Sethanel had only been doing the right thing. Oscar should have understood this sooner. He should have followed Emmanuel’s advice and become a student in the Core Studies program. Then he never would have entered the Tailspin Tavern, never would have embarked on a stupid mission to save complete strangers, never would have led his father to his death.
Oscar had killed him—he had killed his own father.
“You stupid idiot,” he told himself, and then he sat against the wall and dropped his head into his hands. “What did you do? What did you do?”
Imagining the life he and his father could have lived in Theus, the life that he, Oscar, had selfishly thrown away, he rolled onto his side and hugged himself in the dark, biting back the urge to cry.
Something in his pocket dug into the flesh of his thigh—a hard, ridged thing like a piece of jewelry.
The Araband.
CHAPTER 49
T he storm died in the blink of an eye.
Emmanuel picked himself up from a patch of soil that held not a trace of snow or a single rock. The cloud cover had thinned to almost nothing, allowing the smoky glow of morning to fill the forest. It would have been peaceful were it not for the danger that still lurked nearby.
His skin was warm beneath a protective layer composed of luminether molecules. The spell had protected Emmanuel’s eyes and ears from the blast as well as his body from the impact of being flung dozens of feet away. He dismantled it with a wave, thinking of Emma and Milo.
On impulse, he reached into his inner coat pocket and checked his Araband. It trembled at his touch, meaning a message awaited him.
Emma’s worried face flashed to life in front of him when he turned it on. She was in a bathroom stall. Her voice came out a shaky whisper.
“Uncle Manny, I did like you said. I practiced using my Sight, and it worked. I saw Iolus. He was in a cavern, or something like that, and there was a river, and all these crystals…”
Emmanuel listened. He understood all too well what the vision meant. The smuggling of the emperor’s crystals, the secrecy, the consequences…
Iolus had figured it out, and he was close.
Emmanuel put the Araband away and zipped up his jacket. He shivered, though not because he was cold.
“Thank you, Emma,” he said. “And goodbye, sweetheart.”
HE RAN.
The air, freed from the storm’s violent swings, now smelled of soil and tree bark. He breathed it in, but his pleasure was short-lived. Though one storm had died, another had risen.
“What the hell did you do?”
Pris had barked the question at him with a ferocity that surprised even Emmanuel. Trailing her, Joel and Synthia blinked at their surroundings as if the blast had flung them into a completely different world. They were probably wondering why they were still alive. Even a Sargonaut should not have been able to survive an explosion capable of disintegrating an entire stone building.
“Dark magic,” Joel said, glaring at Emmanuel. “There is no other explanation. We have been betrayed.”
“Just listen.” Emmanuel approached cautiously. They were Sargonauts, after all. Pris’s face was flushed bright pink with anger. Once, when they were kids, one of Emmanuel’s teasing remarks had earned him a punch to the chest. It had cracked two of his ribs, and she’d had to carry him to the nearest healer. Since then, Emmanuel had always been cautious whenever her temper rose—cautious, but never scared.
“Back away,” Pris said, baring her sword.
“Don’t be impulsive, Pris. You know I always have my reasons.”
“You promised we would get medicine.”
“I’ll explain when we get back. We’re not safe yet.”
Pris grabbed Emmanuel’s coat and flung him backward. He slammed into a tree and crumpled like tissue paper against its base. The force flung his sunglasses right off his face, but thankfully, no bones had broken this time.
“You’re a bastard for making me do that,” Pris said.
Emmanuel picked himself up with a grunt. “That really hurt, you know. On the inside more than the outside.”
“Oh? You have feelings? I’m sorry, I didn’t realize.”
“Yes, I lied about the nature of the mission.” He picked up his glasses and slipped them back on. “But we had to act fast. Otherwise, you would have insisted on planning it out, maybe fortifying the village before we took off. I know you, Pris.”
She was about to respond when Joel cut her off with a slicing motion.
“This black mage lied about the medicine that would save my daughter. I won’t stand for it. He has to pay.”
Pris crossed her arms. “See what you’ve done?”
Emmanuel held out a hand to halt Joel’s approach. Would the man actually challenge him to a fight? A magician of Emmanuel’s reputation? It was possible. Out here, the people had their own legends, their own brand of justice. Emmanuel might have been a legend in Ayrtoros, but here anything could happen.
“This isn’t the time or the place,” he warned the man.
Joel continued his angry stride. Emmanuel had to coat his hand with a crackling electric field to make him reconsider.
“You put that away, magician. Fight me like a man.”
“I like my skeleton intact, thank you very much,” Emmanuel said. After a moment, he killed the spell with a weary sigh. “Listen to me. There were medical supplies in that base, but none of them would have cured your daughter. There is only one spell that can save her, and only I can give it to her.”
Now Synthia was the one who looked murderous. “You expect us to believe you now?”
“I say we take him down,” Joel said.
“Relax,” Pris told them. “I won’t let you harm this man. But that doesn’t mean we can’t chase him off this continent for good.”
Joel cracked his knuckles, glaring at him. Emmanuel considered what he was about to say. The end had always been near, but today seemed so sudden. He thought of his niece and nephew—Milo with his blind eye and Emma with her golden wings. Hopefully someday they would understand.
“Kill me,” Emmanuel said. “You would be doing me a favor. But you would be guaranteeing Genvella’s death. Or, let me tend to her, and then I will leave you.”
He took off his glasses and stared at Pris. The woman’s scowl softened into a look of confusion. The only other time Emmanuel had ever looked at her like that was just before he had abandoned her, a long time ago.
“Fine,” Pris relented, clearly mystified. “To the jet.”
They ran out of the clearing and back into the carpet of thick snow beyond the blast radius. Emmanuel was huffing and panting by the time the jet came into view, still only a tiny shape beyond the trees.
A whistling sound made him duck.
Joel gave a fitful jerk and cried out. He staggered a few steps before landing facedown in the snow, an arrow sticking out of his back.
“Hit the ground,” Emmanuel ordered.
Synthia and Pris dropped as another arrow sliced through the air, narrowly missing them.
“Father,” Synthia said, dragging herself toward Joel. “Hold on.”
“Get back,” Emmanuel screamed.
Synthia froze. Pris grabbed the woman’s belt and yanked her behind the trunk of a nearby oak. Emmanuel didn’t have to warn them about the arrows. Anything capable of piercing Sargonaut flesh didn’t have to be explained—only feared.
He yanked the arrow out of Joel’s back, bringing a pained moan from the half-conscious man. The weapon’s exotic tip was unlike any arrowhead to be found at the local blacksmith’s. Only a handful of men could forge metal like this.
Emmanuel dug a luminether crystal out of his coat and tossed it into the snow. From it he summoned a quick spell. It poured forth a mist that captured any arrows shot into it—a simple, cheap spell for the everyday, hectic battlefield.
Safe for now, he removed a leather kit from his pocket, snapped it open, and plucked out a syringe containing a yellow fl
uid. The needle tip was Tiberian, perfect for piercing Sargonaut skin. He stuck it into the wound in Joel’s back and hammered his palm against the plunger, forcing the liquid into the man’s stubborn bloodstream. That would take care of the poison; his rapid healing ability, a birthright of every Sargonaut, would take care of the rest.
With a wave, Emmanuel spread the shielding mist to form a crude wall several yards long. A flapping sound overhead told him the next attack would come from the sky.
“He’s above us. Stay close to cover.”
The women obeyed the order, ducking from tree to tree while Synthia dragged her father. Emmanuel tossed spells at the snow-laden branches, creating a white fog that he hoped would stop the arrows. It seemed incredible that he and three Sargonauts would be running from a man with a bow and arrow—and yet that was the nature of Tiberian Steel. That, and he had heard about Coscoros’s skill in marksmanship.
The jet was only a dozen yards away now. Emmanuel came to a sudden stop.
“What are you doing?” Pris called back to him.
He dug out a crystal and raised it toward the sky. In the loudest voice he could muster, he called on the forest’s energy.
“Shield us!”
A protective dome sprang over them, though not far enough to cover the jet.
A flashing grenade fell from the sky and landed on the wing. Instantly, the craft exploded in a burst of flames. Pieces flew in every direction and bounced harmlessly off the shield dome.
Pris ducked and raised her sword. “What’s happening?”
Emmanuel had brought along the arrow that had struck Joel. Despite being smeared in the man’s blood, the arrowhead’s black tip shone with an unnatural luster and radiated tendrils of oily smoke.
“Tiberian Steel mixed with Cebron blood,” he explained. “The same metal used to kill my brother. We’re dealing with Coscoros and none other. Be careful.”
He tossed the arrow into the snow. Pris and Synthia looked up for signs of their pursuer, but the smoke from the explosion made it difficult to see. It billowed across the dome’s surface, clouding it. Soon, the darkness was as complete as the night had been only hours ago.
“How long will this shield hold up?” Pris said.
“Not long.” Emmanuel walked toward the edge of the safe zone and brightened a crystal for light. “But it won’t have to.”
Wings flapped outside the barrier, casting a current that cleared smoke from one side of the dome. A pale face emerged in the empty spot. Dressed all in black, with artificial wings blocking the background, the Dark Acolyte’s face seemed to float in the darkness like a grisly mask, smiling in that sneering way Emmanuel knew all too well.
“Emmanuel,” Coscoros said. “We’ve never met in person, but I must say, you look much like your slain brother.”
The Acolyte lifted a dagger made of the same sickening, black metal as the arrowhead.
“The same one I drove into Maximus. You should have seen him stagger about like a drunk before he toppled.”
Emmanuel only stared quietly at the Acolyte. “Two for the price of one,” he said finally. He’d wanted to say it all along.
The Acolyte gave him a skewed look. “You’re not losing your mind on me now, are you, Savant?”
Emmanuel shook his head. “That’s what you were thinking when you set up this trap. Pris and I should have walked into that base and let you blow it up. Two demigods for the price of one. And if that failed, we should have gotten into the jet so you could blow that up instead. Two for the price of one.”
Coscoros shook his head. “You Savants think you’re so clever.”
“Bored, in this case.” Emmanuel smiled as rage blossomed on the man’s face. “What else do you have, dark one? Besides bad luck.”
“I have time,” Coscoros said. He tapped his blade against the barrier, making a series of thrumming noises. “This spell won’t last another hour. When it’s gone, you’re mine.”
“Wait, I’m confused,” Emmanuel said. “You’re going to wait for the spell to run out? Then you’ll do what, attempt a physical attack? On the ground, where your fake wings and speed are useless? Against three Sargonauts—one of whom is a legendary demigod Champion, and another a battlemage who founded the world’s leading school of magic and warfare?”
Coscoros only grinned at him. The man was not stupid, which meant he must be insane. “Are you having fun, magician?”
“Only because the weather is so exquisite in these parts,” Emmanuel said. “All I need now is a frostberry cocktail and a copy of the Astrican Times. You?”
The Acolyte spat a curse at Emmanuel.
“Well, this has been relaxing,” Emmanuel said, lifting his arm in the direction of the wreckage, “but we have a flight we really must catch.”
He flicked his hand, sweeping smoke off the dome’s surface. Soft daylight entered, and several feet away, the smoldering remains of the jet began to shake.
An elongated steel egg rose from the rubble without a scratch on it.
“We call these ‘dummy pods’ in Theus,” Emmanuel said, turning the egg with a revolving motion of one finger. “That’s because even a dummy who crashes his jet can still rely on one of these darlings for a quick getaway.”
With a come-hither motion, he floated the pod through the dome and landed it between Pris, who frowned, and Synthia, who grinned. Joel clutched his wounded back and watched in dizzy disbelief as a hatch opened along one side, exposing a cramped seating area.
“Get in,” Emmanuel said.
Coscoros tapped the barrier with his dagger again, this time like someone carrying important news. “You’ve accomplished nothing. All you’ve done is delay the inevitable. This was just a diversion so we could focus on the real targets—Milo and Emma. ‘Two for the price of one,’ you mentioned earlier, and appropriately so. Those twins will pay double the price when I force them to open each other’s throats with the same blade that killed their father.”
Emmanuel was in the process of climbing into the pod. He stopped, cupped his ear, and glanced back at Coscoros.
“Sorry, what was that?”
Coscoros pointed the blade at him. “We’ll see each other again.”
The magician climbed into the pod and eased himself into the driver’s seat. It was cramped, but more comfortable than he remembered these things being. “You might have better luck against children,” he told the dark one, “though if last time is any indication, you might want to pack a spare set of wings. I hear the boy’s a really good shot with that fireball.”
By then, the Dark Acolyte had disappeared. Good. Let him fly back to his masters with his tail between his legs.
The hatch closed, and a red light turned on inside.
“Everyone buckle up.” He glanced back at Synthia, who sat between an impatient-looking Pris and a semi-conscious Joel. “You brought that rope, right?”
“What’s with you and that stupid—”
Pris grabbed Synthia’s arm. “He’s kidding.”
“Oh, cryin’ Sargos,” the woman cursed.
Emmanuel’s laughter filled the tight space as the dummy pod rose out of the forest, headed toward Crystal Bark.
CHAPTER 50
A rtemis was the first to notice a change in her fighting style.
“Take it easy,” he said, glancing up from one of his maps as Calista danced around a wooden dummy, her sword causing chips to fly. “You’ll exhaust yourself.”
She spoke without slowing. “I don’t feel tired one bit.”
“Clearly. But still…” His voice trailed off. He tossed the map onto a nearby table and approached the dummy, mouth agape with wonder. “Well, I’ll be damned.”
Calista stopped to study her work. The dummy had been a crude, man-shaped hunk of wood before. Now it possessed something resembling a face.
“Is it—smiling?” he asked, running a hand over jagged features that hadn’t been there fifteen minutes ago.
“More like grinning,” Cali
sta said with a smile of her own.
“Well, chop off my tail,” he said. “It really is grinning. Since when did you become an artist?”
A FEW DAYS LATER, Athenara slid open the curtain to the women’s bathing section. Calista had been sitting naked in the huge plastic tub, her back to the entrance. She startled at the noise of the curtain’s metal loops sliding across the pole and tried to cover herself, not in shame at her nakedness but to cover the tattoos.
“Oops,” Athenara said, snapping the curtain shut again.
Calista listened, breathing hard, but heard no retreating footsteps. Athenara opened the curtains again and stepped in.
“What did you do to yourself?” she whispered fiercely at Calista. “You didn’t have those when we got here.”
“It’s my new armor,” Calista blurted. She had no idea what that meant, only that it felt like the right thing to say. Athenara stared at the designs a moment longer before shaking her head in disbelief and walking out.
Calista wiped away soap bubbles and took a minute to admire the tattoos, which were of snakes extending their leathery green bodies toward a pair of wings that stretched across her shoulder blades and down the lengths of her arms. The snakes wanted to sink their fangs into the feathers and restrain those wings, but they couldn’t and never would.
Athenara told no one about the tattoos, not even two weeks later when Artemis hurried into the church through the hidden door with Lance’s body draped over his shoulder.
They were both covered in blood.
“No,” Calista said, running over. “What happened?”
“Berserker,” Artemis said, out of breath. His face was pale and sweaty, his eyes aghast. He looked unharmed, which meant the blood was from Lance. “He tried—tried to run—but he wasn’t fast enough. It had a deathmace.”
Calista bent over Lance. He was still breathing, but just barely. His chest had been crushed.
And then he was choking.
“Lance,” Calista said, gripping his cold hand.
His eyes bulged as he tried to gulp down air. Artemis and the others rushed to find medical supplies, while Calista stayed by her brother’s side.
Savant & Feral (Digital Boxed Set): Books 1 and 2 of the Epic Luminether Fantasy Series Page 78