There was the sound of wild crashing in the woods. The Fear Liath was charging at him, undoubtedly aware that its defense was failing. Panic strained at Annon’s nerves. He wanted to hurl the stone and run for his life, but he battled down his fear and increased the heat and pressure. Slits began to form. Orange flames engulfed the rock, surrounding it like a living orb, but the flame was not hot enough yet. Annon drew deeper into his power, feeling the urge and craving for it grow with wildness inside his heart.
Cockatrice suddenly plummeted around him, landing on his back and shoulders, slashing him with their hooked claws. He felt their beaks stabbing at his head, and he knew the pain and the itching would drive him insane if the fireblood didn’t madden him first. He screamed in torment, sinking to his knees while clutching the rock to his stomach and filling it with fire.
“Annon, destroy it!” Tyrus roared.
The Fear Liath crashed into the grove, snarling with fury. Annon could not see it, but he felt the monster’s awful presence, its insatiable hunger. In a strange moment of sudden calm, he understood the beast’s nature. It fed on terror, literally. It was a cruel spirit that tormented its victims with shadows and roars before rising up terribly with claws and snout to eat them alive, creating a feast of fear that only sated its hunger a short while. Some of its victims it dragged back to its lair, where it nursed their fear with helplessness and misery, preying upon those terrible emotions.
The insight was quick, horrifying. But Annon understood its nature now.
Annon clutched the stone to his stomach, no longer having any feeling in his blackened hands. He drew deeper inside himself, using the fireblood to quench his fear. His grief at losing Nizeera and Neodesha was snuffed out. His rage at the Arch-Rike was extinguished. Calmness and peace flooded his heart.
The rock exploded inside his crippled hands. Burning chunks crumbled around his boots, snapping and hissing into the detritus of leaves. The blast sent the Cockatrice flapping again into the trees in full retreat.
Annon turned to face the monster as the Fear Liath’s claws raked across his cheek, whipping him aside and toppling him. He still clutched a smoking fragment of rock in his hand. The pain in his face was horrible, but he was not afraid. Not afraid of dying. Not afraid of anything. He tried to sit up, to stare at the ravaged eye sockets of the Fear Liath, to face his death with courage and defiance. As he blinked through the pain, he saw the mist was receding away from the woods, draining like a ruptured sack.
The Fear Liath snarled at him, its breath too hideous to endure, and then it loped away into the woods, fleeing for the darkness of its lair.
“Kill it, Kiranrao!” Tyrus shouted. “It is vulnerable to you now. Kill it!”
“I know it’s vulnerable,” the Romani said. “I sensed it the moment the rock burst.”
“This is the chance to be rid of it. It will hunt us again at night and finish the destruction it started.”
“No.”
Annon, face burning with pain, struggled to his feet. The finality in Kiranrao’s voice was startling.
“You can’t take the Tay al-Ard from me,” Tyrus said. “Even if you stole it, I would get it back. You are trapped here with us until we finish the task we came here to finish.”
“I’m not your puppet! I dance to no man’s strings. Give me the Tay al-Ard!”
“I am not as defenseless as you imagine.”
Kiranrao snorted. “Hand it over, or I will end your foolish quest right now.”
Prince Aran appeared from the woods, his face haggard with grief. “It is over. Phae’s dead, Tyrus. Shion’s with the body. She’s dead!”
Annon dropped the smoking rock, seeing the pain in Tyrus’s eyes. He looked as if a dagger had been plunged into his stomach.
A single deep, full breath swelled Paedrin’s chest and he opened his eyes again as his body began to rise off the forest floor. The soothing, peaceful warmth permeated his entire frame. The pain in his belly was gone, even though his robes were stained with blood.
Tears of relief streamed down Hettie’s face as she embraced him, burying her face against his chest. He pulled her tightly to him, savoring the feelings and sensations that still coiled around him.
“Thank you, Khiara,” Hettie whispered, her voice choked. “Oh, thank you! Thank you!” She released Paedrin and grabbed the Shaliah’s hand, squeezing it tightly.
Khiara looked ashen, but she acknowledged the gratitude. She rose to her feet, swaying slightly when Prince Aran appeared with the dreadful news.
Khiara’s eyes flashed with dread and she sprinted away, rushing in the direction that Phae had fled earlier.
Paedrin quickly made it to his feet, pulling Hettie up with him, and grabbed his fallen blade. He looked at Kiranrao with defiance, wondering what he would do after hearing the news.
“Dead?” Kiranrao said, his face twisted with surprise.
“I watched the Fear Liath sniff her corpse,” the Prince said, his expression hardening from sorrow to fury. “Tyrus, there is no point in going on! She was the key to this.”
“Khiara can revive her,” Tyrus said, his voice choked. He marched after the Shaliah.
“She cannot bring back the dead!” Aran said flatly. “She cannot do that keramat.”