Silverkin

Rage filled the void left by the magic of the Wolfsmen blades.

He rushed into the midst of the fleeing Bandits, hacking and scything with a leaf-blade in each hand. It was Quickfellow’s fault! He had led them into Ballinaire’s trap. Soldiers screamed and pleaded, tossing down their weapons, but Xenon had no mercy for them. What mercy had they shown? What quarter had been offered to his men? None. They deserved this Ravinjon.

The training of a lifetime firmed up in his mind, each stroke bringing a man down. It was too easy. Some tried to run from him, but he caught them, the magic of the Silvan weapons masking his pain and fatigue. Something wet sprayed in his eyes and he wiped it away, seeing the crimson streak left on his sleeve.

He did not stop, not even after he’d cleared the main tunnel entrance and the sunlight stabbed his eyes. They would kill him eventually, he knew. Better to die in honor than to be the last Wolfsman standing. Some would question his courage. Some would question that he survived alone among his men.

Better that Quickfellow should die as well.

The wasp of a thought hovered in his mind.

His vision cleared and he saw the steel-sheathed knights hedging the Bandit soldiers in their retreat. Hooves flailed, men and beasts grunted and screamed. The sickness and horrors of war meant nothing to him. He had seen it before, had seen it throughout the tunnels. There was nowhere to flee to. Standing like a statue, he paused at the mouth of the cave and watched the scene unfold, slowing to a perfect stillness—a singularity of a moment.

Then he heard it, the Silvan war trumpets sounding to the south. The Shae army had arrived at last! Glorious sounds! The humans would not be victorious alone, would not carve their scraps out of the honor the Shae alone deserved.

The magic failed him. The blazing blue of the twin blades winked out, leaving him to his natural strength. He collapsed to the ground, exhausted beyond all his training.

Yet that thought still danced in his mind.

Better that Quickfellow should die as well.



*



Flent slammed the haft of the Silvan axe into the Bandit officer’s stomach and the man crumpled and went down. He kicked his chin and then stepped over the body as he cleared his way through the tunnels beneath Landmoor. Soldiers were frantic, leaderless, terrified.

Most of the torches that once lined the walls had been seized, but he did not need them to pick out his way in the dark. The crooked floors, the aisles and crossroads—each one passed as he hurried deeper into the bowels of the city. Something had happened. Some magic had come and made everyone crazy. The shouts of the Shae army still lingered in his ears. They were coming up the hillside to storm the city. Just like the tide rising off the docks of Sol. The waves would lap over the dock rungs and submerge the pillars. Nothing could stop it.

Another cluster of cowering Bandits huddled in the dark. He did not bother with them. Thealos needed his help. And ban it, he would be there to help him! Echoes throbbed, running this way and that. He focused on the main tunnel corridor, knowing what was at the end.

The corridor ended abruptly, spiking two directions. Which way to go? He started down the one and saw the dead remains of Shae Wolfsmen and Kiran Thall. Part of his heart went cold. Those Wolfsmen were supposed to be protecting Thealos. Was he among the dead?

Voice echoes whispered from behind and he turned, recognizing Stasy’s. He mopped the sweat from his forehead and sighed with relief.

Until he heard the sharp hiss of her fear.

“What are you doing! Get away from him! Xenon!”

The Wolfsman’s voice was low and thick. “I said stop, priest! Let him die. He came here knowing this. It’s the price the magic required of him. Let it happen!”

“Don’t touch him! If you think I’m going to stand here…”

“Another word from you, human, and they’ll find you with the dead as well.”

The shaft went down about forty paces before reaching a jut of sculpted stone pillars shaped like proud alerion. Torchlight shone from within the chamber beyond, wavering and dancing.

“I’m a Zerite, Xenon. I’m not going to let him die either. Not when I can save him.”

“You are a half-breed. An abomination.” Hacking coughs sounded. “Stand aside. Or you will fall as well.”

Justin said something in Silvan, but his voice was pleading…worried.

Flent crept around the corner of the pillars, gripping the Silvan axe to his chest. In an instant, he took it all in. Justin stood near Ticastasy, holding two torches as the only light. She knelt by Thealos’ still body, which was slumped on his stomach, arms and legs at odd angles. Flent only saw the thatch of his dirty blond hair—he could not see his face. Exeres had shadows under his eyes, his clothes torn and filthy. Cuts and bruises covered his face, but he stared at Xenon coldly, a red stone clutched in his hand.