– You can’t fight me off, Exeres. You let me inside too deeply. You are doing what you’ve always wanted. To kill a Sorian. He’ll kill you. If you waver for an instant, if you stop your attack for a moment, he will crush you. This is your chance. Kill him–
Tears burned in Exeres’ eyes. Hatred surged inside him, but it was an unnatural hatred. An insane hatred. It bubbled inside him, driven with a single focus—a single command. Kill him. He felt his reason, his own sense of self, wavering. He tried to cling to the thin thread.
The Bloodstone hurtled wave after wave against the Sorian. He screamed as the Firekin flashed brighter than the sun, engulfing the old man in a pillar of hungry flames that spread out away from him, like circles from a stone striking a pond.
The Bloodstone shielded him from the blast, though he felt his cheeks and hands singed by it.
Mage’s voice withered with strain. “Don’t make me kill you, boy.”
Justin’s voice echoed from the courtyard walls. “You cannot escape, old man. If you surrender your orb, I will let you live. Powerless, yes. But at least you will live. I will give you that much, as my brother of old.” His voice sounded feminine, convincing. “Or I will destroy you, brother. You cannot defeat them both.”
“You have so much left to learn, little one,” Mage said, coughing.
Something heavy struck the courtyard. Then another jolt. Exeres wobbled to keep standing as the third terrible impact broke the street, smashing through the cobbles and stones, toppling another building. A dark crater opened up in the street and Mage jumped inside it, into the tunnels below the city.
A concussive shock threw them to the ground as the fissure closed again.
A jagged brick landed on Exeres’ hand, crushing the bones. Before he could scream, two buildings sighed together and the stone arch broke apart, crumbling atop him.
*
The sweet murmur of Silvan magic hummed from beneath the door and Thealos stopped, tightening his grip on Ticastasy’s hand.
“In there,” Thealos said, tugging her after him.
The chorus of a dozen Wolfsman blades swelled to a howl as he approached, the magic sensing him as much as he sensed it. He paused at the door, feeling uneasy. The wellspring murmured in his mind. A warding protected the door as well as a lock. The lock would only work when the warding was released.
“What should we do?” Stasy whispered, watching the corridor for soldiers. She looked back. “Want me to try and pick it?”
Thealos shook his head. “Not enough time.” A battle raged in the city above. Not of soldiers but of Forbidden magic. He had to get to the Silverkin. Yet he knew that they would encounter soldiers along the way. Without weapons, without the Wolfsmen, he would drain himself relying on the Oath magic. He needed a sword.
Drawing in a deep breath, he focused the power of the magic on the lock. Taking a step back, he then kicked the lock as hard as he could. The oak door splintered on its hinges and broke open. The warding hissed and popped, filling the air with the stench of cinders. The Sorian would know that it had been breached. But he dared not try walking the Crossroads again. Not so soon. The queasiness still hadn’t left him.
“Sweet Achrolese,” Stasy said, giving him a look that said she was impressed. She entered past him into the small cellar while he massaged the pain from his knee.
Bending over a chest, she unclasped the lid lock and opened it.
Blue light glowed dazzlingly from the bed of short swords, each sheathed and shimmering, along with the tapered long sword that belonged to Laisha’s brother. She hefted the blade and handed it to him, and he slipped his arm through the sheath strap, feeling the comfort of its weight against his side. He ran his thumb across the pommel grooves, sensing the magic caged there.
“What should I do with these? Oh, I can wrap them in a cloak. Give me a moment.”
Thealos felt the presence of soldiers enter the hall beyond, the Oath magic alerting him to their arrival.
“Hurry, Stasy.”
He slipped back into the corridor inlet, wondering if the soldiers would pass. His vision clouded over and he blinked furiously to clear it. Stomach roiling, he clenched his teeth and waited.
Four soldiers turned the corner and startled when they saw him.
The Oath magic carried him forward—it was pure reflex, a nudge and shove before a boulder tumbles down the side of a hill uncontrollably. He struck fast and hard, staggering the first two with blows to the gut before grabbing the third and hurtling him face first into the floor. The fourth let out a cry for help, but Thealos knifed the edge of his hand into the man’s throat, choking off the blurting sound. He followed through with a blow to the man’s temple.