before
had she lost control of that power and nearly been consumed by it. She feared
it almost as much as she feared the acolytes. Almost. But the acolytes had
proven themselves a much more monstrous evil.
The power within
her soul was an intelligence that slumbered within her. Only recently had she
started calling it Larnkin. But naming it didn’t mean she understood it any
better or controlled it.
In her heart she
knew her own power wasn’t evil. It wasn’t that she gained any benefit from it.
Perhaps it was merely her inability to control it that made it dangerous.
If the lupwyn had
any chance at survival, then this time she would have to control the power, not
be controlled by it.
She guided her mount
off the road into a small clearing where she dismounted and tied the gelding on
a long enough rope that he could graze. Then, her thoughts turning to what she
must do, she moved a little ways distant so as not to disturb the horse when
she unleashed her magic.
If her own magic
slipped her control, she doubted the horse was a safe distance away, but she
was out of time. Or more to the point, the lupwyn was.
Kneeling,
Beatrice closed her eyes and sought out the link to the male in question. He
was there, his mind still sharp, but his body weakening as the acolytes fed.
Her healer’s mind
noted that the host body showed signs of going into shock as the damage to the
Larnkin increased.
Looking beyond
their patient, to the others surrounding him, together they examined the
acolytes.
She didn’t like
what she found.
Anger flashed
through her soul and Beatrice felt the Larnkin’s growing rage. It reached out
to the lupwyn and shared a greater flow of magic with the victim.
The lupwyn
twitched and grunted in pain, but her Larnkin was unmoved by either hosts’
pain, all its—her, for Beatrice sensed this Larnkin was female—attention was
focused on strengthening the other Larnkin.
Beatrice agreed
with her assessment. Pain was better than death.
Her Larnkin
shoved more power at the poor lupwyn. For the first time, Beatrice sensed they
were winning, the power was flowing into the lupwyn faster than the acolytes
could suck it away again.
Power continued
to build.
Beatrice, her own
senses growing distant, suddenly saw what the lupwyn did.
*****
Acolyte Ironsmith
was weaving his way back into Silverblade’s line of sight. Well actually, the
acolyte wasn’t weaving, that was Silverblade’s vision.
The acolyte
continued to his side in a slow, painful-looking shuffle.
“Elemental, that
was foolish.” He narrowed his eyes at Silverblade. “Why don’t any of your kind
ever just agree to the terms? Why do they all choose death—horrible death? You
cannot win and will be enslaved in the end anyways.”
The acolyte
seemed truly perplexed and mildly grieved by the realization.
“It’s such a
waste.” He shook his head and then reached out to tap Silverblade’s chest. A
dagger had appeared in the acolyte’s fist and he expected to feel the sharp
stab at any moment.
The expected pain
didn’t manifest.
He eyed the
acolyte as Ironsmith began to cut away his weapon harness and leather vest. The
cotton shirt underneath was dealt with next.
“What is this?”
Ironsmith asked and tapped his dagger’s hilt against Silverblade’s chest. “I’ve
never seen one of these before. It’s rich with magic, but a kind foreign to my
master. Although, it glows to my mage sight.”
Silverblade
glanced down at his chest. The skin over his heart had been branded. The mark
still glowed with potent magic as the acolyte said. He had no better idea as to
what it was than the acolyte did. The mark certainly hadn’t been there this
morning when he’d bathed.
“I have one
forming, too,” the healer added, concern marking
her voice with little inflections of fear. “I don’t know what it is, but I
think our fates are linked. I also think these marks are about to do something
drastic. If you want to live, I