“I think I should limp,” Hettie murmured, suddenly clutching Tyrus’s arm and feigning injury. Her heart was pounding with fear at their exposed position. The calls from the Weir were drawing closer and she knew it would not be long before they bounded after them from the screen of trees.
“Good thinking,” Tyrus said, fidgeting with his collar. She noticed a small strand of leather around his neck and he freed it, withdrawing a small leather pouch, very small and slender, as if it contained a single leaf.
“What is that pouch?” she asked, seeing him free it but letting it dangle over his shirt. “More Paracelsus magic?”
The sky seemed to be boiling, the clouds coming down like a blacksmith’s hammer on an awaiting anvil. How fitting a storm was threatening to break on such a moment as this. The wind whipped up, blowing her hair in front of her face, and she brushed it back.
“Not magic,” Tyrus replied.
“What is it then?” she asked, always curious, not willing to let him be evasive in such a moment. She saw the Tay al-Ard in his left hand, gripped tightly. The veins on his fingers were pronounced. He exuded a calm self-assurance, but she could see the tension in the crinkled skin around his eyes. He stared up at the massive bulwark with defiance.
“Romani poison. Monkshood.”
Her heart went cold at the words. “Why?” she gasped.
He refused to look at her. “If this ends badly, Hettie, I’m determined it will end. I told Annon earlier that I was willing to sacrifice my mind to succeed. What I did not tell him was that I had no intention of spending the rest of my days insane. I picked a poison that would kill me relatively quickly, but allow me to do some damage to them first. I make this sacrifice willingly, Hettie. Your mother spared my life so that I could save you. Allow me, after all these years, to do what I can to save yours.”
Her throat became thick. “Do you think we’ll fail?”
He stared ahead at the promontory. “I didn’t come here to succeed. I came here so that Phae would.”
They were halfway to the promontory, two figures in the midst of a broken clearing. Hettie’s heart raced with dread and anticipation. She looked up again, seeing the small figures of soldiers lined up along the fragments of the battlement walls. Some held spears and others had long bows. A few carried torches.
Tyrus put his arm around Hettie’s shoulder and stopped, staring up. Were they in range of the archers? Probably. None of them had raised their bows to fire yet and no one had shouted a challenge down at them either.
Tyrus stooped slightly, and then lifted up his chin. He called out in a clear, firm voice. “I am Tyrus of Kenatos and this is my daughter. We surrender!”
There was a ripple of murmurs from the crest of the promontory.
Hettie saw the Weir emerge from the ring of trees, at least forty, if not more, stalking toward them, hides bristling. She felt a shiver go through her. Pyricanthas. Sericanthas. Thas.
“We surrender!” Tyrus yelled. “Is there a healer? My daughter is injured!”
Hettie felt her mouth go hot, watching the baleful glares of the Weir as they padded forward, their hides vanishing before reappearing moments later, much closer. Strange dust glittered from them as they moved, paused, moved again, bearing down on them and increasing speed.
From the cluster of soldiers emerged a black-garbed Rike with pale hair. “I am Lukias,” he shouted down at them from the top of the promontory. “And I am ordered to watch you both die.”
Annon’s muscles burned as they ran. As each oak tree whipped by, he stared at it, trying to find the telltale description the Dryad had given him. With the storm clouds, it seemed that night was falling even earlier and he was afraid they would run right past it in the twilight. He was worried sick about Hettie and felt the danger and threat rise in a suffocating tide. Even though she was with Tyrus, he feared for her. He had pushed himself beyond his normal limits, and each step made his joints ache and brought a numbing fatigue.
Snarls from the Weir came from behind as the first of the beasts overtook them.
Annon whirled and raised his fists, repeating the Vaettir words in his mind and unleashing a blast of fire, turning the beast into ash. His heart went giddy with excitement at the power, and he felt the desire to let it loose throughout the woods, to consume the ancient forest in a blaze of triumphant glory. Another Weir launched at him from the left and he managed to sidestep it. Shion stabbed the beast as soon as it landed, plunging his daggers into its neck with perfect accuracy.
A third hissed in fury and raced toward them, bounding at Prince Aran, who met its charge as an immovable stone. The two collided and the Prince was scored by the Weir’s claws but managed to strike its eyes himself, viciously blinding the feline with his hooked fingers. The beast wailed in pain and attacked in a frenzy but was put to death by Shion’s blades in an instant.