“Someone I thought was very special to me.” She pursed her lips. “He was supposed to see me last week, but never came to port. I’ve thought about taking it to a goldsmith to melt down and turned into earrings instead.” She shrugged and huffed. “Maybe I’m not as important to him after all.”
“He’s a fool then.”
“You think so?” she replied. She sidled up a little closer. Her fingers grazed his. She scooped the pendant down her shirt again and shook her head. “You surprise me, Quickfellow. Most of the Shae I’ve met aren’t nearly as well-mannered. I appreciate your kindness in looking after us.”
The blade of Jade-Shayler flared awake at his hip. Tingles of Silvan magic sent a warning thrust of heat through his body. Then he smelled it, seeping into the small camp, coiling in the air like smoke. Not from their campfire. The smell was strong. Forbidden magic. He knew it instinctively.
“Something is wrong,” he warned, putting his hand on her shoulder as he rolled into a defensive crouch. He slid the blade from his belt and felt it lick at his hand hungrily. He began to draw its magic inside him, preparing himself.
“What is it?” she whispered, staying perfectly still.
“I don’t know,” he replied in a low voice, trying to get a sense of how close the danger was. He could feel it, thick and alive. And coming closer. He turned around and scanned the treeline. Not there.
Looking over the serving girl’s shoulder, Thealos saw a dark-armored Drugaen just outside the full light of the campfire.
XVII
There was no battle cry or hiss of warning, just ice-white eyes. A Drugaen warrior stood in the shadows, clenching a tapered short sword marked with strange runes. The slender blade glinted in the firelight, and the chill of Forbidden magic swept over the grove. His eyebrows twitched with fury and an unmistakable expression of hate contorted his mouth. He came at Flent and raised the weapon up to kill.
Thealos sprang forward. He whipped his Silvan blade around, the magic sending shocks of fire up his arm. The armored warrior was different than any Thealos had seen, but he had heard similar descriptions coming from frightened barters out of the Ravenstone. The warrior had pale eyes, a soot-colored beard, and slender eyebrows. His armor was the highest quality steel, sculpted with designs of twisting vines and skulls. A huge buckle made of white gold was emblazoned with an upside-down oak leaf.
The weapons sparked and jolted as they clashed, arcing with power and magic. Forbidden met Silvan. Thealos felt his arm go numb with the shock of power, and the stench of the offending magic burned in his nose. The Drugaen reeked of it.
With reflexes of a trained warrior, the dark Drugaen stepped in and backhanded Thealos with a gauntleted fist. The short sword whipped around and would have sliced him open from navel to throat, but the magic of the Silvan weapon saved him again. Flickering memories from a Crimson Wolfsman’s life swarmed in Thealos’ mind. The Drugaen hammered on him ruthlessly, the white eyes deadly and hateful. Thealos held him off, dazed by the quickness and ferocity of the attack. The fleeting images of the dead Wolfsman overpowered what he knew about sword-fighting, but it was just enough to parry the blows. Even with the magic, he was outmatched – and he knew it. Backing away, he nearly stumbled in the wooded glen. He saw Flent rise up behind his attacker.
The Sheven-Ingen axe bit into the Drugaen’s armor from behind. Thealos ducked to the side, trying to save his own life. The Drugaen shrugged off Flent’s blow and wheeled around to face him. He snorted, grinning with loathing and hate, and lunged forward with the dark magic. The short sword spit sparks as it slashed and glanced off the axe. Flent held his ground, using the flat of the blade to parry the attacker’s strokes. He swept at the armored foe’s neck twice but missed as his opponent ducked the blow and countered.
Thealos had a clear shot at the warrior’s back. He saw that Flent’s axe had split the armor open, leaving a black mesh of tangled mail. The armored Drugaen seemed to sense Thealos’ approach and whirled on him, keeping both men back. Thealos swore under his breath. A Krag Drugaen from the deep Ravenstone. They were the enemies of the Shae and the Drugaen Nation. What in Vannier’s name was he doing this far south? They never left the mountains – at least, not that he’d heard of.
The Krag feinted with a sword thrust and then kicked Thealos in the stomach. The air rushed out of Thealos’ lungs with the force of the steel-shod boot. He couldn’t breathe. The Krag slashed his wrist and the Wolfsman blade thumped to the ground, the magic abandoning him as soon as it left his touch. Pain and nausea smothered him and he crumpled, grabbing frantically for his weapon.