Thealos covered his eyes as scarlet flames jumped from the orb and rushed at Jaerod in a blast.
Again Justin intervened, bringing up his arms and sending a jolt of blue lightning at her. With a casual pass of her hand, the jagged arc deflected away, slamming into a huge cedar with a shattering crunch of splintered wood and ash.
“Go!” Jaerod yelled, swinging his tapered blade and slicing through the red curtains of flame. The polished edge cut through the magic, absorbing its heat and rush.
Thealos grabbed Justin’s arm and pulled him away, darting into the forest after the others. The Shadows Wood swallowed them in its blackness, and Thealos had to slow down as the branches cut his face and hands. He cursed under his breath, struggling through juniper bushes and over mossy slopes. Justin lagged behind, panting for breath. The Warder Shae’s robes were stained with mud and his eyes glittered with emotion.
“She is a Sorian,” Justin huffed, pausing against the slope of a tree. “And the Sleepwalker will die.”
“Don’t say that!” Thealos gasped. “Jaerod knows how to protect himself.”
Justin shook his head. “Sorians are immortal. She cannot die.”
The feeling in Thealos’ stomach deepened. He looked back the way they had come. The forest was dark, but the light from the Bandit camp was getting brighter. Already the sounds of pursuit could be heard. Their sprint had taken them far from Jaerod and the Sorian, but they had also lost the others in the darkness of the woods. He didn’t have Flent’s Drugaen vision to see well enough in the night. He rubbed his mouth, listening to the sound of the Kiran Thall whistles getting closer.
“Go with me to Avisahn,” Justin said and then coughed. “We cannot face her without the Heir.”
“And what about the others?” Thealos said, praying that Jaerod would emerge from the trees, following them. He clenched his fist. Don’t leave me alone to do this, Jaerod. I need you!
“There is nothing they can do,” Justin replied. “There is nothing any of us can do. We must go to Avisahn and warn the Heir. That is our duty. The duty we owe our people.”
Thealos shook his head. “I don’t believe that. Jaerod knew…”
“What could he know?” the Warder whispered. “He said it himself – they have fought and died against the Sorian. We need the Red Warriors here. We need the Silvan army. For the love of Shenalle, Thealos, you must believe in the Shae! If we die here, who will carry word of our failure?”
From the Bandit camp, a blinding white streak of lightning lit the night. Thunder shook the trees and dropped them both to the ground. The force of it caused dry needles to rain down throughout the woods.
“Sweet Vannier,” Thealos gasped in shock, knowing by a sick feeling of sudden emptiness that Jaerod was gone. The thin prickle of gooseflesh that had followed him since Avisahn had winked out, abandoning him.
XXVI
Dujahn had encountered a Sleepwalker once before. When he was advising the City Duke of Trivaedi years before, one had entered the palace grounds and abducted the Duke’s daughter. Dujahn was the only one who had seen the man dressed in the darkest black walking the halls at night with unselfconscious ease. His heart had stopped for fear and he did nothing, not even when he saw the Sleepwalker carrying the girl out over his shoulder, bound and trussed. He would have died. He knew it then as clearly as he knew how to breathe. If the Sleepwalker knew he had been seen, Dujahn would have been killed. He never told the City Duke of Trivaedi. He’d never told any man.
Dujahn kept to the trees, watching as Miestri faced the Sleepwalker with an air of indifference. She was the most powerful person Dujahn had ever met, but he knew the reputation of the Sleepwalkers better than most.
This one was a medium-sized human, but fast as a cat. The black clothes disguised his movements, helped him blend in with the shadows and smoke. He had a wicked-looking tapered sword and handled it like an expert swordsman. There was no denying the Sleepwalker’s abilities. Dujahn didn’t get a good look at his face – the hood prevented that – but he saw the style and graceful movements, like a bird gliding just over the ripples of a lake. Effortless. Graceful. Deadly.
The sword whipped around again, catching the tongues of red fire and snapping them off before the flames could touch him. The sword was Silvan. There was no doubt about that. The blade glowed white, as if hot from the constant blasts of the Sorian’s power, but it stayed firm and hard. Tempered steel would have shattered by now.
Miestri smiled teasingly, advancing another two steps. The Sleepwalker didn’t run from her, but he shifted his position, always keeping her in front of him.