Silverkin

“I said stand aside,” Xenon hissed.

The Wolfsman sagged against the inner wall of the chamber, two Silvan swords in his hands. Flent noticed the bloodied footprints for the first time.

“No,” Exeres said.

“No,” Ticastasy said.

Xenon pushed away from the wall.

“He must die. He’s supposed to die.”

Ticastasy brought up her knife.

Flent felt the urge to whirl the axe at Xenon’s back. To loose the magic that would destroy him utterly. But he stanched that urge. He wasn’t supposed to use it like that, not against a person.

“Let him die,” Xenon pleaded. Then he straightened. “So be it then. It is Ravinjon.”

Flent was close enough now. He saw Exeres’ little nod.

He hit Xenon with the haft of his axe as hard as he could.

The Wolfsman tottered on his feet, dropping both blades. Sagging to his knees, he clutched the back of his head. He turned, saw Flent, and pitched forward, trying to grab one of his fallen weapons.

Flent stared down at him as his eyes clouded over. “No.”

The smile Stasy gave him reminded him of all those years in Sol. “Ban it, girl, you’re the filthiest thing I’ve ever seen. Hello, Exeres. Justin. How’s Thealos faring?”

He stepped around and looked at Thealos’ face.

His heart stopped.

“By the gods,” he whispered.



*



Tsyrke Phollen was a dead man. He could hear the sound of it keening through the tunnels. Mage’s weight against him had them both hobbled. But the old man could hardly walk, his face as gray and milky as the Shoreland fog. His breath came in deep wheezes.

“Banned way to die, Mage.” He adjusted his grip, surprised the old man’s bones weighed as much as they did. “Banned way to die.”

Mage said nothing, saving each breath to make his next step.

“I guess it was bound to happen eventually,” Tsyrke went on. “The Wolfsmen are starting the banned Ravinjon. They’ll kill every last one of us. Every last soldier. Every last cook. Everyone who was part of the Rebellion.”

He remembered the stories of how his grandfather had died, his army trapped and killed to the last man. It was the way of the Shae. When they declared a Ravinjon, they killed everyone. Even the women and children of the soldiers. Ruthless, yes. But it was part of their teachings. To stamp out every last ember of rebellion and revolt. Tsyrke’s grandfather had been hacked down by a quaere of Crimson Wolfsmen and then strung up on a rope and hung for others to see. Had he been there, even as a babe, he would have been killed as well.

When the Shae threatened a Ravinjon, it meant their patience had run out at last. No more bartering or negotiating. No more offers to a Pax. It was their final consequence, their last resort.

That’s why he knew he was a dead man.

Where could they run? The cloaks Mage had prepared for them to escape with would be gone, banished by the Silvan magic that had stripped Mage of all his powers. He no longer had the Bloodstone, the Druid magic, that would have still worked instead. No, they were stripped of all their tricks and defenses. The Shae would be reaching the city by now. The knights as well. They already knew about the tunnels and their army would be watching for the desperate Bandit soldiers trying to escape certain death.

“It’s been a good fight,” he said. “You’ve been a friend through it all. Wish I could have taken her with me away from this place. Wish it could have ended some other way.” He was talking to himself, his failures looming before him like mountains. Was this pointless giddiness how his grandfather had felt before he died? “Ban it. Wish it could have ended differently.”

He heard voices behind him in the tunnels. Shae voices? It sounded like it.

“Sooner than I thought,” he muttered. “Well, old friend. I guess that barter who sold me the homestead in Ishtol found himself a rich deal. He can sell it twice now. Banned pity. She would have loved it. It had such a good view of the mountains.”

Talking to say something. To say anything. How many more breaths did he have left? How many would he kill before they brought him down?

A feeling shuddered down his back and a cold pit opened up in his stomach.

“Hold here,” he whispered to Mage and leaned him against the wall. The Sorian’s eyes were glazed. Stunned—he was too stunned still to even speak. He had been like that since Tsyrke found him collapsed on the tunnel floor, wheezing.

Tsyrke drew his blade from his shoulder scabbard. He gripped the hilt with both hands, listening, feeling for his enemy. Not without a fight. Not without a heavy cost.

A light shone from the tunnel ahead of them. Two people stood in the light.

Mage looked up sharply, his eyes blazing with panic.

“Safehome…” he said in a choking voice.