Free House of Blades (The Traveler's Gate Trilogy) by Will Wight

from midair. For a moment, nothing else happened. The cave fell into an eerie silence.
    Then the floating storm, out of Cormac’s control, exploded into a thousand screaming bolts of lightning. The fire, with nothing left to stop it, poured in a waterfall down on Cormac’s head. Lightning and fire crashed into him.
    Simon expected to hear him shriek, or scream, or call for help, but the thunderous detonation of power swallowed anything the Traveler might have said. A sound like trapped thunder rocked the cave, and a searing wind blew Simon off his feet, along with most of his fellow villagers. Only Alin and the two strange Travelers remained standing, and only barely.
    When the smoke, dust, and light cleared, no sign of Cormac remained. The ground outside the cavern was littered with abandoned spears, swords, and body parts belonging to the soldiers. Simon saw a few in the distance, still running.
    Fire still fell in an endless torrent, blackening the ground. The younger Traveler made a slashing gesture with his red-branded right hand, and the fire vanished. Then he clenched his left fist and spoke a word, and the living snow died—releasing one still-breathing Damascan soldier who stumbled uncertainly away. The snow crawled away from the cavern and back into the snowy portal, purring contentedly. One black arrow still stuck up from its otherwise-pristine back. Once it crossed the threshold of the blizzard, the portal vanished.
    When both ice and fire vanished, the new Traveler opened his eyes and blinked.
    “Uh...is everybody okay?” he asked. Orlina’s mother began to weep. Simon looked down at the corpse of his mother, bundled at his feet, and had to choke back a sob himself.
    The older woman sighed loudly and patted him on the shoulder. “You did well, Gilad. Now let me take it from here.”
    The young Traveler—Gilad—nodded, and sat down against a rock. His face showed exhaustion, but he also just looked relieved to be done with the fighting.
    The woman faced Alin, who still glowed like a sunrise. He had an arm half-raised, and light drifted up from it like luminescent smoke. “My name is Miram, and I speak for myself and my companion Gilad. We are Travelers, from the free city of Enosh. Who are you?”
    Alin’s eyes held steady on her for a moment before he spoke. “The last time I gave someone my name,” he said, “his head burst like a dropped fruit. I’m not sure you want me to answer.”
    Miram had her small silver key up in an instant. “Is that a threat?” she asked.
    Sheepishly Alin smiled, but he didn’t lower his arm. Wisps of light drifted up from his hand. “No, I’m sorry, it was a poor joke. I am Alin, son of Torin, born in Myria village inside the realm of Overlord Malachi. If you are truly from Enosh, we are not enemies.”
    Oh sweet Maker, Alin was trying to make a speech. Nurita was the only one in the village who would talk like that, and everyone knew she was too pompous by half. Alin sounded ridiculous trying it, as though his new powers made him the equal of some lord or lady from the stories. Then again, he was a Traveler now. Maybe that was how he was supposed to talk.
    Simon knelt down, adjusting his mother so she looked more comfortable. She was beyond caring, of course, but he couldn’t stand to see her like that, with her neck twisted at almost a right angle.
    He almost wept, but he had to pay attention. This was likely one of the most important exchanges he would ever witness. His mother—the one he remembered from her few lucid periods when she was both sober and sane—would have wanted him to pay attention.
    “I am Miram, Master Traveler of Tartarus,” the woman said. “This is my companion, Gilad.” Gilad looked up at the sound of his name, blinked, and gave a startled wave.
    “We will give you whatever help you need,” Miram continued, “and we are willing to transport the surviving people of Myria to Enosh for medical care and supplies. But first”—and