The Vocus was tiring too.
The stroke of his Silvan blade had slit into it, spilling sand-like grains instead of blood. The creature seethed, unable to strike at him. It roiled and attacked even faster. But it expended its power in a quick burst to try and kill him. It had not touched him yet. It was not a creature that could think for itself, to ration its strength. It was something with a single goal—a lonely obsession.
It was losing.
Dagger jabs came haltingly. The Vocus struggled, its wiry limbs flaking and sloughing like snake scales as Thealos struck at it again and again. The Vocus hissed. Thealos swung his weapon around and the arm holding the dagger exploded into dust and fragments. It howled, an ear-splitting moan that ran shivers up his spine. He sensed it start to crumble, to dissolve at the center.
“Please,” it whispered. A man’s voice this time. A voice he didn’t recognize. “Please kill me.”
Thealos swung the blade in an arc, snapping off its head and dissolving the Vocus into a waste of sand. The Life magic it trapped guttered out, passing away like the sigh of leaves.
He lowered his blade tip as its magic guttered out, his entire body clenched with soreness, dripping with sweat, his muscles quivering.
Ticastasy emerged from the shadows of the hall. Hesitantly, she reached for his hand. He took it and gave it a gentle squeeze.
She licked her lips. “Go, Quickfellow. Save us all. Good luck.”
He turned down the corridor leading to the Silverkin and felt the blue light of the warding beckoning him. The call of the Silverkin screeched down his spine, but he did not feel panicked by it. Peace filled him. He knew the Mages of Safehome were watching.
Thealos went down the broken corridor to seize his birthright.
Chapter XXXIII
Flent had died once before—on the blood-slicked floor of the Foxtale Inn at Sol. Back then, he knew he was dying. He knew it again. From the fiery pain in his shoulder, the numbness and heaviness of one side of his body, the loss of sound and senses—these all whispered that death had found him at last. Each agonizing swallow, each spasm, made him sink lower and lower into a feeling of helpless drowning. He knew when it happened, when part of him tugged loose from his body. It was like clinging to a rope and feeling his grip slip, slip and then skid-slide away.
Dawn crested the Shoreland moors, bringing dazzling colors of life to the wildflowers, the tall buds of long grass, and the combs of cedar trees. Vaguely, he looked down at his body, surrounded by various scorch marks from where the witch-woman had overpowered Justin.
A feeling beckoned him, a greeting that was kin to a whisper. The sun was bright that morning. Brighter than he’d remembered seeing it. So bright it stabbed his vision, which was peculiar since he was dead. Wasn’t he? The brightness haloed him, making him cringe and cover his face with an arm. How was he able to do that? The world lurched, spinning like a child’s top.
The brightness winked out and Flent found himself on his back, his arm held up protectively above him.
He blinked.
The pain in his shoulder, the burrowing worm of agony that had slowly stilled his heart, was gone. The numbness was gone. He heard voices.
“Flent?”
“He’s healed. Give him a moment to realize it.”
Flent lowered his arm, amazed that he recognized one of the voices.
“J…Jaerod?”
The Sleepwalker crouched nearby, elbows propped against his knees. His clothes were black—the colors he had always seen him wear—but the medallion against his shirt gleamed. Not just from a polish, it gleamed as if it had just been pulled from a forge fire with tongs.
Jaerod smiled, his expression crooked and pleased. “Welcome back, Drugaen. Can you stand?” He rose himself and extended a hand to help Flent up.
Strength filled his legs as he climbed to his feet, clutching Jaerod’s arm like a lifeline.
“What happened to me?”
He saw another man near Jaerod, a Shae with calm blue eyes and a hooded dark green cloak with a neat-trimmed border and tassels. He looked…familiar. One hand cupped a glassy sphere, as clear as a tide pool. His other hand gripped the haft of a war axe—its double-edge looked sharp enough to hew stones. Just staring at the weapon made part of him hungry.
“I need you to come with me, Flent,” Jaerod said. “We don’t have long. Thealos needs you. He needs you to protect him after he invokes the magic of the Silverkin.” He turned to the green-robed Shae. “How long?”
The Shae’s expression clouded. “Soon, Jaerod. I wish we had one who would call down Safehome. Then both Sorian would be defeated.”
Jaerod shook his head. “The Shae of Avisahn are rebellious still. They will not ask for our help. This is the best we can give them, though Quickfellow will suffer the worse for it. Ai killiam keneen, ravin sor torbell.”