Burning Up

end the bastard right there.
    He did not see the Blood Rose lift her delicate hands and send a spell blast slamming into his helmeted head.
    Blackness descended like a swinging fist.
     
    T annaz jerked free of the vampire’s dead weight and bounced to his feet, raising his sword as if to cleave his foe’s head off his shoulders.
    “Korban wants him alive!” Amaris shouted, readying a stun spell if he did not heed her.
    Her father hesitated, spat a curse, and aimed a kick at Raniero’s armored ribs instead. Panting, he gave her a smug, triumphant grin. “Well done, daughter.”
    “I was tempted to let him kill you.”
    “Vicious little harpy,” Tannaz said, almost fondly. “I shall have to teach you respect.”
    She snorted contempt. “Oh, aye—when the Red God takes up needlework.”
    Ignoring that, Tannaz looked around at the Varil. The two raiders had settled among Raniero’s fallen men to feed. Amaris refused to follow his gaze. The smell and sound of their feast was enough to make her stomach heave as it was.
    “Feh,” he spat. “They’ll not be finished any time soon. We will move on ahead. I would have this one in a cell before your spell wears off.”
    She nodded grimly and summoned the horses with a wave of her hand. The spell to bring the vampire’s black destrier under control took a bit more work, but soon the stallion was ambling along beside them, his master hanging bound and bewitched across his saddle.
    At least it was over, Amaris comforted herself. She could take Marin and go.
    If Korban kept his word . . .

TWO
    T zira Castle occupied the rocky heights of the Korban Mountain Range, named for the wizard clan that had held this stretch of the border for the last three hundred years. The clan had been good caretakers for generations, maintaining their section of the mystical barrier that protected the kingdom of Ourania from its neighbor, Zahur, land of the Varil.
    They’d known the price of failure all too well. The humans of Zahur had been hunted to the brink of extinction to feed the Varil’s vicious appetites.
    Clan Korban had accordingly built Tzira into a sprawling fortress, its black stone seeming to grow from the granite flanks of the mountain, all massive, blocky towers and curving walls, riddled with arrow slits and glowing with torch spells. Even Amaris had to admit the place had a stark kind of beauty.
    Too bad the latest Korban wizard had turned to treason.
    Amaris strode into the great hall of Tzira Castle, her belly tight with a sickening combination of eagerness and dread.
    Eagerness to see Marin again. Dread of what Korban might have done to her while Amaris was gone. If she’s dead, I will blow this castle to fractured stone and pave the road to hell.
    She would not survive the effort—Korban was too powerful—but she would make him regret his betrayal.
    Heart in her throat, Amaris stalked through the mass of cowed servants and swaggering men-at-arms toward the dais where Korban sprawled on his lord’s seat. He smirked at her as she came, probably because Tannaz strode at her heels, carrying Raniero draped over his shoulder like a slain buck.
    “Ama’is!” The little voice piped across the babble of voices in the hall, high and incredibly sweet. Her knees went weak with relief. “Ama’is!” Marin couldn’t yet manage the r in her name.
    The child raced out of the crowd as Amaris dropped to her knees and spread her arms. Dark curls flying, big green eyes wide, the little girl flew into her hug with a force that rocked her back on her heels. “Ama’is!” she gasped. “Take me home! I want to see Mama!”
    Amaris closed her eyes at the grief that stabbed her as she hugged her little sister close. Marin was too young to grasp death’s finality. “I know, love. I do, too.”
    Raniero hit the ground beside her with a thud as Tannaz dumped him from his shoulder. Her father had stripped the warrior of his armor, weapons, and clothing, leaving him naught but his breeches—and the bespelled chains that leached his strength and kept him unconscious.
    Tannaz sneered down at them, and Amaris gave him her best bloodthirsty glare in return. Marin burrowed into her shoulder, tiny body quivering. The child had watched him murder their mother but a month past, and she feared him with a black terror.
    She might not understand death, but steel and blood were clear enough.
    “Poor child.” The voice was beautiful, warm and soft as deep velvet. A big male hand