Darestat closed his eyes, lips moving slightly as he chanted. A throb filled the chamber, pulsing the air in rhythm with the Necromancer’s words. His voice rose and fell, a deep drone filling the space, penetrating the corners, nearly forcing the air from Khirro’s lungs. Warmth radiated from the vial; the air moved about him, caressing him as though touched by a thousand unseen hands. Athryn remained on his knee, head bent, unaffected.
The colors in the chamber changed rapidly; pink then yellow, blue then green then red. The colors of the rainbow flashed in Khirro’s vision, and colors never imagined. He wanted to be fascinated by them, intrigued enough to divine their origin or purpose, but he couldn’t take his eyes or thoughts from the Necromancer. The old man’s lips moved without slowing, speaking words Khirro didn’t know in a language he’d never heard, yet somehow he knew what he said.
He beckoned Braymon’s soul, entreating it to rejoin the world of the living.
The blood bubbled within the vial like a liquid at the boil. Khirro’s hand quivered against his will and a low mist rose, swirling about their feet. The walls and ceiling of the chamber shimmered and swam.
Elyea’s cry stilled the mist and solidified the walls.
At first, Khirro didn’t know what the sound was or from where it came. The sound of steel rattling against stone followed and he knew what happened without looking. Alarm knotted his throat as he jerked his gaze from the still-chanting Necromancer’s trance.
First Khirro saw the dagger protruding from Elyea’s leg, then the blood flowing down her thigh. Too late, he saw the bow in Ghaul’s hand and the arrow loaded against the taut string. The arrow pierced his hand as though it was paper, tearing completely through to clatter against the marble wall. His fingers opened involuntarily and the vial tumbled from his grasp, end over end toward the floor while the blood continued to roil and bubble inside.
“No!”
The vial struck the floor and shattered.
All that time, all that struggle and death. For nothing. A journey ending in spilled blood.
But instead of blood splashing across the floor and spattering his boots, red mist puffed from the broken vial, mixed with the other mist. It rolled and moved, formed a shape Khirro recognized immediately from his dreams as a tyger made of mist stood before him.
Darestat’s voice grew louder, its pitch higher as his chant quickened. The mist tyger loomed before Khirro and Ghaul’s bowstring twanged again. An arrow flew past slowly enough he could count the feathers on its shaft, but he moved equally as slowly, rendering him agonizingly unable to react as he watched its path.
Time sped up again, folding in on itself as everything happened at once: the Necromancer’s words ceased as the arrow entered his mouth; the mist tyger roared, pouncing at Khirro, engulfing him in red mist; visions of battles he didn’t fight and men he didn’t recognize swirled about him then disappeared. The mist penetrated him, crawled into his body through his eyes, nose, ears, every pore in his skin, paralyzing him. Powerless, it overtook his limbs and muscles, overflowed his heart and lungs.
And then the world became white light.
Khirro knew instinctively it came from the Necromancer. The force of the light tossed him back and he hit the marble floor with a bone jarring thud that shot pain up his spine. The white light dissipated quickly and took all other light with it leaving the chamber in darkness. Khirro scrambled to his feet, feeling it would mean his life to remain on the floor. He drew the Mourning Sword and its blade glowed red as it thirsted for blood. The dark swallowed its light.
Khirro stared into the blackness waiting for his eyes to adjust. A leather sole whispered against stone, a dim blade came out of the dark toward him. He dodged and the sword tip caught his shoulder instead of the neck for which it was intended. It bit shallowly into his flesh, jarring his senses into action. He heard sounds all around him: Elyea’s breath, the scrape of cloth on Ghaul’s skin, three heartbeats plus his own. He heard more than he’d ever heard before, knew from where each tiny sound came.
Behind him, Athryn uttered a word and light filled the chamber. Khirro glanced about quickly. Athryn lay on the floor at the foot of the throne while Elyea crouched against the wall, blood dripping from her wound. He didn’t see the Necromancer.
Khirro’s distraction gave Ghaul the advantage.
He lunged and caught Khirro in the face with the pommel of his sword. His nose broke with a crunch and the blow sent Khirro to the floor, the Mourning Sword skittering from his grip. Before he recovered, Ghaul fell upon him, his foot on his chest, sword point at his throat. Khirro looked up half-expecting to see the face of an undead monster, but it was Ghaul. Hatred burned in his eyes.
Athryn moved, his sword rasping against its scabbard.
“Stay put, magician, and speak no words. If your lips so much as move, I’ll open his throat.”
Khirro stared at Ghaul, surprised at the detachment he felt. Fear didn’t freeze his limbs or steal his breath as before. Instead, a curious calm filled him. After facing death so many times, had he lost his fear of it?
“You can’t have what you came for,” Khirro said swallowing around the steel pressed to his windpipe. “Braymon will never serve Kanos.”
“You have the truth of it,” Ghaul said, a wry smile twisting his lips. “All I can do now is be sure he’ll serve no one.”
He drew his blade back for the final blow.
This is it: the end of the journey.
“No!”
Elyea grabbed Ghaul’s arm and spun him away from Khirro, throwing him off balance. Khirro jumped up to aid Elyea, but years of battles, of protecting his life, had honed Ghaul’s reflexes. He regained his balance, pushed away from her, and drew his blade across her from hip to shoulder.
Elyea’s eyes widened in surprise.
Khirro stared.
For a moment it looked like only her clothes were cut, but then the blood came, rushing from her body. She collapsed where she stood.
The peace and calm Khirro felt vanished, forced from him by rage like he’d never experienced. His muscles tensed and bunched, blood pounded at his temples and in his throat.
He burst into flames.
Khirro felt it, saw it enveloping him head to foot, but it didn’t burn. He lurched toward Ghaul as the warrior spun around and, for the first time in all the months of their journey, Khirro saw naked fear in the soldier’s eyes. He stepped back shaking his head. Khirro advanced, mouth open to voice his rage, but no cry of hatred issued from his throat. He roared instead. Khirro sprang at Ghaul, brushed aside his blade, and hit him hard in the chest, bearing him to the floor.
Khirro tore at his throat with his teeth and tasted warm, coppery blood. It splashed across his face and against whiskers not there before. Claws tore the flesh of Ghaul’s chest. The man screamed, the cry gurgling in his blood-filled throat. Khirro roared once more, raked Ghaul’s legs and groin with hind claws and the soldier writhed in agony, face streaked with sweat and blood and terror. Finally, Khirro’s fangs ripped into his chest, pulled free his still-pulsing heart. Ghaul’s screams and flailing ceased, his body went limp. Seconds later, Khirro found himself kneeling over the ruined body, flames flickering and dimming until they disappeared completely.
The blood in his mouth made him gag.
He rolled from Ghaul onto his hands and knees and his stomach emptied what little it held, strings of thick blood hanging from his lips. He spit, clearing the taste from his tongue. Head hung, panting, he knelt there until he heard Elyea call to him, her voice tiny and afraid. He wiped blood from his mouth with his sleeve and crawled across the cold floor to her.
“Elyea.”