“Flicks,” he murmured. “You might want to hold me down. . ”
The next time Azariah went to touch him, Patrick’s fist flung for his face. Thankfully for the Warden’s sake, the two big boys were faster.
“He’s feverish,” Azariah said, seemingly nonplussed by the outburst. “How long has he been like this?”
“Weeks,” said Preston. “Maybe as long as two months. He’s not certain.”
“Sickness?”
Patrick vehemently shook his head, which made Azariah’s mouth tighten.
“He’s been seeing his dead sister,” Preston said. “Visions, nightmares-things like that. It’s strange because. . he said he thinks someone’s in there with him. Is that possible? Ahaesarus looked him over a couple weeks ago but saw nothing.”
Azariah gazed down at Patrick. “And you thought I could see what he could not?”
Patrick nodded fervidly. The Warden allowed himself a smile.
“I suppose I should feel proud of your confidence,” he said touching him. This time when the revulsion came, Patrick fought it down without need of the Flicks. “And something is awry, I’m certain of it. It’s subtle, though. I’m not surprised Ahaesarus failed to notice it, especially if you weren’t as bad then.”
“What is it?” Ryann asked. “What do you see?”
Azariah’s eyes were closed as he spoke.
“It’s like smoke coming from his eyes,” the Warden said. “Little tendrils of it, so faint. . but not connected to anyone afar. No curse, no ancient wards, just tendrils. . connected to. . ”
Suddenly every single warning instinct in Patrick flared. He surged to his feet, flooded with strength he never knew he had. Both Flicks hurled themselves against him, each holding an arm, and even then it was not enough to keep Patrick from ramming his head into Azariah’s chest. As the Warden stumbled back, more men grabbed hold of Patrick, slamming him down onto the slab. His every muscle tensed, Patrick struggled, screaming out mindlessly.
Azariah whirled around, still clutching his chest. “Give me his sword!” he screamed. Without another word he leapt at Preston. The old soldier almost threw Patrick’s massive blade at the Warden. Azariah snatched up the scabbard and hastily threw it down on the slab beside Patrick.
“A hammer!” the short Warden shouted. “Anything! Something hard and heavy! Now!”
Ryann Matheson released Patrick’s arm to hand him the undersized maul the young soldier kept hitched to his belt. Azariah quickly grabbed it and lifted it above Winterbone’s handle. Patrick watched it all happen, and in his heart he knew-he knew what would happen.
“Don’t!” he shrieked. “It’ll kill me, you bastard! It’ll kill me! ”
Azariah brought down the maul. The dragonglass crystal adorning Winterbone’s handle shattered.
A puff of smoke rose from the splintered crystal, and Patrick snapped back into himself. His hand recoiled, the strain in his muscles gone just like that. The fog in his mind lifted, and the dullness of his muscles faded away. For the first time in a very long while, he felt like himself. He glanced nervously to the side, searching for Nessa’s ghastly image, but she was nowhere to be found.
“It’s gone,” he said, turning to the short Warden. “Praise Ashhur, it’s gone!”
Azariah remained leaning over Patrick’s sword and the broken crystal, his expression one of pure dread. “Dragonglass is a powerful mineral. Within it is a bit of the fire that created it, and within that fire is the very power that made the dragons. Two large pieces of it could create a gateway of sorts, and it can be useful in communicating over long distances. Also, if a piece is close by, it can be used to manipulate the mind of another.” Azariah let out a disgusted grumble. “I allowed an old friend of mine to experiment with it on me once.”
“Let me guess,” said Patrick, sliding off the slab. “Would that friend be our beloved Jacob Eveningstar?”
Azariah nodded. Patrick grunted, squeezing fingers into fists until his nails bit into his palms. His anger made his neck grow hot.
“If Jacob or Velixar-or whoever-has been inside your head for some time, he has seen everything you have,” said Azariah. “He knows our weaknesses and our strengths. And if he knows, so does Karak.”
“They don’t know everything,” said Patrick. “He kept asking about a hidden gate of some sort, but I never knew if one existed. Does it?”
The short Warden leaned over and looked into his eyes once more, as if making sure Patrick was alone in his head. “There is a hidden postern gate,” he said. “The entrance is just outside the birch forest, veiled beneath a false floor covered with discarded branches. It was Ashhur’s last resort, a tunnel wide and tall enough to accommodate a whole fleet of carriages, if worst came to worst.”
“Where does this tunnel end?” asked Preston.
“It empties out into a rocky precipice three miles from here, by the river.”
Patrick leaned forward, grinning. If felt good to do so again. “Perfect.”
Azariah looked at him quizzically. “Perfect?”
“Yes, perfect. Azariah, listen to me. I need you to go tell Ahaesarus what just transpired. Tell him that Karak likely knows everything about our defenses. And do it quickly. I have a feeling Karak won’t wait long to kill us once and for all.”
“And what will you do?” asked the Warden.
Patrick’s grin grew wider. “For the first time in months I feel like myself again-and not just that, Azariah; I feel pissed. I’m taking whoever will come with me through that secret tunnel. We’re going to loop around and attack the bastards from behind.”
Preston grinned, and it was obvious to Patrick whom his first volunteer would be.
“This is reckless,” Azariah insisted. “Such desperation is suicide.”
“Might very well be,” Patrick replied, rage churning within him. “But I’m tired of waiting here to die, and I want my shot at revenge. Your old friend has been tormenting me for weeks now, using my own sister against me. It’s about time I give him a taste of his own medicine. He wants to know everything I know, see everything I see? So fucking be it. I’ll cut off his damn head and carry it around wherever I go, no dragonglass required.”
When the dragonglass shattered, severing the link, Velixar leapt back into himself, panting. He shook his head to clear the mist, then threw his chin toward the sky and screamed. The canvas walls of his pavilion billowed with the force of his rage. The red glow of his eyes dwindled.
So close! He’d broken the misshapen man, had finally been able to step inside his mind and take control, just as the Beast of a Thousand Faces had done to so many elves a thousand years before. Patrick’s erratic behavior would have been at an end, granting Velixar an assassin on the inside. Patrick was far stronger, resisting far longer than the mutated wretch had any right to, and in the end it failed. Dragged before Azariah, it was only a matter of time before the Warden discovered the dragonglass crystal and destroyed it. Velixar felt the waste of too much precious time, spending all these weeks torturing Patrick, manipulating him, gaining only a few modest scraps of information for his efforts.
If there was one thing Velixar loathed, it was wasting his time.
He stood with a huff and stormed out of his pavilion into the cold night air. Pulling his robe about himself, he shivered once before forcing his body to be still. There were soldiers standing nearby, guarding against deserters, and he was High Prophet of Karak, the swallower of demons. The cold should hold no sway over one with such power. He could not show weakness before them.
Velixar gazed at Karak’s pavilion looming over the camping army three hundred feet away. A rare fire burned within, making its walls glow softly. He heard Karak let out a groan. Velixar started toward his chosen god’s dwelling, hastening his steps. Something felt wrong. Something felt very wrong. By the time he’d crossed half the distance, he’d broken out into a run.