He caught glimpses of the Kayn colors from between the bodies of the retreating fighters.

“Hold!” someone shouted. “For your children and wives and mothers, hold!”

He glanced in the direction of the black castle, and saw it wasn’t only soldiers running. The streets were filling quickly with bodies; all of those who hadn’t been deemed important enough to warrant a place in the castle before, but perhaps hoped now to throw themselves upon their king’s mercy.

Madness. If I don’t kill him – here, now – his power will be Death’s. I have to deal with him and get out before the gates close. Though the thought of cold-blooded murder filled Micol’s mouth with bile, he turned in the direction of the castle.

It wasn’t long before he was overtaking others. The world moved in a blur; all the exhaustion from before was forgotten in his race to deal with the other aspect before the gate closed. In Micol’s mind, he harbored some small hope of taking care of Madness and then escaping while the retreat was still in progress. But it was a dim prospect.

The crowds grew thicker around the alabaster house of healing, forcing Micol to push his way past those who moved too slowly. He weaved around bodies, collided with a woman and the child holding her hand. All three of them fell to the ground; Micol rolled four times before coming to a stop.

“Sorry!” he called, springing back to his feet a moment after.

Then there were too many to weave through. Micol pushed his way into gaps between them, coming within view of the gate before progress slowed to a trickle. He stood tip-toed, spotted a quartet of guards using their pikes as barriers to prevent entry.

“No one’s getting through ‘fore the king!” a deep voice announced. It felt as though every set of eyes in the crowd turned back, landing on the bedraggled riders approaching them.

The crowd split reluctantly, forming a channel into which the riders could advance. The riders trotted two abreast, sporting gore-soaked tunics and broken lances.

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