Shan and Lara shouted the alarm as they drew weapons, engaging the enemies which came pouring from her body. With each convulsive jerk, another tore its way out of her, smeared in her blood.
Fighting the Fellna, Shan slipped into the Dance, each attack anticipated a moment before it fell, each muscle in his body moving like liquid warmth, ready, willing, obedient. Black blood splattered his face but he spat it out and charged towards where Indarin lay, pinned by a host of shadow forms. He tore his brother free as the other Shistra-Phail arrived to take on their ancient foes.
Indarin wilted as Shan pulled him free. Shan thrust him into Lara’s waiting arms and sliced through the fresh wave of Fellna. They just kept coming, more and more of them, hidden like parasites inside Ylandra’s body. The Shistra-Phail could take care of the numbers so far but not if they kept coming. And that was their plan, sneak into the encampment hidden inside one of the Feyna’s own, and then keep coming. There was only one way to end it. Only one thing he could do.
He fought his way to her side, and Ylandra’s eyes opened, gazing up at him in pain and desperation.
“I’m sorry,” he told her, and let his sword fall. But it didn’t hit her. The darkness swelled around her, lashed out, throwing him back to the ground. Ylandra rose, not as a physical body might rise, but like a puppet, a thrall, drawn up by another will.
Her mouth opened and another voice emerged, ripping through her. “You’re sorry? Not yet, Shan,” said the Enchassa through Ylandra’s body. The former Sect Mother’s wide eyes screamed noiselessly, but the Enchassa laughed. “But you will be. You will be indeed. It doesn’t end here.”
Lara fought her way to his side, black blood smearing her clothes and skin. Her sword was slick with Fellna blood.
“They’re giving ground,” she yelled. “What are you doing? Kill her. Cut off their pathway!”
The Enchassa threw back Ylandra’s head and howled with laughter. “And let him ruin this wonderful new toy? No. You want revenge, little Shistra-Phail? How’s this?”
The Fellna flooded to Ylandra’s body, swarming around her in a maelstrom of nightmarish forms. Ylandra screamed, her own voice once more. “No! Please, no! Help me!”
And then she, and they, were gone.
The Shistra-Phail cheered as their enemies fled, letting out whoops of exaltation, celebrating a victory, but Shan couldn’t bring himself to voice triumph. Lara stood at his side, her arms limp, holding her sword like a millstone.
“Gods,” she whispered, staring in horror. “They took her…” Shan reached out to comfort her, but Lara pulled away sharply. “I…I wanted…” She stared appalled at the empty space where Ylandra had been.
“I know,” Shan told her. “But it wasn’t your doing. None of it.”
She frowned and then started, as something else occurred to her. “Indarin!”
His brother was slumped on the ground and Lara rushed to his side and held him, trying to rouse him.
The Fellna had gone, just like that. But why? Why not try to take more?
A scream of pain rang out in the renewed stillness of the night. Not Jeren, not this time. It was Ariah.
Torvin’s sword slashed so close to Jeren’s neck that she felt the wind created as it passed, but it didn’t cut her skin. His arm was jerked back by an unseen force and he twisted as the air around him turned to a paralysing force. Ariah stood a foot away, her hand outstretched, her brow furrowed in concentration. The air around her fizzed and crackled with magic, more pure magic than Jeren had ever encountered. Her own power was internal, but Ariah’s acted as a weapon, holding Torvin back, despite his struggles.
“Torvin, what is the meaning of this?” Jeren asked, but he just snarled at her.
“You’re a traitor to River Holt, to Gilliad and to your own kind. You would choose these creatures over us. You would attack your own home to gain his power. I see you for what you are now, Jeren. Just as he said I would. I should have known. He has never been wrong.”
“My brother sent you? But why? I want nothing to do with River Holt. He knows that.”
“He doesn’t believe you. And so I tested you. You took the sword, Jeren. And I followed you. I heard you.” His gaze darkened, his mouth twisting into a savage maw. “I heard you say it just now.”
He moved so quickly that even Ariah couldn’t foresee it. In order to maintain her hold on him, she had to be close. But neither of them anticipated the rage his fervour lent him. Torvin ripped his way through the restraints of air, snatched the Sect Knife from Ariah’s other hand and plunged it deep into her stomach.
Ariah cried out and the spell fell as she did. Jeren could feel the backlash snap through the air, recoiling like the breaking of a stretched wire. Ariah collapsed into the pool, the water splashing around her, staining red with her blood.
“No,” Jeren whispered, and then it was all she could do to survive. Torvin was on her, a master swordsman, a warrior born and an assassin trained. She managed to get Felan’s sword into her hands, but it moved like a farming implement when she confronted him. He beat her down, his sword flashing moonlight, his blade so quick all she could do was counter it, protect herself, pray to survive.
And why did she want to? A small voice in the back of her mind laughed. It sounded like the Enchassa. It sounded like Gilliad. Why survive when Shan was as good as dead? Why survive when Ariah, of all people, had died for her? Why did she even want to go on living any more?
Because she was a Scion of Jern, that was why. Because if nothing else, her people needed her, now more than ever. Because…because she could not give up, even though she had lost everything for which she wanted to live.
She kicked Torvin’s legs and was rewarded by a mis-stroke that otherwise would have taken her head. Rolling to her feet, she feinted to the left and struck. Torvin jerked back, pausing in his vicious attack to raise his hand to his cheek where a thin line of blood trickled from the cut she had landed. Only shallow, no more than a scratch. But a hit. He rubbed his fingers together, as if testing the blood to see if it was really his own and he smiled at her.
“Better. But not good enough. You were not born to be a fighter, Jeren. You were born to breed noble children and embroider and grace a court with your beauty. Why couldn’t you be content with that and a husband like Vertigern? Most women would. Most women would consider that a dream.”
She lashed out again, angry now, aware that her temper was slipping from her grasp and she hardly cared anymore. Even as it happened she knew it was a mistake, knew it could cost her life. The life she had only realised she still wanted. But it felt good to give in to that anger, to accept it as her own and to use it for once.
Torvin’s blade fell in three strokes, so fast she couldn’t follow them. Felan’s sword was dashed from her hand, something slammed against the back of her head, making sparks burst before her eyes like fireworks, and she lay on the stones, staring up into his face, a face she hardly recognised anymore. He swam in and out of focus. Not her childhood friend. Her brother’s man. A killer to the core.
“I serve River Holt,” Torvin said. “And the True Blood Scion of Jern. Make your peace with the gods, Jeren.”
“Make your own peace,” said Shan, his voice low as a whisper.
It was a dream. It had to be. The Enchassa had killed him and he was waiting for her. She was so close to death, she could see the dead.
A slow smile spread over Torvin’s face and the light of a zealot entered his eyes. “Ah, I had hoped for this. Stay there, Jeren. I won’t be long.”
Shan limped towards them, wounded, exhausted, but her Shan, her own beloved Shan. Her husband. Her mate. Struggling to push herself up, Jeren missed Torvin’s attack on Shan, the same blur of weapons and limbs that had brought her down, that had murdered Ariah.