spoke.
“What if this is an attack? The orders could be at the city gates as we speak.”
“If this were a full-out attack we would be hearing the horns blare by now,” Darien said. “But it could be a foreshadowing. So, I suggest Reynard lead our magical response, and I brief Lord Ellesadil so he can prepare for defense.”
Reynard nodded. “That seems wise.”
Elaina sat down.
“All right, then,” Darien said, pushing the sleeves of his tunic up to his elbows. “Let’s get to it.”
Chapter 10
Garrick pried open his eyes. He lay with his cheek pressed flat against hard stone. His body ached. His head throbbed. His mouth felt like it was filled with wool. He rolled to his side, then sat up and ran his hand through his hair. The wind here was cold and dry. Clouds of lavender and scarlet stretched across a panorama of rock that stretched as far as he could see. There was a faint scent about the place, the reek of wine left out overnight. In the distance, brown smoke rose into the darkened sky.
A water skin and a rune-encrusted sword lay on the stone beside him.
Where was he?
What was Braxidane up to?
He stood up, swaying until he got his bearings.
He wore Torean black—a sleeveless tunic and breeches tucked into a pair of soft boots. He flexed his fingers, feeling the ache of muscle all the way up his arms. Oddly, his hunger was far away.
“What do you want?” Garrick called aloud, expecting Braxidane could hear him.
The wind carried his voice, but no one answered.
“Braxidane!”
Still nothing.
Garrick scowled. His skin prickled with the shrill wind. He had learned the hard way that his superior could be fickle, that Braxidane would pick and choose his own time and place for meetings. It made him angry.
He picked up the water skin and sniffed its contents.
The drink had a sugary aroma.
He sipped. It tasted good, so he drank.
The sword was the length of his forearm and had a curved blade that was etched with flowing rune work he could not read. He held it for a moment—feeling a power within that he could not define—then he placed it in a sheath he found a short distance away.
This he hitched to his belt.
Were the water and the blade gifts from Braxidane? He didn’t know, nor at this time did he particularly care.
The column of smoke still marked the horizon.
Garrick didn’t trust Braxidane, and he hated the idea of following the obvious. But his superior held all the cards in this game, and finding the source of the smoke seemed the best way to orient himself. Perhaps it was a city. So he took a final draught of the water, cursed Braxidane’s meddling, and headed toward the column.
As he walked, a snarling growl came from over his shoulder.
He spun, but not in time to slip under the hurling white weight that struck him high on the shoulder. The beast was huge and cat-like, its teeth were gnarled fangs stained yellow and purple, its claws extended like daggers.
Garrick rolled to the ground, and reached for his link to the plane of magic, trying to set a gate. There was nothing there, though. No gate, no rushing current of Talin’s magestuff. He felt nothing except the bitter wind and the burn of his hunger as it boiled beneath the surface of his mind.
The cat’s fur stood on end as it hunched down, then leaped.
Garrick dodged, but the beast’s claw ripped along his ribcage. The cat growled in triumph and turned, barring its purple teeth once again.
He reached for the sword and felt it pulse with the familiar tang of magestuff. It was a source, Garrick thought, a store of magical energy.
The cat struck again.
This time Garrick was quick enough to slice across its chest, bringing a vivid blue line of blood over its white fur. The cat’s scream was as coarse as shattering rock. The smell of its blood pulled on Garrick’s hunger.
He set a new gate, and this time magestuff flowed through the blade like a river.
The cat sniffed the wind, the folds above its nose gathering in
Rebecca Hamilton, Conner Kressley