by Brandon Mull
“Do not engage!” Farfalee called. “We went over this back in Durna. A lurker bearing swords can only slay one of us, unless we attack it. One of us may have to pay the toll for the rest of us to proceed.”
A chill ran up Jason’s back. It was him. He would have to pay the toll. Could he be wrong? Maybe he was wrong.
“Failie,” Drake said. “What about the worst-case scenario?”
Farfalee deferred to her husband. “Jasher?”
“We do what must be done,” he said.
“What worst-case scenario?” Jason wondered.
“If it wants somebody, we can’t lose,” Drake replied.
“It’s coming aboard,” a nervous drinling announced, retreating aft. An instant later the torivor came over the side of the boat and landed nimbly on the deck.
“Steady,” Aram grumbled. “Give it space. Don’t offer it an excuse to retaliate.”
Both swords held ready, the torivor turned in a slow circle. No moonlight reflected off its dark form. It was blacker than the sea, blacker than the space between the stars. It made no sound. The shadowy entity stopped turning and faced Jason.
Deep down, Jason had known it was here for him. From his first glimpse of the sinister figure striding upon the water, he had felt an instinctive certainty. His mouth was dry. He could feel his pulse in his hands and throat.
Jason had seen lurkers in action. He was dead. He wouldn’t last a second. There was no place to hide, no way to defend himself.
What if he jumped overboard? It could walk on the water. It would follow him. It would stab him to death in the sea.
Despite the hollow doom in his chest, Jason tried to hold himself together. An irrational part of him wanted to run, to hide, to scream. Glancing at his friends, he saw their concern, and he tried to take strength from their presence.
He was dead! There was nothing he could do. He knew he had been playing a dangerous game. He had theoretically known it might end this way. But part of him had resolutely expected to survive.
That was not going to be the case. Staring at the impassive torivor, Jason knew his life was over. It was almost as if it had already happened. What was he supposed to do? He tried to imagine how Galloran would handle the situation. Galloran would kill the lurker. But what if Galloran knew he couldn’t kill the lurker? He would face it with courage. Like a hero.
Jason straightened. Tears threatened, but he refused them. Since his death was unavoidable, he should try to face it with courage. The lurker might take his life, but it had no power over his dignity. He would try to die well. It would give him something to focus on. He wished he could stop his fingers from trembling.
What about the quest? There was not much to be done about that. This would have to be all right. He had no alternative. The others would have to go on without him, finish the mission. He had known at the start that he might lose his life. He had known that sacrifices were coming. Others had already died bravely. Why should he always be protected?
Hopefully, his death wouldn’t spoil the quest. Maybe his role had been to figure out how to destroy the Maumet. He had wondered why the oracle had placed an emphasis on him. He might have already done his part. The others would collect the information from Darian. It could all happen without him.
Jason tried to slow his breathing. He didn’t want to die! He tried to plan. He had practiced with his sword. Maybe if he gave it everything he had, he would survive for a few seconds. Or maybe he should just stand there and force the lurker to strike him down in cold blood. Why give it the satisfaction of pretending to fight?
“It knows you,” Corinne said. “It’s trying to reach you.”
Jason gave a nod. The charm necklace would prevent mental contact. His psychic inability might also block communication.
“It shared dreams with you,” Corinne murmured, rubbing her elbows as if she felt a chill.
“Lurky?” Jason asked. Was this the same lurker he had met shortly after his return to Lyrian?
The air remained still, the sea quiet.
Jason resolved that if the lurker insisted on a duel, he would try his best. Whether a lucky victory was possible or not, he would feel better if he went down swinging. Maybe it would help distract him from the pain of the fatal blow.
The torivor extended one of the swords, the blade pointed directly at Jason. The dark being turned the weapon upright and tossed it to him, the sword traveling at the perfect angle for Jason to catch the weapon by the hilt.
As Jason reached out his hand, Drake stepped in front of him and intercepted it.
The lurker rushed forward, forcing Drake to deflect a flurry of swings. The blades chimed musically, each ringing collision reverberating over the water. Drake circled to his right, and the lurker stayed with him, pressing the attack. The seedman barely parried blow after blow.
Jason watched in a daze. The weight of his impending death had settled so firmly in his heart and mind that he felt astonished by the interruption. Drake was trying to save him. Jason felt a wrenching mix of gratitude and horror. Could the seedman possibly win?
Jasher stole the sword from Jason’s sheath and joined the fight, attacking the lurker from behind. With preternatural grace, the torivor engaged the two seedmen at once, not only protecting itself but still actively attacking. Blood sprayed from Jasher’s arm. Before the droplets had landed on the deck, Drake received a quick stab in the thigh.
A drinling up on the mast hurled a knife at the torivor. Without disrupting its attacks on Drake and Jasher, the lurker swiped the knife with its sword, like a batter connecting for a homerun. After the clang of contact, the knife streaked through the air into the chest of the man who had thrown it. He tumbled from the mast to the deck, landing loosely.
A scratch on Jasher’s cheek. A shallow slash across Drake’s side. Both seedmen were scarcely stalling death. They doggedly resisted the inevitable with all of their skill, but they could not possibly win.
Corinne drew her sword, and Farfalee was immediately at her side to restrain her. “No,” the seedwoman demanded.
“But maybe—” Corinne protested.
“No,” Farfalee repeated with finality.
Galloran had drilled all of the best swordsmen on how to fight torivors, not necessarily because he thought they could learn to defeat them, but rather to elevate their overall skills. Jasher had received the expert training, as had Drake, Corinne, Ferrin, and Aram. Galloran had shown them patterns the torivors preferred and how to defend against them. Jason had watched some of the sessions. It had been intense. Jason suspected that as skilled and experienced as Jasher and Drake were, without that training, they would have already fallen.
The chiming swords moved in a frantic blur. With flawless precision the lurker continued to alternate blows, in front and behind, striking ruthlessly, leaving no openings. Jasher was stabbed in the eye. Drake lost his free hand just above the wrist. Both seedmen kept fighting.
Jason realized that when the seedmen died, he would still have to take up his sword and fight his duel. They shouldn’t have intervened! He was more grateful for their sacrifices than he could have ever expressed, but now three of them would die instead of one!
“Get ready!” Drake yelled. “Don’t miss this!”
Whipping his sword fiercely, Drake charged forward. The lurker stabbed him through the chest, the blade piercing his titan-crab breastplate as if it were cardboard. Dropping his sword, legs churning to keep his momentum, Drake wrapped both arms around the lurker, hoisting it off the ground. The legs flailed. A dark fist pounded Drake on the shoulder. For an instant the lurker hung in the air immobilized.
And Jasher stabbed it through the back.
The torivor vanished with a blinding flash.
Jasher pulled the tip of his sword out of Drake and caught him as he slumped forward. Farfalee darted to them and helped her husband lay her brother on the deck. Jason and Corinne drew near.
Drake coughed wetly. One shoulder was misshapen, buc
kled where bones had snapped. As he rested on his side, the hilt of the torivor’s sword protruded from his chest, the sleek blade from his back. Blood drained from his many wounds.
“We need a tourniquet on that arm!” Farfalee instructed.
“Failie,” Drake chided softly, “I’ve . . . done this before. I’m past . . . the reach of medicine.” He coughed again. His eyes shifted to Jasher. “We got it.”
“Yes,” Jasher said. “That was the bravest act I’ve ever seen.”
“Always wanted to . . . go out with style.”
“Drake,” Farfalee managed, her face rigid. “Drake, I . . .” Her fragile composure shattered into sobs.
“Don’t,” Drake said. “I know. I love you too.” His eyes shifted back to Jasher. “You killed a torivor!” The statement was powered by a moist chuckle. “First Galloran . . . now two can claim it.”
“Three of us,” Jasher corrected. “You more than I.”
Drake closed his eyes tightly and clenched his jaw. He was having trouble breathing.
Jason couldn’t hold back any longer. He knelt beside his friend. The words came in a rush. “Thank you, Drake. You saved my life. I wish you hadn’t. I’m so sorry.”
Drake grabbed Jason’s forearm with his remaining hand. The grip was strong. Jason tried to ignore the leaking injuries. “No, Jason. No apologies. You saved me.” He coughed several times. “I was . . . already dead. No amar. Squandered it. I could have ended . . . alone . . . a failure. Hating myself. This is better. Much better . . . than I deserve.”
Jason felt vaguely aware of Corinne’s hand on the back of his neck. He could not restrain his tears.
Drake released Jason and became lost in a fit of coughing and gasping. Jason wanted to turn away. Drake would die any second. But he could not turn his back on his friend, just in case those eyes opened again.
They did. “Take it out,” Drake murmured.
Jasher crouched, bracing one hand against Drake, and withdrew the torivor’s sword, the blade scraping against the cracked breastplate as it came free. No gore clung to the sleek weapon. Jasher cast it aside.
Rolling flat onto his back, Drake shuddered. Then he inhaled deeply. He stared up at the night sky. “We’re going to win,” he said, his voice calmer, less strained. “This is nothing. Keep going. They can’t stop us. Jason, give Rachel the necklace. Tell her . . . tell her I’m sorry. Tell her . . . I wanted . . . to show her . . . my little valley. Tell her I tried.”
His voice was growing weak. Farfalee smoothed a hand over his brow. “Shhh,” she whispered. “Be still, Drake. You can rest now. You did it. Rest. We’ll take it from here.”
“Failie,” he whispered, his hand twitching toward the back of his neck with little jerks. “Where’s my seed?” His head tipped sideways. The breath went out of him.
Farfalee went stiff, her expression impassive, damp eyes sparking in the moonlight. Jasher placed his hands on her shoulders to still her trembling. She looked over her shoulder. “You’re hurt!”
Jason looked at Jasher. Blood seeped from one eye. His upper arm bled. Jason had been so focused on Drake that he had almost forgotten about the other injuries.
“Nothing fatal,” Jasher said. “I’ll survive. The eye is shallow. Barely reached me. I might not even lose it.”
Heg took Jasher by the elbow. “Come,” he said. “Let me see to your wounds.”
Jasher nodded, releasing Farfalee. She stood straight, struggling to hide her grief. Corinne hugged Jason. He hugged her back. She felt too slender. She had lost weight while seasick. The effort to comfort him seemed distant and insufficient, but he appreciated the attempt. Despite her presence, despite everyone aboard the ship, Jason had never felt more alone. The profound sense of loss left him empty, but not numb. Drake was gone. He tried not to look at the body.
“Where is our wind?” Jasher cried as Heg led him belowdecks. “Aram, more wind!”
“I’ll see what I can do,” the half giant growled.
CHAPTER 19
THE WESTERN PASS
On a bright morning, as Rachel prepared to mount her horse, a soldier sheepishly approached her. His tentative attitude did not match his large stature or his sharp uniform. He held a small scroll. He looked a bit like a child who had been dared to venture alone into a graveyard.
“Pardon me, milady,” he said. “A moment of your time?”
“What can I do for you?” she asked, trying to sound friendly.
“Nothing, milady. I have a message for you from the king.”
Rachel noticed Tark and Ferrin watching the exchange from a short distance away. She held out a hand, and the soldier passed her the scroll. She broke the seal and read it. Her veil caused a little interference, but the message was brief. Galloran meant to come speak with her tonight.
“The king is welcome anytime,” Rachel said, returning the scroll to the soldier.
With a little bow he backed away, then turned and walked off. Did he seem relieved? Rachel thought so.
As she mounted her mare, Rachel wondered how a conversation with Galloran would go. She had a lot of pent-up feelings. Part of her looked forward to a visit from him; part of her dreaded it. Her fears about the validity of the prophecy remained unresolved.
Each day that the army advanced without trouble reminded Rachel of their danger. The emperor knew they were coming but did nothing to hinder them. And why should he? His enemies were handing him victory. Rachel would not have been shocked to find complimentary refreshments waiting along the roadside.
Ferrin had conferred with Galloran. The displacer had reported that it was hard to read whether the king had already taken the possibility of a false prophecy into consideration. In the end Galloran had firmly maintained that they could not turn back.
Ferrin and Tark had accepted the verdict. Rachel was not comfortable with the decision but felt she had to hide her dissatisfaction. She had already vented her concerns through Ferrin. Her misgivings had been considered, and Galloran had made his choice. The others had moved on. Who was she to keep complaining? Who was she to be more doubtful than a displacer? Who was she to question a king?
Rachel took her place near the front of the column. Tark and Ferrin followed a respectful distance behind. Over the past days Rachel had found her confidence in Galloran eroding. Since their last meeting he had spoken with her twice on the road—short, pleasant conversations. Superficial conversations. He had not mentioned his discussion with Ferrin, and neither had she. The topic had not seemed appropriate anywhere they might be overheard.
Galloran had not reached out to her mentally for days. Rachel had decided not to trouble him by using her private telepathic access. If he wanted to communicate, he could reach out any time he wanted. He had a private tent.
Now he had announced that he would be paying her a visit, but not until the evening. She was left to stew about her concerns. The more she thought about the potentially false prophecy, the more disappointed she became in Galloran for dismissing such a likely danger, and the less she wanted to think about him, let alone speak with him.
After a long day alone with her thoughts, Rachel felt a blend of terror and relief when Galloran appeared at her tent that night. Only Io accompanied him. Ferrin and Tark left the tent, and Io stood guard at the door.
With a low groan Galloran sat beside Rachel on her cot and put on his blindfold. “Ferrin is worried about you,” he said without preamble.
“I’m all right,” Rachel lied.
“I regret that I have been so occupied,” Galloran said. “There is much to manage.”
“I don’t want to be an extra burden,” Rachel assured him.
“Ferrin suspects that you continue to fret about the validity of the prophecy.”
Rachel stared at his blindfold. Maybe her friends weren’t as oblivious to her worries as she had assumed. She realized that she was pausing for too long. “Actually, yes. I’m still suspicious that Maldor could have used the oracle to direct us right w
here he wants us.”
“I can see how this idea would trouble you,” Galloran said. “The possibility would make you feel as though my misapprehension was leading us into a massacre. You would feel bound by duty to quietly accept my ruling, even though that very silence could be killing us all.”
“Something like that. I don’t want it to be true. It just really seems to fit.”
Galloran nodded. “The absence of resistance has created a terrible suspense among my soldiers. I feel the tension as well. Let me share what comfort I can offer. I knew Esmira better than most, both personally and through my aunt, the Pythoness. You realize that I could see her mind when we conversed. I searched hard and found no trace of deception.”
“That’s comforting,” Rachel said.
“I did not expect deception from her. Esmira had an impeccable reputation. But I was aware of the potentially devastating consequences that could arise from even the smallest untruth. We were in a predicament where any degree of wishful thinking could have led us down a futile and deadly path. During my interview and when she issued the prophecy, I scrutinized both her demeanor and her mind. I am satisfied that the prophecy is authentic.”
“Could Maldor have deceived her?” Rachel asked. “Could he have used torivors to plant a false prophecy?”
“The Temple of Mianamon is heavily shielded against mental intrusion,” Galloran explained. “And perhaps no place in Lyrian is better insulated than the chamber where she gave us the prophecy. I sensed no torivors in our vicinity at any time after I won the duel at the Last Inn. Furthermore, even had torivors been granted access to Esmira, they would not have been able to confuse an oracle of her quality.”
Rachel sighed. The responses made sense. But she still couldn’t relax. “If she was so powerful, couldn’t the oracle have guarded her mind against you knowing she was lying?”
“Possibly,” Galloran admitted, “though I don’t believe she would have been so foolish as to trust a bargain with Maldor.”
“What if he meant it?” Rachel persisted. “What if Maldor doesn’t care about the jungle? What if he promised to leave it alone if she helped him? What if she looked into the future and saw that he would really do it? What if she saw that the rest of Lyrian was lost either way, but that deceiving us would at least save the children of Certius?”
