“Is that so?” Iza asked. “I thought only one person had that power, but it seems we were wrong. It's a good thing Adara came along.”
Milli laughed so hard she choked on her potion. Artair frowned at Nick. “I told you a fake name wouldn't keep her identity a secret.”
“Sure it will,” Milli said once her sputtering stopped. “We're certainly not going to say anything, and no one else will come close enough to the Mardróch to see she isn't freezing. They'll just think she's able to kill them more easily for another reason.” She handed her container back to Nick. “I have to get closer to the Mardróch to get them to follow me. Their intelligence means I need to make it obvious I'm the one shaking them. While I'm out there, I'll tell people to come see you.”
Nick nodded. “Sounds good. I guess we're ready then.”
“Not quite,” Artair said and pulled two red ribbons from his pocket. He handed one to Nick and the other to Meaghan. “Put these on your right wrists. If anyone comes around who doesn't have one on, or who has one on their left wrist, don't trust them.”
Meaghan tied her ribbon, and then they all set to work. Milli found her way onto the field, knocking down enemies as she went with a tap of her foot on the ground. Artair took his place next to Meaghan on the edge of the field, and Iza ran to help a friend who appeared to be losing to an opponent not far away.
“There's a Mardróch over there,” Artair told her and pointed to their left. “If I start lobbing orbs at him, he'll come running. Are you ready?”
She nodded, though the gesture was a lie. Standing on the field, this close to the action, the reality of the situation struck her. Not fifteen feet away, she watched a young woman about her age fall from a knife wound to the neck. The middle-aged man who had murdered her raised crazed eyes in Meaghan's direction before taking an electric orb from Artair. The burn mark the orb left behind seared through clothing and flesh, leaving an unmistakable stench she would always associate with death. The man toppled over his victim.
Behind the piled bodies, another person fell. This man, his wrists free of ribbons, became a symbol of victory for her allies. But he looked no different to Meaghan. She did not see an enemy. She only saw the lifeless form of a human being, the soulless eyes of someone's father or son. And in that man's vacant stare, she understood the truth Nick had been trying to tell her. To survive the battle, she would have to take a life. She had trouble killing the fake Mardróch in her field test and he had been a grotesque creature with no hint of humanity left within him. How could she kill someone who looked like he could be her neighbor? How could she stare into the eyes of someone with a recognizable soul and dim that light?
The thought drew bile up the back of her throat. She could not kill. And if that was her answer, she would not survive. Panic overwhelmed her. Another ribbonless enemy drew close, and then fell to the ground, victim to another of Artair's orbs. She witnessed it all like a slow-motion movie, surreal and muted, before primal fear drove her into action. She turned to flee. She took no more than a single step before Artair's efforts drew the closest Mardróch toward them. The monster came too fast, and his red eyes caught Artair off guard. Artair froze, an orb still sizzling between his fingers, and Meaghan lost her only protection.
The Mardróch raised his hands. Lightning arced between his fingers. His laugh echoed his sinister intent as he eyed his frozen prey. He pushed his hands forward, preparing to strike, and Meaghan did what her training had taught her to do. She found a knife, slipped it from her belt and threw it with the speed and accuracy her muscles had come to memorize. The knife passed between the Mardróch's hands, slicing through his lightning bolt, and sank into his exposed face. He crumpled to the ground, revealing a second enemy behind him. An arrow sat within the man's bow, ready to fly. He pointed it at her, drew his elbow back, and instinct drove her second knife into his heart.
Only after he fell did she see his humanity, and recognize him as more than her enemy. Though she understood she had no other choice—she had to kill him or she would be dead—she would never forget his face. And she would never forget the look of disbelief that passed over it when his life slipped from his grasp.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
“INCOMING!” ARTAIR'S voice boomed beside Meaghan. He gripped her arm. “To your right,” he shouted and she tore her eyes from the dead man. The Mardróch had begun to find their way across the field, joined by some of their comrades. Meaghan retrieved her spent knives, hastily wiped them clean on the dried grass, and continued to fight.
The first woman who raised her sword to strike found a swift end when Meaghan's blade sliced through her neck. She bled out within seconds. Before Meaghan could retrieve her knife, two more people attacked. A man came from the left, his hand clutching what looked to be a smaller version of a scythe. A woman charged from the right, weaponless at first glance, but Meaghan soon realized the woman held a far greater tool. She narrowed her eyes. Her lips upturned into a knowing smile, and pain seared through Meaghan's head, a fire that burned all thought from existence. She crumpled to her knees, and then forced her legs to sustain her weight once more.
The pain surged again. Even with her best efforts to ignore it, it distracted her, blinded the edges of her vision, and filled her ears with high-pitched ringing. It would not take long before the enemies overcame her. The sharp blade of the man's scythe glinted in the sun as he raised it. Meaghan blocked his strike, and then shoved him away. He tripped over a body and landed flat on his back.
Meaghan turned in time to see the woman remove a small knife from her belt. Though Meaghan's arms hung heavy like lead, she forced them up, using her knives to deflect the woman's first attack. She missed the second. The woman flicked her wrist, twisting the knife so the blade bit the flesh of Meaghan's forearm, drawing blood.
Meaghan barely registered the injury. The throbbing in her head blocked out all else. She tried to lift her knife to deflect another attack, but failed. This one sliced her upper arm. Pain charged through her shoulder, hot and swift. It commanded her attention, stealing the focus from her head.
Adrenaline coursed through her. She lifted both of her hands, deflecting another blow and pushed against her attacker. The woman staggered backward. Meaghan did the same, putting more distance between them, and then turned in time to block a scythe blade from slicing her head. The man locked eyes with Meaghan, growled, and then reached for a knife at his belt. He made a move for her stomach. She jumped back, barely avoiding the tip of his blade, and then became the aggressor. Her knife met its target, though it did not embed in his chest as she had hoped. It sliced through cloth and skin, bringing enough blood to the surface to soak through his shirt. The wound would not be fatal, but it would slow him down.
As Meaghan's injuries had done to her.
She struggled to move her stiff shoulder. Warm blood coursed a path down her arm and over her hand, making her grip on the knife slick. She crossed her blades, deflecting another blow. The pain in her shoulder surged with the impact. The pain in her head swelled, too. A glance behind her confirmed the woman had rebounded. She charged at the same time the man took another swing with his scythe. Meaghan blocked it, but could not turn in time to stop the knife the woman threw in her direction.
Meaghan saw it coming. She understood its accuracy and its fatality. She raised her own blade to deflect it, understanding, too, that the effort would be useless, and then the knife froze. It trembled in the air, then reversed direction and flew into the head of its owner. The woman collapsed to the ground. Meaghan saw it all happen, and though confusion replaced the pain that no longer gripped her head, she could not dwell on it. She heard a grunt beside her, and spun around in time to halt the scythe's descent. The man raised his blade again, but before he could bring it down a second time, he backed away from her.
Not backed away, she realized, but slid backward across the grass. His eyes grew wide. His face stiffened in panic. He dropped his scythe to the ground. Then he turned
in time for a sword to pierce his stomach.
Iza smiled at her before pulling his weapon from the body of her attacker. Then he raised an eyebrow and pointed into the field. The battle had grown too noisy for him to speak so she could hear him, but she understood what he meant. A Mardróch had frozen a woman a hundred yards away and had begun advancing on her. Instead of using electricity to dispense of her, he held a blade in his hand and Meaghan realized he intended to take his time killing his prey. Iza wanted to know if she felt prepared for the monster. Meaghan nodded, and he yanked the Mardróch away from the woman.
The creature wailed as Iza dragged him across the field. Meaghan recognized the sound of frustration and relished in it. Her satisfaction did not last long. When Iza released the Mardróch, the creature advanced on her. He raised his hands. Lightning shot from finger to finger. Then he grinned and stared her straight in the eyes. She pretended to freeze, and when he moved to strike, she dove out of the way. She hit the ground and rolled to the left. The lightning bolt shot over her head. It struck the earth behind her, kicking up a shower of grass and dirt.
The Mardróch swore. “You,” he hissed. “You're foolish to come here. This will be your last day.”
“If it is, you won't see it,” she responded. She drew a knife and struck, but the blade only bounced off the Mardróch's impenetrable cloak. She debated throwing her weapon, but the thought fled as fast as it had come. She stood too close to him, and from this angle, she would never be able to throw the blade with enough force to kill.
She rolled to avoid another bolt of lightning and her back hit something hard. Launching to her knees, she grasped behind her for the object, and then pitched forward to avoid another lightning strike. The bolt created a small crater in the ground where she had been kneeling.
Jumping to her feet, she tore across the field. Sun glinted off the scythe blade in her hand. She tightened her grip on it. She could hear the Mardróch's rasping breath as he chased her, smell his joy in the odor that assaulted her nostrils, and when his laughter rattled close to her ear, she spun around to face him. Holding the scythe between both hands, she swung it. He tried to block her, but the blade broke past his arms, finding purchase within the opening of his hood. His joy ended as he fell.
Meaghan stared down at him, and then looked around for another impending threat. Grief and fear came from her right. Agony and excitement flowed from her left. And though no one fought close by, she realized the danger confronting her. She had run too far. She could no longer sense Nick's power. The emotions washed over her and through her, paralyzing her to her spot. Terror, anxiety, and hatred joined the fray in her head. Exhaustion drew on her muscles. Anticipation accelerated her heart. Pain almost brought her to the ground. And the overwhelming mix of everything returned bile to her throat.
She willed her body to find its way back to Nick's power, but it refused to obey. Something hit her shoulder. She expected to feel the warmth of her own blood coursing down her back, the bite of steel or the swift heat of a piercing arrow, but only numbness greeted her. The sensation emanated from the point of impact, creeping along her skin like dozens of tiny spiders.
She reached for a knife, prepared to turn around and face her attacker, but her legs would not budge. She struggled to gulp another breath, drawing it in moments before the numbing sensation spread across her chest. Then she saw him.
He advanced around her, slow and taunting, as a crooked smile crept over his face. He held no weapons in his hands. None hung from his belt, and she realized as soon as her eyes fell on the white streak painted through his black hair that he did not need them. His touch alone guaranteed her death. He lifted a hand to wave, the good-bye gesture not lost on her, and then she turned to stone.
The clang of metal on metal, the explosions, whistles and screams, the commands and yells—they all disappeared, lost to cavernous silence. Her eyes remained open though she could not see. She could not blink. She held her right index finger at an odd angle. She wanted to straighten it, but it refused to twitch. Her feet sunk into the ground, useless. Her arms hung heavy, glued to her sides. And her lungs ached as if a hundred rocks had been piled on top of them. They burned with the need to release her last breath.
Nothing of her body obeyed her command. Yet by some cruel design, her power still forced its way through her prison, bringing with it hundreds of emotions. It tortured her, pulling on every fiber of her consciousness, and it left her with no relief—no tears to ease the sorrow, no screams to erase the torment. Not even the ability to throw up to release the poison filtering into her. She remained trapped, connected to every emotion in a way she had never experienced before.
She would have preferred the pain of death at a Mardróch's hand to this. She thought of the doll, of the technique Nick had taught her, and wondered if it could quiet her last moments. She needed to focus her power on something, anything. The rough hilt of her knife pushed back against the palm of her hand, so she cast her empath power toward it. The power moved some, but it did not shift enough. She brought her focus to the stone encasing her, but could not grab hold of it. Then, in a last desperate attempt, she turned her power to the only thing she had left—her own emotions. They echoed back to her. She felt fear, and then sensed it before the two blended into one. Panic came next, then sadness, though she held that emotion not for her death, but for Nick. Then those, too, reverberated, and quieted. Pain came last, searing her lungs and signaling the end.
Her power overlapped her emotions, driving the world out, and soon she felt nothing but relief.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
“BRING THEM here,” Nick commanded from a distance. “Lay them down.”
Meaghan floated through the air. Something hard pressed against her back. Fingers touched the base of her neck.
“She's breathing.” Nick's voice came from above her this time before moving away. “He's not though. I need to get his heart going. Felix, grab the syringe from the kit, the one with the red end. Let's hope this works,” he said after a brief pause. Silence elapsed, and then Meaghan heard a raspy gasp. “That's it,” Nick said. “Stay down, Artair. Rest for a while, all right?”
“Okay,” Artair agreed. His voice sounded weak and ragged, and she doubted he even had the strength to rise. “What happened?”
“You were turned to stone,” Nick told him.
“Yes, that's right,” Artair whispered. “I remember now. Adara ran off. I tried to catch her.”
“It's kind of a habit with her. She's fine though. She's just a little slow waking up.”
“Your concern is touching,” Meaghan muttered. Opening her eyes, she sat up. Wounded lay on the ground around her. Some slept. Others drank potions. All of them showed bruises, dried blood, and bandages. Nick crouched over Artair, but when she spoke, he turned toward her. His smile of relief broadcast the truth of his concern.
“Don't worry,” he responded. “You'll know my feelings soon enough. You broke your promise.”
“I'm sorry,” she said. Her sadness for him still seemed raw and real so she stood and went to him. Kneeling beside him, she took his hand in hers. “It wasn't intentional. I had to run from the Mardróch. It was the only way I could survive.”
Nick's face remained controlled, but she could see the fear in his eyes. She focused her empath power on him. “You can stop blocking me,” she said. “Use your energy for other things.”
“If I do, you'll—”
She shook her head, cutting off his protest. “I found another way to use your technique. I think it's how the power's meant to be controlled. It feels natural.” Relief and then curiosity blossomed within him before pride overshadowed his other emotions. He smiled, and she returned the gesture. Then she focused her power back on her own emotions, silencing it.
“How are we no longer stone?” she asked, shifting her mind back to the battle.
“Dahlia killed the man who attacked you,” a voice behind her answered. She turned to see Iza standing a
few feet away. Tears coursed down his cheeks, mixing with splattered blood. In his hands, he held a cream, knit cap saturated red in places. The blood on the cap still looked fresh.
“My daughter killed him,” he whispered. “She has a telepathic power. Had,” he corrected and closed his eyes. “She had that power. She was helping us protect you, but a Mardróch, he,” Iza's voice broke. His fingers tightened around the cap, and his shoulders shook.
“I'm sorry,” Meaghan whispered.
She remembered the knife, which had reversed direction in mid-air and understood what had happened. Dahlia had saved her life. Twice. And in exchange, she had become a sacrifice. It did not seem right. Meaghan shook, too, but not from grief.
“How many Mardróch remain?” she asked.
“Six,” Nick responded. “Iza got the one who killed his daughter.”
“Then I have work to do.”
“You need to rest. You haven't had time to—”
Rather than argue, she ignored him. Standing, she turned toward the field, but found her way blocked by a man who looked more like a mountain of muscle than a human being. If she had been on Earth, she would have pegged him as a professional wrestler. Here, his mass served the better purpose of a wall. He raised a bushy eyebrow over a storm blue eye, and crossed thick arms over his chest. His bald head only added to his imposing demeanor.
“I believe the Healer is talking to you,” he said.
She crossed her arms, mimicking his posture. “He's not a Healer, and I don't know who you are, but I'd appreciate it if you'd get out of my way.”
“He's the closest thing we have to one right now,” the man replied. “And he's due the same respect. He's saving lives, and from what I can tell, you're only costing them.”
Meaghan's cheeks heated. She pressed her lips together to cover the sting his words had caused. “I'm not—”
Aerenden: The Gildonae Alliance (Ærenden Book 2) Page 18