But the Kiran Thall kept getting back up.
Thealos started to notice it, how men he had left on the ground were back up, weapons in hand and charging again. The Everoot! How many of them were chewing on it?
One of the knights went down, a crossbow bolt charring through his armor. His life winked out and his skin decayed to black ash.
Thealos dodged a blow sweeping at his head and struck twice, three times. Six Kiran Thall stalked around him in a circle, hedging him in.
“Use the Root! Kill the Sleepwalker! Bring Ballinaire his head!”
The ring closed around him.
Thealos summoned the magic of the stones and vanished from their sight.
“What! Where’d he…?”
Thealos broke past two Kiran Thall to withdraw from the enclosing circle, but another sharp pain glanced him. Another lucky strike. Someone grabbed his cloak and tugged.
“Over here! I got him!”
Thealos let the magic fall away and counterattacked, slicing through the Kiran Thall that gripped his cloak, the black cloak that Jaerod had left covering him in Avisahn.
Fury boiled inside him. The Everoot could heal them but it would not last forever. It would shrink and shrink until there was nothing left of it to heal. With a bark of strength, he struck back, again and again, cutting and twisting around their attacks. Twice more he was hit. Three times. Blood and sweat dripped down his ribs.
The last two knights of Owen Draw rallied around him, striking with fury as the numbers of Kiran Thall shrank. Slowly, so slowly. The wounded rose again and again, fighting with just as much hatred and fury.
Worry bloomed in Thealos’ mind. It was getting harder and harder to keep the sword up. Thoughts from the wellspring grew fainter. The blur of images and techniques started to fade. The doors were shutting, blocking them away. Had he done something wrong? Something Forbidden? It took all his concentration to keep on his feet, to keep himself alive. Another cut against his leg.
The last Kiran Thall went down and a pool of blood soaked into the earth, as if the parched ground thirsted for it.
Thealos staggered backwards as the magics abandoned him completely. The prince’s sword dropped from his fingers, the searing light from it quenched. A wall of heaviness slammed on him. Fatigue…sickness…death.
The forest spun like a pinwheel.
Just before he blacked out, he heard one of the knights speak.
“It’s him. Tie him up.”
Chapter XVI
As Exeres cupped the sphere of flames in his hand, it surged with tamed power—a power with a smell that made him nauseous to his boots. Blackness stirred in his soul, spreading the taint even further. He hated the feeling of it as it twisted deeper, rooting itself like weeds to sprout up ugly in the future. He hated it, but he needed it. The magic of the orb wrapped him in shadows along the scrub-choked trail, letting him pass the final ring of Kiran Thall guarding the Iron Point Road. He entered the village of Castun and stuffed the orb back into the leather pouch tied to his waist. The reddish light winked out, but the taint lingered inside him. Its smell clung to his pores, a scent that soap would never clean.
—Very well, Exeres. Next find Miestri’s pavilion. You’ll know when you’ve found it—
The voice of Mage whispered in his mind. He was an ever-present scourge. Neither of the beings who had hold of him would let him go willingly. After seeing what Miestri had done to her last servant, the way he had died as a sacrifice to the magic orb, he did not believe he could expect more from the old man.
Half of the village had been burned to the ground. The citizenry, the smart ones, had already fled. A few of the hardier ones remained. A pall of smoke hung over the ruins, though a few shops had been spared. The two or three forges in Castun were still running, despite the fact that the sun had set hours before. Kiran Thall roved in small clusters, but the majority of the population was comprised of soldiers from the Bandit Rebellion. No bleating of sheep or lowing of cows—the animals had all been slaughtered for food. He gazed at the several shops, windows smashed in, dark and empty—soulless. Mud and offal littered the streets but the worst smell came from the taint. The air was thick with it.
Exeres adjusted the straps of his travel sack, easing the pain on his shoulders. The pace he had set from Landmoor had fatigued him. His eyes burned from the lack of sleep. Muscles and joints protested the punishment he doled out, but he could not stop. Flent and Miestri’s minion, the robed Shae, had a lead. They had probably arrived in Castun earlier in the day. If that was so, then he could expect to find Ticastasy under Miestri’s influence. The only way to determine that was to find Miestri.