“You white-eyed craven…!” Flent roared, tackling the Krag from behind. The two rolled in the carpet of dead needles, thrashing and fighting. Flent was young and strong, but the armored Krag was a trained warrior. He flipped the stocky Flent over his shoulder and dropped heavily on the ground.
Thealos grabbed his blade with his left hand, felt the Silvan magic rush to fill the void it had left. He struggled against the surge of power, tried to tame it and control it, to feed it with his need. The blade burned with blue fire, invoking a rage and hatred Thealos had never felt before. But that was dangerous – he had learned it with Tannon’s Band. Giving in to the anger made him careless. The Krag wouldn’t be brought down easily. He had to remember that. Thealos’s stomach still hurt, but the pain was washing away beneath the waves of surging power.
Thealos wiped his eyes and blinked, then nearly shouted out a warning as he saw Ticastasy sneaking up behind the Krag with her knife.
The Krag slammed Flent’s face down into the ground. Then he withdrew, wheeling on the girl. She looked frightened but kept a firm hold on her dagger. Gripping the blood-smeared blade, he stalked her, shifting the weapon from hand to hand. He swiped at her twice, but she managed to dodge it, luring the warrior away from Flent.
“Leave him alone,” she warned, her voice trembling.
Thealos staggered forward, clutching his stomach. Blood dripped from his wrist. Abruptly, from beyond the firelight, he heard the clatter and crunch of hooves in the forest. Sweet Vannier, no! Not the Kiran Thall. Not now. He gazed off into the dark woods. How much time did he have? Glancing back at Ticastasy, he hesitated. Flent was unconscious, his face a mess of blood and scratches. He would not be able to help. But Thealos had other magic. Magic the Krag didn’t have. Reaching into his vest, he withdrew the sack of Everoot and untied it. He snapped off a stub of the plant and chewed it, feeling the rush of relief as it healed him. It was a different feeling this time, adding a rawness that thrilled him. He knew the Krag wouldn’t be able to hurt him now, not with the taste of the Everoot in his mouth. He straightened, feeling his energy return. The cut in his wrist vanished, and he switched the blade to his other hand.
Ticastasy shifted her grip on the knife. She watched the Krag as Thealos drew up behind him. She gave him a quick glance and a deft nod.
“You’re a little short for her kind,” Thealos said, calling the Krag after him. “I haven’t finished with you yet, Krag.”
The warrior turned and glared at him. He said nothing but started towards Thealos again.
Thealos tightened his grip on the blade. He felt strong and alive. “You don’t wish to discuss terms first?” He saw her heft the dagger, ready to throw it. The Krag stalked closer. Thealos nodded back.
Ticastasy threw her dagger at the Drugaen’s head.
The Krag reacted instantly, raising his arm to deflect the blow. The dagger struck off the arm bracer, spinning into the trees. In that moment, Thealos attacked him from behind. He felt the power of a Crimson Wolfsman. The tip of Jade-Shayler’s blade screeched against metal, slicing through the steel with twisting shrieks of blue magic. The Krag’s chest exploded in a spurt of fire and scorched steel. Thealos clamped his arm around the Krag’s throat and drove the blade in up to the hilt, feeling the Silvan magic overwhelm the Forbidden, crushing its spark and power. Smoke chafed from the wound and the Krag sunk low, twitching with agony before dropping dead at Thealos’ feet.
The horse hooves came at a low ride, snapping through the twigs and fallen branches. Thealos motioned for Ticastasy to get behind him as he prepared to stand against the intruders. He was confident he could take them all now. Firelight glinted off the polished armor as a huge roan lumbered into the camp. A knight, not a Kiran Thall. Ticastasy breathed in quick gulps and sighed with relief.
“It’s Sturnin Goff,” she said. “Thank the stars. I thought Secrist had found us.”
The knight reined in and shed the stirrups, landing with a jangle of spurs and armor. Thealos stared at the Wolfsman blade in his hand. The metal was clean of blood, glimmering a blue shade in the darkness.
From the saddle harness, the knight unslung a heavy double-handed sword. “Where’s the Sleepwalker?”
Thealos studied his face. “What do you want?”
“Don’t fuss with me, lad,” he snapped. “The Krag never travel alone. Kick out the fire. Quickly, just do it!”
Thealos stared at the knight. “Who are…?”
“We don’t have time to argue about this, lad. Killing a Krag is a foolhardy thing to do. Now put out the fire. The others will be close behind.”
Thealos’ confidence in himself guttered out. There were more? He listened, then obeyed, throwing a handful of sapple dust to quickly snuff out the flames. He kicked in the ashes quickly, and closed the stones over the embers. Darkness washed over the camp. The whispers of the forest were haunting. He tried to sense more Forbidden magic, but the Krag’s weapon gave off such a stench he could not smell past it.