He roared as he slashed downward, a blow to cleave the shade’s helm and split his skull. The Shadovar parried with his shield, bounded a step back, and countered with a swing of his mace that clipped Vasen on the shoulder. A flash of pain, then numbness. His arm hung limp from his shoulder, but he held his blade in one hand and stabbed and slashed, driving the Shadovar back a step.
And then Orsin was there, barely mobile, but with his quarterstaff still a whirling, spinning line of oak. The Shadovar parried with shield and mace, backing up under the onslaught of metal and wood, the darkness around him whirling like a thunderhead.
Vasen ducked under a too-casual mace swing, stepped past the Shadovar’s shield, and stabbed up under the shade’s breastplate. He felt his glowing weapon grate against metal plates, pierce the mail beneath, slide into flesh, and grind against bone. The Shadovar grunted with pain, red eyes wide. He dropped his mace and grabbed at Vasen with his free hand, as if he would push him away. Orsin’s quarterstaff slammed into the shade’s temple, sending his helm from his bald head.
Vasen jerked his blade free and the Shadovar hit the ground like a felled cow, the darkness about him still swirling. Vasen straddled him, reversed his grip, and drove his blade downward. . into the earth.
The Shadovar was gone.
“Damn it,” said Vasen, looking around frantically.
Orsin sagged to the ground, wincing from pain. “He is not far. Their power allows them to step from shadow to shadow, but not over long distances.”
Vasen spun around, eyeing the thigh-high whipgrass, the scrub bushes, the solitary broadleaf tree here and there. He saw nothing.
“He escaped us!” Vasen shouted, as Byrne, Eldris, and Nald climbed over the river bank. “He’s near and sorely wounded!”
“He’ll heal rapidly,” said Orsin, feeling the break in his leg.
Vasen knew. He snatched his shield from the ground, picked a direction, and started walking.
“Light,” Vasen called, and all four servants of Amaunator used the power of their god to light their swords. Holding them high, they scoured the nearby plains.
“Here!” Eldris called, and Vasen and the others sprinted to his side. Eldris crouched near a broadleaf tree.
“It’s soaked with blood,” he said, touching the bole of the tree and holding up his fingers, red with Shadovar blood.
Vasen sheathed his sword, darkness whirling around him. “Then he’s gone. We’ll be pursued soon enough.”
“His mount abandoned him, at least,” Byrne said, nodding at the dark sky. The wounded veserab was nowhere to be seen.
“That earns us some time, but only some,” Vasen said. “He can move rapidly from shadow to shadow. A patrol will pick him up eventually.”
“So they’ll be coming,” Nald said.
Vasen looked up at the sky, thick with darkness and nodded. “They’ll be coming. Get the pilgrims ready. We need to move rapidly. Not the normal way. We take a direct path to the Dales.”
Byrne’s eyes widened. “You’re certain that’s wise, First Blade?”
“No, I’m not. But see to it.”
“Aye.”
As Byrne, Eldris, and Nald headed back to the cave where the pilgrims sheltered, Vasen hurried over to Orsin. The deva sat on the grass, his loose trousers rolled up over his thigh. Tattooed lines traced paths like veins the length of his leg. The man’s flesh really was a map of sorts, the places he’d been drawn on his flesh in cryptic swirls and angles.
“Broken?” Vasen asked.
“And the ankle.” Orsin nodded at his ankle. It was already purpling and the bones were angled all wrong. Only a furrow between his eyes suggested the pain he must have felt.
Vasen crouched beside him. “I can help you.”
“Your chain.”
“What?”
Orsin nodded at Vasen’s chest.
It took Vasen a moment to realize what Orsin meant. The chain on which he wore Saint Abelar’s holy symbol was broken, its unlooped length hung up on a ridge of his armor.
His heart fell and he cursed. “I have to find it!”
He started to rise, remembered Orsin’s leg, remembered his duty.
“After, of course. This may hurt, Orsin.”
“May?”
“Will,” Vasen acknowledged. “Ready yourself.”
Using the symbol of Amaunator enameled on his shield as the focus for his power, Vasen gently laid the shield over Orsin’s leg and intoned a prayer of healing. The shield glowed softly and warmth flooded Vasen’s body. He focused the warmth in his hands, his palms, and placed them on the shield. The power passed through to Orsin’s flesh and the deva hissed through gritted teeth as bones reknit and bruises faded. Vasen slung his shield and pulled the deva to his feet. Orsin tested his weight on the leg.
“Good?” Vasen asked.
“Good. Your symbol?”
“It must have fallen off in the fight,” Vasen said, looking hopelessly at the ground around him. “It’s. . important to me.”
“A silver rose,” Orsin said.
Vasen was surprised the deva had noticed. “Yes. It belonged to the Oracle, and Saint Abelar before that.”
“I’ll help you find it.”
They slowly walked the area where they had fought the shade. Neither of them found the symbol. Eventually both of them got down on all fours, feeling through the grass, Vasen berating himself for his carelessness. He should have had it tucked under his mail shirt, not hanging free. He should have been more careful. Nine Hells, he could have lost it in the battle or he could have lost it while crossing the river.
“Vasen,” Byrne called from across the river.
“I know,” Vasen shouted over his shoulder, running his hands over the grass, hoping to feel the metal rose under his hands. Orsin stood, put a hand on Vasen’s shoulder.
“I think it’s gone,” the deva said.
“I know.”
“We should go.”
Vasen hung his head. How would he explain to the Oracle?
“The pilgrims, First Blade,” Byrne called.
And that was the word that dispelled Vasen’s self-pity. The pilgrim’s safety was more important than any holy symbol. He sighed, angry, sad, and stood.
“Thank you for helping,” he said to Orsin.
“Of course.”
“The lines on your skin? What exactly are they?”
Orsin looked down at his hands, covered in lines and swirls. “The story of my life.”
“The story of your life can be read on your skin?”
Orsin nodded. “Much of it. Where I’ve been, at least. But the point of the story isn’t to read it. It’s to write it. A man writes his story in the book of the world, Vasen. Or so I tell myself.”
“Well, that’s a good story,” Vasen said, and Orsin chuckled. “Very good. A good story, indeed.”
Byrne, Eldris, and Nald already had the pilgrims geared up and ready to set out. Vasen and Orsin sidestepped down the river bank and waded into the water.
“You’ll not jump it this time?” Vasen said to him, smiling.
Orsin smiled in return.
“How did you. . manage such a feat?”
Orsin’s eyes narrowed with puzzlement. “How do you cause your blade to shine?”
“You know the answer to that. With faith.”
“And so it is with me. Your faith manifests as light. Mine. . does not.”
“But your god is. . gone.”
“Yes, but my faith is not.”
“Well enough.” They waded into the water. “You are a strange man, Orsin.”
“I think you said as much once already.”
Vasen chuckled. “I thought maybe you needed a reminder. Maybe you should write it on your skin?”
Orsin laughed. “Very good. Very good.”
As they emerged on the other side of the river, Orsin adopted a more serious tone. “When there is time later, let’s discuss some things.”
Zeeahd’s satiety unnerved Sayeed almost as much as his appetite. Having spat his pollution into the young girl, Zeeahd seemed almost giddy. He whistled as they plodded over the plains, saturated by the rain. The cats seemed gleeful, too. Their bloodlust temporarily sated, they fairly pranced around Zeeahd, tails held high.