by S L Matthews
Jorel’s eyes widened. He cursed at Rowan’s mischievous grin. “The fuck you smilin’ at. Tell her we’re not…”
“Pirates?” Ava interrupted. “Tell her you didn’t attack the Promenade? Tell her you haven’t been murdering people for—for him?!” Ava’s indignant finger shot to the darkened stairwell. She never turned her head. She didn’t need to. She smelled his rancid, honeyed scent. She knew he was still there. Ava inched closer, her lethal gaze locked onto Jorel.
Jorel’s guilty expression morphed to one of confusion. “Ava,” he said, looking over her shoulder.
“Where’s Taryn, Jor…”
“Ava!” Jorel shouted, grabbing her shoulders and spinning her around.
Viktor had descended the stairs, parting through the sea of soldiers and curious citizens. Behind him, marched a dozen mercenaries, weapons drawn, all eyeing the blackened stone hearth.
“Bring me my amulet,” Viktor bellowed. The showmanship had disappeared from his voice entirely, replaced by the tone of the man she had come to know, the man she saw behind closed doors.
Viktor waved a finger in Ava’s direction while his attention lay within the roaring flames. “She doesn’t leave.” Rowan and his men stepped before Ava, their weapons on the hilts of their blades. “Yes, sir,” Rowan snarled.
While Viktor approached the hearth, amazement filled his eyes. “There you are,” he mumbled, lifting the cane from his side. He covered his face, recoiling from the intense heat. Viktor poked at the firewood, collapsing the flaming timbers onto the hearth. A subtle clank rang through the tavern as the fire spread onto the blackened stone. The amulet pulsed from within. The flames reignited.
Viktor’s lecherous gaze returned, one Ava knew all too well. He extended his cane and prodded at the jewels. The onyx stones pulsed, absorbing the light of the fire.
Ava sensed the stones’ haunting rhythm. “Vesera,” she whispered. A familiar chant rose from near the fireplace. Lazarus rocked back and forth on his bench while subtle voices returned to Ava’s mind. She turned to Anduin, dread wrapped within her words.
“It’s coming.”
A dull rumble shook the walls of the inn. A murmur crept throughout the tavern as the tremor grew louder and more intense. Ava’s gaze returned to the amulet, the pulses echoing, the voices growing.
A scream ensued from the fireplace as Viktor’s cane suddenly lit ablaze. His gnarled, gargoyle-headed cane fell to the floor, disintegrating to mere ash. The metal tip liquified, seeping into the wooden floorboards.
Viktor staggered backward, wiping the pain from his hand, and Ava’s spirits lifted, seeing it would not wipe away so easily.
“Get me that amulet!” he screamed, beckoning to his men.
The tremors increased, rattling the roof and the hearts of those inside. The murmur turned to panic, and panic turned to screams of chaos. One of Viktor’s mercenaries stepped forward, pulling a metal gauntlet tight onto his oversized fist. He wiped the sweat from his brow and leaned forward, shielding himself from the heat of the blaze.
The large man picked up the amulet, holding it before the crowd while the tremors reached a fevered pitch. The townsfolk cowered against the walls and under tables as a horrific scream echoed off the walls. The wail turned to agony, the mercenary grasping at his outstretched hand. His gauntlet smoldered, and its metal cuffs melted away. The smell of seared flesh filled the tavern as the amulet fell back into the fire with a resounding clank.
The mercenary fell to his knees, grasping at his hand, or what was left. A bloodied stump protruded from the end of his arm while his gauntlet, and the melted hand within, rolled several feet away.
Another soldier extended his sword, scooping the pulsing gems from the flame. Within an instant, however, the jewels returned, the soldier withdrawing a partial blade, its tip now absent.
The voices in Ava’s mind returned to full strength. While the pain intensified, Ava doubled over, grasping the sides of her head. A pair of arms grabbed her as her knees buckled. She turned to Anduin, a blend of fear, remorse, and concern in his eyes.
“Ava?”
Ava returned his gaze, saying only, “It’s calling me.”
She spun from Anduin’s grasp, regaining her balance. One foot stepped before the next as she strode to the enormous fireplace. The tremors intensified. Jagged scars etched along the walls of the inn, and the distant sound of crumbled stone joined the screams of panic inside. Yet as people took cover, Ava pressed forward.
“Stop her!” Viktor commanded, then the sounds of the tavern blurred to nothing.
Soldiers pointed and barked orders. Weapons were unsheathed, and mercenaries advanced, but for Ava, the inn had drawn silent. Her gaze focused onto the pulsing gems, and the name they repeated, as though it was the only word it knew. To her surprise, it was not Vesera. The large, center stone pulsed, yet the single name Ava heard—was her own.
The tavern blurred into a frenzy. Tables shattered as bodies were thrown through them, and chairs tumbled end over end, destined for tavern walls, or a brawler’s back. Splintered wood flew through the air. Ava’s course, however, was undeterred.
Red and blue cloaks danced among the shadows, ducking and weaving through fists and swords. Jorel sprinted past Ava, leaping into the air, arms and legs outstretched. Like a flying spider cornering its prey, he flung himself onto the charging mercenaries. They toppled to the floor, calmly stepped over by Ava’s bare, bloodied feet.
The stones continued to call Ava’s name, the voices louder, their screams dire. The pain was unimaginable. It was a vice upon her skull and fire between her ears. Tears streamed down her face, yet step by step, Ava resumed her course.
She took a final step, her eyes fixed on the amulet, while chaos ensued around her. Ava knelt before the giant stone hearth and extended her hand, feeling the intense heat of the fire. Delicate, nimble fingertips scraped against blackened stone, They scooped the pulsing gems, and wrapped them in the palm of her hand.
The voices rang out, then stopped.
Ava felt the eyes of the tavern. She came to her feet, the onyx amulet dangling from her outstretched hand. Smoke rose from the gems, yet she felt no pain. The center stone pulsed one last time, and the tremors subsided, just as quickly as they began. The sun poured through the windows, converging on Ava’s form. She closed her eyes, lifted her head to the sky, and whispered.
“I hear you.”
A sword fell to the wooden floorboards, followed by another, then another. The rhythm of metal on wood echoed in quick succession as dozens of swords left soldiers’ hands, destined to rest on the rotten, wooden planks of the inn. Ava felt men and women sink into the corners, and warriors shuffle toward the wall. The fight had subsided, and all faces had become fixed on her. She absorbed the warmth of the sun, raising her hands to capture its rays.
With a final, slow exhale, Ava opened her eyes.
The line of mercenaries broke, retreating from the monster before them. Cyrean soldiers clustered wordlessly near the bar. It wasn’t Viktor’s puppets, however, that garnered Ava’s lethal gaze.
Viktor backpedaled, pushing past women and children, diving to the safety of the stairwell. “She’s a murderer! She’ll bring ruin to you all!”
Ava slowly tightened her fingers around the amulet, enveloping the stones within her grasp. Her gaze was fixed and focused as everyone stepped away from Viktor.
A brilliant, blue light bathed the tavern, glancing off broken glass, fallen swords, and metal armor. Those that gazed upon Ava reflected the blue in their eyes, each dropping their jaw in disbelief.
Viktor mumbled incoherently, snot and mucus adding to his incessant blubbering. “You must—you must save your king!”
Ava clutched the amulet, tightened her fists, and gritted her teeth. She seethed with anger. Redemption was upon her, and her resolve became clear. She whispered, a subtle statement heard by everyone in the entire inn, understood by all.
“Nothing in this world will save y
ou this time.”
| Chapter XIX
Sabre Tooth
The crowd gasped, exchanging questioning glances. Eramus staggered through the maze of people, his world spinning as they parted before him.
“Syndra Caitori!”
The faces around Eramus blurred into featureless gazes of curiosity and pity. They mumbled under their breaths and avoided the frantic man. The wind whipped through the street, and the snowflakes stung against his cheek.
“Sentinel…”
“I hear you, Professor.” A calm, controlled voice echoed from the street, light from the braziers reflecting off Syndra’s armor. “How can I help…”
“My wife, we must hurry,” Eramus interrupted, reaching for Syndra’s wrist. He hurried to the tent, tugging at the sentinel’s arm, but it would not budge. Eramus jerked backward as his arm drew taut. His body snapped upright. Like a tree rooted to the forest floor, the sentinel stood at attention, unfazed by his urgent request.
“But, she’s dying,” Eramus urged. “She needs…”
“Tell me,” Syndra interjected, her silver eyes panning the growing crowd outside the tent. Her voice remained calm, her gaze unwavering across the sea of faces. “What happened, Professor Caro?”
Eramus stood stunned, instinctively reaching for Syndra’s arm again. He glanced back to the tent, his mind reeling at his wife’s fate. “Stabbed,” he whispered. Eramus turned back to Syndra, who was still scanning the crowd. Eramus yelled louder, “she was stabbed.”
The crowd gasped once again as murmurs rose to meet the sudden revelation. A low rumble of voices filled the streets of Feathermoon while Eramus impatiently awaited the sentinel’s response. Yet Syndra remained quiet. She closed her eyes and tilted her head, as though listening to the wind. She smelled the chilly night air, but never turned his way.
“Syndra, please, will you list…”
“She’ll be fine, Professor.” Syndra continued, but no other words were said.
His blood boiled. He felt scared, helpless, and furious as the one person that could help his wife refused to move from her spot in the center of the street.
“Now you listen here. That’s my wife in there. She’s dying. My little girl is pressing against the…”
“Your wife only listens with her eyes, Professor Caro. Are you the same?” Syndra turned to face him. Her expression had not changed from the moment she entered the street. She did not glance toward the tent, nor did she show the faintest signs of interest. She stepped toward Eramus, her shadow creeping across his spectacled face. Her tanned skin reflected through the ribbed, bone armor as her silver gaze met his.
“You will learn. They deceive you.” Syndra stepped around Eramus, bending her body into the tent.
Eramus lunged forward, ripping open the flap and diving inside. Celien had been moved to the bed while Dervet Bossa delicately wrapped her shoulder. Standing over him was Cass Ferael and a fellow Cyrean guard, along with two Saracian soldiers from the expedition. Three other expedition members huddled together at the table, offering prayers to their respective gods. Opposite Dervet, holding her mother’s outstretched hand, knelt Marina, a nervous smile stretched across her face.
“What took you so long, father?” she whispered, to the reserved murmur of the crowded tent.
Eramus stared wordlessly at the crowd, all gathered to tend to his wife. He laughed to himself, cursing his ignorance. He stepped toward Marina, asking with hesitation, “you did this?”
Marina smiled across the way to the blonde, crimson-cloaked guard. With a grin and a wink to Cass, she added, “I had a little help.”
Syndra stepped to the foot of the bed, addressing Marina directly. “Describe these men, little one.” Marina was quick to oblige, describing every detail of the encounter with the man and his wagon, paying particular attention to the color, breed, and size of their horses.
The sentinel offered a subtle chuckle, eliciting silence and shocked stares from the crowded tent. No one had seen her laugh before. They weren’t even sure if she could. “Very well,” Syndra said. “I will ride first thing in the morning, Lady Caro. They cannot hide from me.”
Cass quickly took a small step forward, favoring her side. “I’d like to join you, Sentinel.” Similar requests followed as all in the room offered their support for Celien. Eramus stepped forward, adding a final request. “We would be forever in your debt, Syndra.”
Syndra, in her own way, simply nodded and leaned to the flap of the tent.
“Why would anyone hurt her for a silly crown,” Marina asked. “What did you call it? Diadem of Ill…Illyth…Theer?”
Syndra froze.
Her head snapped to Marina, and she stormed to the foot of the bed.
“What did you say?”
Marina went silent in an instant. Her body shrank, and her eyes drifted to her father for assistance.
“Tell me!” Syndra screamed, her fluid tone absent entirely.
“Ilythyr,” Eramus whispered, unsure of the sentinel’s response. He walked to the table and opened his notes to the sketch of the regal woman, adorned in robes, the diadem, and onyx amulet.
Syndra strode to the table in silence, tracing the drawing with her fingertips while the rest of the room exchanged curious glances. A small tear escaped her eye, splattering against the parchment.
Eramus cleared his throat, his eyes darting across the room. “I—I’m fairly certain this was it. I’ve spent most of my life studying…”
“My master will take care of these men,” Syndra interrupted, storming past him toward the streets of Feathermoon. She turned to the group, her eyes red and swollen. “Gather your things. We leave for Kir’Anora.”
Eramus stammered, questioning the sudden change in plans. He lifted his palms, seeking answers. “But, my wife—those men. We can’t just let them…”
“I’m leaving. Come or stay, the choice is yours,” Syndra snapped, stepping into the muddy streets.
Eramus chased, quickly rushing through the tent flaps. Syndra was nearly to the gates of Feathermoon before he caught her, reaching for her arm to slow her ferocious pace. The sentinel spun, and Eramus felt cold steel against his throat, her blade pressed against his neck. Tears flowed from Syndra’s eyes, her expression filled with fury.
Eramus raised his hands, slow and methodical. His voice cracked, breaking through the silence. “She said—my wife. Celien told me she trusted you. I—if she trusts you, then I trust you.”
Syndra lowered her blade. She cleared her throat and straightened her back, her silver gaze locking onto his. Without a word, the sentinel sheathed her sword and glanced to each side of the street. She nodded toward Eramus, then turned toward the towering wooden gate.
“We can be ready first thing,” Eramus shouted, interrupting her course once more. “All of us, we can have our things ready to…”
“No, Professor,” Syndra interjected, adjusting her armor. “We leave now.”
Celien winced as Dervet loosened the bandage, preparing a clean one in its place. Marina squeezed her hand, placing a fresh towel against her mother’s forehead.
“I never gave your mother much credit,” Dervet said, his tone coarse, yet reserved. “She’s strong, though, that much is for sure.” He delicately tucked the end of the bloodied bandage under Celien’s arm, pulling it from her body to examine the exposed wound.
“She’s also fortunate, your mother.”
He pointed to the hole in her chest, the small exit of the devilish blade. “You see, child. Clean through.” He reached behind her mother, applying a new bandage against the entry wound. “Nothing vital, no permanent damage. Either someone’s watching over this young lady, or your assassin is more skilled than we’re led to believe.”
Marina turned to Dervet, disbelief in her expression. “They tried to kill her!”
Dervet nodded in agreement, cutting the clean bandage free. “Aye, I won’t argue. It’s just…well, I’ve just never seen anything like it.” His finge
rs prodded high against Celien’s back. “You see, it came in here.” He then pointed against Celien’s chest, just below her shoulder. “And it exited here. This tells me the blade was curved, a pretty sharp curve at that.”
He leaned in closer, drawing Marina’s attention. “But the cut. Look here.”
Marina’s inquisitive gaze searched for his meaning, but nothing stood out. “I—I don’t see it, Lord Bossa.”
Dervet rolled his eyes, pressing his glasses against the bridge of his nose. “See the top of the cut? It’s smooth, sliced clean. That tells me it was incredibly sharp.” He then moved his finger to the bottom of the wound, where the skin was jagged and torn.
“See this, though? It’s like the bottom of the blade had teeth, like a thousand little blades.”
Marina leaned forward, her eyebrow curled into a question. “What did you just say?”
Dervet’s hands fell to his knees while he stared at Marina, leaning back against his chair. “What exactly didn’t you understand, girl?”
“Tell me what you said. Again!” Marina’s determined voice bled through every word.
Dervet paused, as though he was searching for understanding to Marina’s sudden interest. “O—kay. Very well, I was saying. The blade was curved, sharp across the top, but jagged across the…”
“Like a sabre’s tooth,” Marina interrupted, vaulting to her feet. She leapt over her cot and dove into the corner of the tent. Clothes, blankets, and rations flew across the room as Marina rifled through her belongings.
“Listen,” Dervet began. “I was on that bluff as well. I can’t explain what I saw any more than you. But we can’t be jumping to…”
“Could it have been a sabre’s tooth?” Marina demanded, throwing her pack to the floor. She scanned the tent, flipping over boxes and crates, searching in desperation.
Marina’s temper boiled over, waiting for a response from Dervet. She fumed at his dismissive silence. “Answer me!” she screamed, startling the naturalist.