He counter-swung with the Prince’s blade, whipping it around to strike the Vocus’ torso, but his weapon jolted when it struck. Hitting a boulder would not have jarred him any less. The creature had no flesh, as if its skin had hardened into something stronger than iron. Thealos ducked a slanting cut to his throat and tried to drive his blade through it, but the tip glanced off, striking sparks, and the thing howled and whirled, and came at him again.
It would tire him. It would fight until his body could no longer sustain the Oath magic. Soon, it would happen. He had fought too many times on the way to the tunnels, invoked the Oath magic too often for his inexperience. His strength would fail and then it would kill him. It would snuff out his life, stealing his memories, his soul, to feed on until it no longer had anything to feed on.
“Shaden! I’m coming for you Shaden!”
Secrist’s voice this time, slurred and manic.
Thealos struck like a storm himself, but the blade clattered and glanced off the Vocus, its counterstrikes as quicksilver fast as his own. Sweat streaked down the tender skin of his ribs. He was a man of flesh and blood. The Vocus was a thing of shadows and taint. He could barely see its features in the darkness of the tunnels. It did not reflect light, but absorbed it. It was vaguely man-shaped, though wiry, hunched inward, layer upon layer of chitin or stone.
“You’ve always disappointed us. You always went your own way.” The mocking voice belonged to Correl. “The shame we’ve borne because of you. The worry and fear.”
It’s distracting me. The words rankled, but he could not afford to focus on them, to let them eat away his concentration. The Oath magic spun him like a wheel-top, deflecting, counterstriking, evading, ducking, parrying, striking again. But the two were evenly matched, and Thealos felt his strength lagging, his upsweeps and blocks losing their snap and precision.
A rip of cloth sounded as the dagger cut through his cloak, near his shoulder. Ticastasy screamed, but Thealos battled it back, hammering against it. He did not have the breath to spare two words for her. Run, he wanted to scream. He only hoped she had the sense to stay back away from it.
Jaerod, you were wrong. I’m not strong enough to do this. My shoulders are screaming. I can’t keep delaying this thing.
Sweat stung his eyes as he pivoted low and around, trying to knock the thing from its footing. But it failed, leaving him open to attack himself. He planted his hand and flipped backwards, barely missing the scything dagger coming down at his leg.
What about using the Crossroads again? The thought of it made him sick and he knew he would pass out if he tried it again. And what would it do to Stasy were he to disappear?
Stroke after stroke, he blocked, his strength fading. The Oath magic trembled inside him. Thoughts buzzed through his mind, errant and lulling. The Mages of Safehome could defeat a Vocus. They would simply unmake it. But Thealos was a Ravinir, not one of the Mages. Their higher magic was a different order, one that dated back to the origins of Safehome.
Another cut in his cloak reminded him that losing concentration would kill him. If only the Crimson Wolfsmen were with him. They were enough. A full quaere…ban, even Xenon! Any help. But no, he had left them to die beyond the stone barrier. How many of them were left? How many had survived?
Jaerod. You should have chosen someone stronger. You should never have chosen me. I can’t do this! Even if I survive this, how am I going to use the Silverkin? It will kill me for certain.
Maybe he had expected that. Maybe Jaerod had intended it to happen that way all along. A simple sacrifice to bring about a better good. A willing sacrifice. To take the Nine Oaths, one had to be willing. Resentment churned inside him. It had been a game from the start. The Mages had Foretellings. They knew what was going to happen. They knew it back when they sealed the Silverkin behind the warding. They knew that Thealos would be foolish enough to heed their cryptic words, to follow the lure of the Silverkin’s magic. They had known he would crave to be a Sleepwalker. They had known his parents would be killed, that no one from his family would survive.
They had…
A thought struck him like a splinter of light.
They had known he would bring about the fall of the House of Silver. Pieces jumbled and scattered in his mind, but a single thought of clarity struck. The Mages of Safehome had left a Foretelling. About him. It had stated—could he remember it?—when the Silverkin was used, it would mark the end of the House of Silver. Was that a warning not to use it? Or a whisper into the future of something that would happen. Something that Thealos would cause to happen.
Which meant that they already knew he would survive the tunnels.
They already knew it.
He clung to that hope, that chord of pure knowledge flooding into him. Jaerod had known all along. It was why he had let Thealos go it alone. He knew that Thealos would be successful, not fail. The Mages had known it for hundreds of years.
When he struck the Vocus’ side, he realized something else.