“And?” Valor asked hesitantly.
“War was the only one that came right out and said what he wanted. War tried to help me, and conflict is coming regardless.” Jala paused as she tugged the coat on and met Valor’s eyes once more. “He says that the Avanti will come for us and our only choice will be fight or surrender. I’d rather die than surrender to an Avanti, Valor. We could, of course, flee back to the city but that doesn’t save us from what’s coming. I think this whole world will feel the breath of war before this is over.” Valor nodded slowly, his gaze moving to the Bendazzi who was sitting up and stretching his powerful muscles. Looking back to her he nodded once more. “Did they have Bendazzi in Merro before its fall?” he asked.
Jala shook her head and glanced at Marrow then back to Valor. “I think the climate was too warm for them here. Merro rarely gets much snow in winter and it’s very humid in the summer. Why?”
“They say a Familiar is the reflection of the Sorcerer’s spirit,” Valor began and gave her a faint smile. “We do have Bendazzi in Arovan and they are frequent in Glis as well. The commons have a saying there. Never pick a fight with a Dazzi. It’s rather commonly used for describing anything that would be considered foolish. Everyone in Arovan knows to hunt a Bendazzi is to seek an early grave.” Valor paused and watched Marrow jump lightly down from the bed to pace over to Jala’s side. “When we return I’ll start building your army, Lady Bendazzi, and we will teach the rest of the world an Arovan saying if they attempt to attack Merro.” He still swayed slightly where he stood and the slur was still evident in his words, but his eyes were bright with determination.
“Thank you, Valor,” Jala replied quietly. “Never pick a fight with a Dazzi,” she repeated with a glance down at Marrow. Running her hand across his broad head she focused on Glis and the area she had sensed the strand from Sebastian. She held out her hand offering it to Valor then flinched as she saw the state of it. Without the pain present she had almost forgotten how mangled it had been. She hadn’t even bothered to look at it until now. Whoever had healed her had done a poor job of smoothing the scars on her flesh. Jagged bumps could still be seen where the fragments of the focus stones had been. The worst however were the two stumps that were all that remained of her little finger and ring finger. With a sharp breath she hurriedly lowered the hand once more and offered him her other undamaged one.
Valor shook his head frowning at her and refused the offered hand, moving instead to the damaged one. Gently he took it in his own and studied the missing fingers critically. “Never be ashamed of scars that you earned with honor, Jala. This is a mark of courage, not an embarrassment.”
“I doubt the rest of the world will see it that way, Val,” Jala murmured, her eyes drawn once more to the hideous mess the healer had left behind.
“If they know the story and still find it offensive, most likely they are on the opposing side and we are about to kill them anyway. Slighting you just gives me more reason to drive the sword through their chest,” Valor replied.
Nodding slowly, Jala gave Valor a considering look but remained silent. Focusing once more she began the spell that would transport them to Glis. Magical transport was risky, especially during the current times, but then everyone thought Jala Merrodin was on her deathbed.
Chapter 12
The Darklands
The throne room was silent aside from the sound of his own ragged breath. Finn stared at Death with more hatred in his mind than he could ever recall feeling. His body was quivering with rage, but he was entirely unable to move. The Divine shifted on her throne and glanced up at him with a wicked chuckle.
“Calm yourself, she will be back here soon enough, and your child as well,” Death whispered, her hands already weaving another spell. The Divine had been steadily weaving magic since the shadows had dropped him at her feet.
Finn struggled once more against his magical bonds and felt the Firym flames building inside him, begging for release. A broken snarl burst from his throat and his anger grew further. Valor’s sword lay barely two feet from him, lost in the shadows near the wall and forgotten by everyone. Two feet from him and hopelessly out of reach.
A gentle brush on his mind stilled his anger for a breath and he tried desperately to find its source. Death’s iron grip upon him was as cold as the grave itself and yet that faint touch had been filled with warmth. Hope welled momentarily in his chest and then died in the slow agonizing minutes that followed as he failed to find any trace of the unknown magic. The rage returned in full force and Finn settled once more into his struggle against Death’s bonds while his dark green eyes locked on her with a glower that would have sent most running. The Divine, however, showed no sign of noticing or caring that she had angered Finn Sovaesh. In life, his name had terrified people; in death he was simply another number on the Divine’s list of souls.