She spoke something in Silvan, a taunt. Dujahn struggled with it, trying to translate. Do you know how many of your brothers have begged me for a quick death? They wept, Sleepwalker. They wept for it. The Sleepwalker said nothing, focusing on the blade, ready to move when she attacked him again.
He’s good, Dujahn thought, clucking his tongue. A few Kiran Thall had gathered near him, keeping a safe distance. The camp was still reacting from the attackers, but the rest had gone into the forest. Dujahn had seen the two Shae slip away, but he had heard there were others. A knight, a woodsman, a Drugaen, and a woman. Strange company. Strange night.
A dazzling white flame jumped from the orb in Miestri’s hand, catching the Sleepwalker in the middle. He grunted with pain and swept the blade down, shattering the magic with the sword. Smoke burned from his chest and Dujahn’s eyes widened. Was he hit? He thought nothing could hit a Sleepwalker! He only saw the smoke drifting from the man’s chest. But as the Sleepwalker turned again, pacing in a half-circle around Miestri, Dujahn saw the smoking amulet. It had absorbed the blow. It had a strange marking – a cross set in an octagon. It matched the symbol on the pommel of his sword. Interesting…
“Must be the Sleepwalker from Castun,” one of the Kiran Thall whispered. “Ban…”
“Killed Secrist’s company, I heard,” another muttered. “Sent the rest squealing like pups.”
“Ssshhh!” Dujahn hissed, eyes intent on the battle in the edge of the woods.
The Sleepwalker and the Sorian faced off again. This time, Miestri bowed her head. Dujahn could feel the prick of magic in the air, the burnt smell of fire. The Sleepwalker tensed as red glaring flames exploded all around him. It came rushing at him from all sides like a sinkhole. The blast of heat and air singed Dujahn even at the distance and he covered his face.
“Sweet fury!”
From a cloudless night sky, a shaft of white lightning crackled down into the camp, swallowing everything in its dazzling glare. Thunder shook the trees, spilling pinecones and dead branches down. The clap knocked everyone to their knees.
Blinking quickly, Dujahn wondered in a panic if he were blind. He clenched his fists and stared at the ground until the white smear in front of his eyes cleared and he could see again. Looking up, he found Miestri standing alone, staring at a spot of scorched earth.
“She…she bloody killed him!” one of the Kiran Thall gasped.
Dujahn watched her in disbelief. But something was wrong. There was no look of triumph on her face. She stared at the smoking earth, studying it with cool fury. Dujahn stepped away from the others and advanced. The grove had been burned clean, leaving ash and soot everywhere. Only a smoldering pile of ashes in the middle showed the Sleepwalker’s last stand.
He stopped. A black sigil twice the size of a barrel lid scorched the earth where the Sleepwalker had stood. It was the same mark – an offset cross set into an octagon. The air smelled sharp and sour.
Miestri sniffed at the wind and leaned forward, studying the mark. Dujahn scratched his head and watched her. Her smooth pale skin was soft in the dim firelight, and her eyes were thoughtful and intrigued. She prodded the black ash with the toe of her padded slipper. Closing her eyes, she inhaled a long deep breath through her nose. She opened her hand, revealing the orb. It gave off that strange reddish light that continued to haunt Dujahn. “Tell them to stand back,” she said. The colors in the orb began to weave and convulse.
Dujahn swallowed, taking a short step back. “Back!” he said in a sharp voice. “Get back!”
The soldiers who watched were already abandoning the grove like waters receding after a rock is dropped in a pond. Dujahn couldn’t move. He stared at the sphere, drawn like a moth. The reddish light made the ground dim and hazy, like an early morning fog out at sea. Miestri’s hand tightened about the sphere, the tendons in her hand growing hard.
In an instant, the Sleepwalker stood before them, gripping his blade furiously, swarming red flames all around him. Dujahn felt the heat of the flames, felt the magic rush through his body as it attacked the Sleepwalker. He tried to cough and scream, but the flames didn’t burn. It was only an illusion. Miestri’s eyes grew hard and intense. The images slowed as if in a stupor. The flames looked like jagged knives, the colors slow and torpid. Everything seemed to happen like a slow, steady breath. Dujahn blinked with wonderment. He was watching it all over again.
Just as the flames reached the Sleepwalker, there was a burst of light, blood red and horrible. Shielding his face, Dujahn struggled to see through the glow, and then he saw the Sleepwalker move. Gripping his medallion, he stepped through a tear in the lightning and was gone.
“Interesting,” Miestri murmured.
The crimson hue vanished as she tucked the orb back within the folds of her robes. The magic fire and lightning disappeared, swallowed by the sphere. Dujahn turned to her. She laughed softly at him. All of his training, all the diplomacy and composure he was taught was rendered mute by the Sorian. He gaped at her, seeing the orange light still flickering in her eyes.