Sky Breaker (Night Spinner Duology) Addie Thorley (best english books to read for beginners .TXT) 📖

My mind screams orders, but I can’t move because I don’t know what’s real—if Kartok truly shattered the walls and the ice cave is collapsing on top of us. Or if he was never waiting in the ice at all and this is an elaborate illusion. Are his replicas actually Zemyan soldiers? Or is he working alone but wants to create the appearance of support?

“Blazing skies!” Heat explodes from Serik’s hands in a long spiraling tube. If the ice wasn’t already collapsing, it is now. He slashes his fiery lance from side to side, slicing a barrage of advancing Kartoks straight through the middle.

None of them scream. None of them fall.

One by one, the other Kalima warriors follow Serik’s lead. Weroneka adds her heat to Serik’s. Cirina’s wind tears at the multitude of blue robes. The Snow Conjurers attempt to bury the Kartoks beneath an avalanche. Tanaz, our Hail Forger, summons sheets of stinging rain, and Enebish and Ziva toss a netting of darkness over us.

But I stand there, frozen.

The cold is ready—screaming and thrashing inside me. I can hardly see through the frost encasing my eyelashes. I can hardly move beneath the ice glazing my skin and hardening my muscles. My hands shake in front of me, poised to unleash the ice. Yet nothing comes. And I don’t know if it’s because I can’t use my power or because I won’t. If Kartok is bending my will and suppressing my ice or if I am the one holding back.

The ring of steel and painful cries of battle sound real, but no one from either side has fallen. The imitation Kartoks swing their sabers at our arms and legs, never aiming to kill. The powers of the sky rage and swirl around us—the most violent storm I’ve ever seen—but none of the Kalima’s strikes hit their target. Which is too improbable to be a coincidence. Kartok’s soldiers are either an illusion, or the Kalima’s powers are vanishing before they make contact—just like my ice did in Kartok’s prison. When he was siphoning my power. Not to use against me, but for some other purpose.

Tell me, Commander, how many disparate powers do the Kalima warriors possess?

How are they distributed?

Where will they be hidden?

His questions fire at me in quick succession, and I suddenly can’t breathe—my chest is too riddled with wounds from spear tips and daggers I failed to see coming, despite Kartok hurling them at me, plain as day.

He doesn’t need to kill my warriors or eradicate our powers to reach the First Gods.

He needs to collect our powers.

Your warriors are the link!

“Stop!” I scream. “Stop using your powers!”

The glares the Kalima throw at me are more blistering than Serik and Weroneka’s combined heat.

“Why in the skies would we do that?” Serik snaps as he forges yet another flaming saber, just to spite me.

“He’s using us! We’re giving him exactly what he wants!”

“Why would he want us to attack him?” Karwani demands.

“Because he needs our powers!” I’m speaking so fast, the words tumble and trip from my lips. “It’s the reason he tracked me here! He needs the full strength of the sky to access the realm of the gods.”

Cirina laughs. “What gods?”

“Why would we believe you?”

“You’re bound to him!”

“He’s probably whispering these lies into your ear!”

I can’t tell who’s yelling anymore. There are too many voices pelting me, silencing me. The only person who isn’t screaming is Enebish.

She’s fallen perfectly still and watches, horror stricken, as wind and lightning and snow and fog crash and swirl around the brigade of sorcerers, never inflicting a scratch. She looks down at her hands, then at me, and flings off the cover of darkness. The little Night Spinner, Ziva, tries to protest, but Enebish easily wrestles the invisible threads from the girl’s hands—as strong and determined as I’ve ever seen her.

“It’s true!” Enebish’s gaze darts from one Kalima warrior to the next, taking inventory.

“What?” Serik cries.

“He siphoned my darkness in his xanav!” Enebish yells, as if that should explain everything.

But the Zemyan term means nothing to the Kalima.

And Enebish’s word means even less than mine.

We are the last two people on the continent they would listen to.

“We’ll finish this the way we were born to!” Cirina yells, and the wind picks up, slashing my face and stinging my eyes. Bitter cold and burning heat fill the cave in equal measure as the other Ice Heralds and Sun Stokers redouble their efforts. One by one, my former warriors unleash the full fury of the sky on Kartok.

Varren, the sole surviving Rain Maker, is the only one not fighting. And not out of loyalty to me, but because he’s sprawled out on the ground, overcome with pain. His eyes are closed, his teeth are clenched, yet still he tries to raise his hand.

“Please don’t summon the rain, Varren,” I beg as I slip across the ice. “I’m telling the truth. Look! Our powers have no effect on the sorcerer!”

Varren’s eyes slit a fraction. “Ghoa?” He coughs.

“Listen to me—” I start, but he shakes his head, the bulging cords in his neck distorting his tattoos.

“No. You listen to me for once.”

“I know I should have shown you more gratitude and appreciation—”

“I chose you again and again and again,” he rasps over me. “I set aside my own ambitions because I thought eventually you’d repay the favor. Raise me up the way I raised you. But you never let me be anything but second.”

“I should have! I will! I’m just begging you to listen to me this final time.”

Varren stares at me, and I stare back. Pleading. Hoping.

“Do you remember when Lazare and Feymir said we’d never last a year in the Kalima?” I blurt. “How we coordinated our revenge without even meaning to? You summoned that mist of rain and I froze it across the pavement, and those pompous idiots slipped and tripped all the way across the Grand Courtyard.”

A hint of a wistful smile tugs Varren’s cheek.

“I almost wish they were still alive so