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“Move!” Orsin said.

Using the deva like a ladder, Gerak scrambled over him and into the window. Orsin pulled himself in and fell to the floor under the window. Each pulled the flaming spikes out of the other. Orsin pulled another vial from his belt pouches.

“Healing,” he said, and poured some of the cool, soothing liquid right onto Gerak’s clothes and skin. Gerak felt immediately refreshed. He took the vial and poured the remainder onto the wounds on Orsin’s legs.

Looking around, they saw they were in a library or study of some kind. The darkness made it hard for Gerak to see, but he made out desks and shelves full of scrolls and books. Several spikes whistled through the window and stuck in the shelves. Immediately the dry books and scrolls started to burn. Outside, they could hear the devils snarling as they scrabbled at the stone walls of the abbey. Orsin jumped to his feet and slammed the butt of his staff on the ground. A cloud of shadow formed around the top of it. He moved the staff before the open window, trailing a curtain of shadows that blocked the aperture.

“Those devils can fly,” the deva said. “That won’t hold them long. We need to move.”

“We need to find Vasen,” Gerak said. “Where do you think he is?”

One of the devils snarled right outside of the window, on the other side of Orsin’s shadow curtain.

“The eastern tower,” Orsin said. “Where I saw the light. Come on.”

A devil perched on one of pews that lined the main worship hall, its claws splintering the wood. The devil held a brazier to its nose, sniffing at it. Vasen had no idea how it could have gotten inside the abbey.

Pews lay overturned. Tapestries had been torn down and shredded. Vasen smelled feces. The devil’s castings lay about the room in stinking piles, including on the altar. Anger warmed Vasen’s skin while the devil’s head swiveled toward him, eyes narrowing, the slits of its nose dilating.

“You’ll answer for this,” Vasen said, his hand white around the dagger’s hilt.” The devil snarled and launched itself at him with preternatural speed, the force of its leap toppling the pew it perched on and carrying it across the length of the worship hall in a blink.

The creature’s scaled, muscular body hit Vasen with enough force to drive him backward into the wall. His breath exploded out of him in a whoosh. A painting near him fell from the wall with a clatter. Claws, scales, and teeth seemed everywhere at once.

He squirmed, tried to bring his dagger to bear, but the creature used its weight and strength to pin him against the wall. Claws scrabbled over his armor, shrieking as they gouged metal. The foul breath of the creature, like decayed meat, made him gag. He pulled his head back as the creature’s jaws snapped for his nose. Spit sprayed into his face. The devil’s claws got under his armor and tore gouges in his side. Warm blood poured from the wound. The pain gave him strength. He freed the hand with the dagger and drove it into the devil’s belly once, twice, but the creature’s hide, infused with the dark magic of the Hells, turned its edge. He cursed, dropped the weapon, and tried to lever himself away from the wall.

The devil’s mouth opened wide and bit at his face, missing his nose by a finger’s width. The devil shook free one of its arms and slashed Vasen’s cheek, just missing his eye. The blow staggered him and the devil bit for his throat. Instinct caused Vasen to slam his forearm, protected by a vambrace, into the creature’s mouth.

The blow shattered teeth and the devil shrieked with pain, lurching backward.

He needed to arm himself. He feinted a lunge at the devil. When the devil retreated a step, he sprinted for the far door, bounding over pews. The devil growled behind him, its claws scrabbling on the stone floor as it pursued.

He wasn’t going to make it to the door. He whirled just in time to intercept the devil’s leap at his back. The weight of the creature drove him backward and down. He crashed into a pew as he fell, breaking the wood and cracking his ribs. But he used the creature’s momentum against it, brought his legs in and up and pushed the creature off and over him. It fell with a crash among the pews two rows distant.

Vasen clambered to his feet, wincing at the pain in his ribs. Blood flowed, sticky and warm, from the wound in his side. Without a holy symbol, he had no focus for his power and could not heal himself. He needed to get to his quarters, but now the devil stood between him and the far door.

He shouted and charged. Man and devil collided in a heap of scaled hide, armor, and flesh. For a moment each stood the other up, a counterpoise to the other, both striving to gain the advantage. The devil’s broken teeth locked onto Vasen’s shoulder, crushed his armor, and pain ran the length of his arm. He drew in close, hooked the devil’s hind leg with his foot, and tripped it to the ground. They fell together, a tangle of fists and claws. Blood from Vasen’s torn face dripped into his eyes, fell in droplets onto the writhing devil. The pain in his side felt like a hot brand had been driven through his ribs. He slammed a fist into the devil’s face, bursting its eye in a spray of ichor. The creature roared, squirmed frenetically, its claws digging at his armor. He felt them tear through the links of his mail, start to maul flesh. He pounded his fists into the creature’s head, over and over again. He felt his stomach get torn open, felt the blood pour sickeningly from the gash. All the while, he rained blows down on the creature. Vasen was weakening, failing, but he kept punching, metal smashing into flesh and bone, until he could barely lift his arms.

And then the devil lay still below him, its head a shapeless mass of scales, teeth, black ichor, and exposed bone. He stared at the gore for a moment, blinking.

Shaking his head to clear it, he rose, his breeches and tunic soaked with a mix of his own blood and the devil’s foul ichor. He pushed his hair out of his eyes, looked around. Dizziness caused him to sway. Each beat of his heart spit blood from his body.

He had to find a holy symbol to focus the divine energy he needed to heal himself. He started toward the door that led to his quarters, but remembered the potions the priests stored near the altar.

He staggered across the hall, but his hopes fell when he saw the cabinet where the potions were stored had been torn open, the metal vials within scattered over the floor. Liquid healing elixirs stained the stone. He bent, groaning with pain, and examined each of the vials. No good. All of them were open and spilled. He touched some of the liquid on the floor, hoping its magic might have survived the devil’s desecration, but found it inert. A few wooden roses-holy symbols-lay scattered on the floor, too, but all of them were fouled by the devil, unusable. He put a hand on his knee and pushed himself back to his feet.

The door on the far side of the worship hall looked a league away. Holding his wounded side, he staggered for it.

He pushed through the door without listening for anything beyond. If he encountered another devil, he would die. That much was certain. Fortunately, the corridor beyond was empty. He slumped toward his quarters. Doors hung askew from the rooms he passed, the contents within as fouled as the worship hall. Ahead, the door to his quarters lay flat in the hallway, torn from its hinges. He hurried forward as best he could, dripping blood.

His room was unmolested. His bed remained as he had left it. And the chest at the end of his bed. .

His breath caught when he saw the shield there, leaning against the chest. He moved slowly into the room, favoring his side, as if the shield were a mirage that would disappear if he moved too fast. He eyed the rose enameled on the shield’s face, scars from weapon strikes that were in no alphabet anyone could read but that scribed a history of the shield’s battles. He’d heard descriptions of the shield in stories.

The shield had belonged to Dawnlord Abelar. Tales of the Dawnlord had said the shield was lost. Yet here it was. The Oracle must have found it and kept it, a secret he shared with no one.