Heir of Fire(191)
Oh gods. “You are the Valg,” she breathed.
The three things inside those mortal bodies smiled. “We are princes of our realm.”
“And what realm is that?” She poured her magic into the shield behind her.
The Valg prince in the center seemed to reach toward her without moving an inch. She sent a punch of flame at him, and he curled back. “A realm of eternal dark and ice and wind,” he said. “And we have been waiting a very, very long time to taste your sunshine again.”
The King of Adarlan was either more powerful than she could imagine, or the most foolish man to ever live if he thought he could control these demon princes.
Blood dripped onto her tunic from her nose. Their leader purred, “Once you let me in, girl, there shall be no more blood, or pain.”
She sent another wall of flame searing at them. “Brannon and the others beat you into oblivion once,” she said, though her lungs were burning. “We can do it again.”
Low laughter. “We were not beaten. Only contained. Until a mortal man was foolish enough to invite us back in, to use these glorious bodies.”
Were the men who had once occupied them still inside? If she cut off their heads—that torque of Wyrdstone—would the creatures vanish, or be unleashed in another form?
This was far, far worse than she had expected.
“Yes,” the leader said, taking a step toward her and sniffing. “You should fear us. And embrace us.”
“Embrace this,” she snarled, and flung a hidden dagger from her vambrace at his head.
He was so swift that it scraped his cheek rather than wedging itself between its eyes. Black blood welled and flowed; he raised a moon-white hand to examine it. “I shall enjoy devouring you from the inside out,” he said, and the darkness lunged for her again.
•
The battle was still raging inside the fortress, which was good, because it meant they hadn’t all died yet. And Celaena was still swinging Goldryn against the three Valg princes—though it grew heavier by the moment, and the shield behind her was beginning to fray. She had not had time to tunnel down into her power, or to consider rationing it.
The darkness that the Valg brought with them continued to strike the wall, so Celaena threw up shield after shield, fire flaming through her blood, her breath, her mind. She gave her magic free rein, only asking it to keep the shield behind her alive. It did so, gobbling up her reserves.
Rowan had not come back to help. But she told herself he would come, and he would help, because it was not weakness to admit she needed him, needed his help and—
Her lower back cramped, and it was all she could do to keep her grip on the legendary blade as the leader of the Valg princes swiped for her neck. No.
A muscle twinged near her spine, twisting until she had to bite down a scream as she deflected the blow. It couldn’t be a burnout. Not so soon, not after practicing so much, not—
A hole tore through the shield behind her, and the darkness slammed into the barrier, making the magic ripple and shriek. She flung a thought toward it, and as the flame patched it up, her blood began to pound.
The princes were closing in again. She growled, sending a wall of white-hot flame at them, pushing them back, back, back while she took a deep breath.
But blood came coughing out instead of air.
If she ran inside the gates, how long would the shield last before it fell to the princes and their ancient darkness? How long would any of those inside last? She didn’t dare look behind to see who was winning. It didn’t sound good. There were no cries of victory, only pain and fear.