“But you don’t understand the nature of your enemies. It’s not just Ballinaire.”
“And how would you know that?”
How to make Xenon believe him? How to make him understand about the Sorian?
Thealos saw Xenon’s leaf-blade sheathed at his side and he thought of a way to make the Wolfsman understand.
With a Sleepwalker’s reflexes, he stepped in and grabbed the hilt of Xenon’s blade. The Silvan magic burst alive and sung in the afternoon air, sending shocks of pleasure up Thealos’ arm. Xenon’s eyes went wild and angry, and he snatched at Thealos’ wrist to break his hold, but Thealos grabbed his hand with his other instead and clamped it to the pommel. The magic swirled between them, locking them both in a brief instant.
The other Wolfsmen drew their blades, the edges gleaming with blue fire.
Thealos knew how the blade’s magic worked. He understood its order and its functioning. It allowed a Crimson Wolfsman to channel memories and sight to his brothers, but only within a close distance. He had experienced its communal magic in the streets of Sol. The wellspring filled in the rest.
Thealos focused the Oath magic and maintained his grip on the blade, feeding it with his memory of Mage, the scent of death and wretchedness that surrounded all the Sorian, and how it had blasted Jade Shayler’s blade into oblivion and tossed Justin into the wall with hardly more than a glance.
“Enough!”
He fed them memories of the night they had run through the Bandit camp and how Jaerod had faced off against Miestri, how her magic had overcome him while they ran. He willed back every drop of fear and loathing he had experienced in their presence, the sense of shame that the fear brought with it, the paralyzing weakness of it all. Staring right into Xenon’s eyes, he gave over the memory of Sturnin’s death as the Deathbane dagger plunged into his stomach. The howl of pain as he died.
“That’s enough!”
Thealos gritted his teeth, his muscles bulging with the strain as he kept control of Xenon’s arm, squeezing it so tightly his own fingers ached. He gave them the vision of the massacre he had seen not long ago—the battered hulls of armor, disintegrating from the effects of Deathbane-tipped bolts. The stench of its poison, the danger of its dust, all these images he willed back into his mind with perfect clarity and fed it through the leaf-blade sword.
He let go of the hilt, knowing that Xenon would beat him again.
“How many Shae must die, Xenon?” he whispered, his voice slicing through the air like a breeze. He did not look at the faces of the other Wolfsmen to see their reactions. He had seen himself through their eyes already. “How many of your brothers are you willing to lose? The magic of the Crimson Wolfsmen will not save our people. You cannot save us. How many more must die before you realize that?”
Xenon shoved him, his face contorting as the images they had shared worked their way through his mind. “Do not blame me for the death of your family, boy. These things…these memories…they are because of you! By Keasorn! What have you unleashed in this valley? What has the…”
“No,” Thealos said, stepping towards him. “I do not blame you for what happened to my family, Xenon. You tried to outrun a creature that is faster than the wind. Even if you knew where it was going, you would have lost many of your quaeres if not all fighting it. My family is dead, and I cannot bring them back, not even with a trunkful of Everoot.” Sadness welled up inside him. Tears pricked his eyes. “But maybe they died so that your quaere could live. Maybe you lived so you could protect me while I go back to Landmoor. There is a magic there greater than all of your blades. Greater than a Sleepwalker’s power. Greater than the power of our enemies.”
“I trust in the Shae army. I trust in our people!”
“The Shae army cannot save us, Xenon. This sickness…this disease destroyed Sol-don-Orai. The Shae were powerless to stop it then. But we are not powerless now. Help me get back into Landmoor! Protect me so I can get the Silverkin.” It was close. It was very close. He saw the struggle in Xenon’s eyes.
He pitched his voice low. “It is the only thing that can save us. Would you rather they helped me?” He nodded towards Ticastasy and Flent. “Would you rather they be the only ones who save the Shae? The catacombs beneath the city are treacherous. I’ll need your wisdom and experience down there. I need you, Xenon! Help me!”
The Wolfsman reached and clenched his fist in Thealos’ shirt. “You are not prepared to lead this.”
“Then you lead. I will follow you.”
“How can I trust that, boy? You’ve defied me at every turn.”
“I won’t if we share the same cause. I came to the Shoreland to help. I came because the magic of the Silverkin called to me…even from Avisahn. It is powerful, Xenon. It is ancient magic. Silvan magic. Let me share with you what I’ve seen of the tunnels. Let me show you the path to the lair of the magic.”