Right before he made his move, Torsten lowered his weapon to the ground. “The thief is right. Somewhere, in these woods, there is an Arch Warlock more powerful than she will ever be,” he said pointing to Sora. “So powerful, he has masked his presence from you. Help us locate him, and you will be rewarded.”
The satyr laughed. “And what, mortal, could you possibly reward us with. Your silly gold autlas? Garish jewels? You mortals have no idea how worthless your riches truly are.”
Torsten didn’t answer. What could he offer? A demon wouldn’t have any need to ask for a name, or a title, or a castle. Whitney wasn’t sure what they really wanted.
.“You can have the warlock,” Whitney said. Torsten’s gaze snapped toward him.
“No, he belongs to the Crown,” Torsten said. “He must answer for his crimes.”
“Sorry, Torsten, I know they’re all the same to you, but if it’s between some traitor named Redstar and Sora, it’s an easy decision.” He flashed her a nervous grin. He couldn’t tell if she sent one back, as being upside down so long had her looking faint.
“That was not our arrangement.”
“Then keep your name.” Whitney faced the satyr. “Maybe you can’t mate with the warlock…or whatever you do… but I’m sure you’ll find a way to use him.”
The satyr’s brow furrowed again as if intrigued. The fact that he hadn’t dismissed the offer immediately had Whitney feeling optimistic.
A guttural sound from the woods suddenly drew the satyr’s focus. The vine wrapping Sora’s ankle shriveled to its natural form, and she fell. Whitney dropped his daggers, sprawled out and caught her before her head hit the ground.
The satyr backed up. “What is this? What trick are you playing?”
Whitney didn’t know what was happening either. He helped Sora sit upright while she clutched her head.
“Was that you?” Torsten asked her.
She shook her head.
The satyr glanced over his shoulder in both directions, panic twisting his goat-like features.
“What’s happening?” Whitney questioned
Another deep growl resonated from the depths of the darkness. Whitney had one arm around Sora and the other squeezing her bloody hand without noticing, then the gnashing snout of a dire wolf broke through the black. It crashed into a pair of satyrs, catching them off guard and throwing them to the ground. Their screams could have even curdled the blood of King Liam himself.
It pounced onto the lead satyr, but the demon batted it away but received a long gash across its chest for the effort.
A whistle sounded from the woods. The shaggy, brown, dire wolf responded by pressing a massive paw firmly against the satyr’s chest, claws drawing thin lines of black blood. The other satyrs scrambled and retreated.
“What the… what?” Whitney said under his breath. At the same time, he noticed that he was holding Sora’s hand and quickly released it. He hoped she was too lightheaded to realize.
“Torsten, my friend!” Uriah Davies stepped out of the woods, monk’s robe swishing at his heels, a torch in his hands.
“Uriah?” Torsten said.
He whistled again, and the dire wolf stepped off the satyr. Then he walked up to it, drew his sword, and positioned the blade against the demon’s throat.
“They are under my protection,” he said. “Is that understood?”
The satyr’s hooves kicked, and he bleated. The dire wolf growled and snapped, a stream of saliva spattering from its lips. It was then Torsten realized the wolf was the very same pack leader he’d fought off days ago. His sword had left a thick, hairless scar across its massive chest.
“Yes,” the satyr said. The word came more like the hiss of a serpent. It stumbled to its hooves and hopped away, limping.
XXVII
THE KNIGHT
While Whitney attended to the Panpingese witch, Torsten stared at the hulking wolf standing behind his old friend and former Wearer of White, Uriah Davies. He had no idea what to say, or even think.
Uriah extended his torch in front of Torsten’s face. “What’s the matter, old friend?” he asked. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
“Only a friend I no longer recognize.”
“I hope to change that,” Uriah said. “I’ve been tracking you long enough to see the licking you gave those gray-skinned curs. I decided I couldn’t let you march down here and get yourself killed alone like a fool.”
Torsten swallowed the lump forming in his throat. “How, Uriah?” he asked.
Uriah glanced from side to side as if surprised by the question, then realized where Torsten was looking. “The wolf? The goddess' tongue fares well with them. Far more efficient than a sword.”
Before Torsten could answer, he heard Sora snap, “I’m fine!” at Whitney. Then she stomped over. “Is that a dire wolf in South Pantego?” she questioned.
“I told you before, the warlock named Red—hold on.” Whitney plucked his daggers off the ground, then turned to face Uriah with both pointed at him. “What are you doing with this beast? You involved with Redstar?”
The growl of the wolf shut him up quickly.
“Ah, you must be Whitney,” Uriah said. “We narrowly avoided each other in my encampment outside Oxgate, but I hear you are not shy about professing your name and your cunning.”
“Sounds like me.” He chuckled nervously and backed away as the wolf circled in front of Uriah, never averting its piercing gaze.
“Whitney, let me handle this,” Torsten said.
“This is a friend of yours?” Whitney asked. “Cult leaders, thieves, and blood mages… you really should work on the company you keep.”
Torsten clenched his jaw.
“I’m so sorry for how you were treated,” Uriah said, still looking at Whitney. “I am former Wearer of White, Uriah Davies. The knight and I are old friends.”
“If cages and blades are how you treat friends, I’d hate to be your enemy,” Whitney said.
“Wait,” Sora said. “This man leads the cult that captured you?”
“What do you want, Uriah?” Torsten interceded. “I already told you, I will not be party to… whatever darkness it is you have turned to.”
“It is the light, brother. The truth that I have found. This mad search for the Queen’s lost brother is a waste of time and effort. He lost his way. We should be focusing our efforts on killing Bliss.”
“I appreciate your help, Uriah…” Torsten said, beginning to walk away, “…but our lives no longer travel the same path. This is where we part ways.”
“Please, Torsten. Trust me as you once did. There is evil in this place that doesn’t care what god we whisper to in the darkness.”
“I do not worship in secret as you do, friend.”
“You must listen to reason,” Uriah said. “The spid—”
Torsten stuck out his massive arm and clutched Uriah by the throat. The wolf snarled, but the old former knight waved it down. “Enough!” Torsten bellowed. He was so irritated he tried to heave Uriah off his feet, but pain flowered in his shoulder again. He clutched the arrow wound he’d carried since escaping the Black Sands and fell to a knee. He had to use his sword to stay upright.
“By Nesilia, your wound,” Uriah said. He helped him take a seat against a tree. He lifted the plating of Torsten’s pauldron to reveal the wound. Half of an arrow’s shaft stuck out of the back of his shoulder, surrounded by puss and blood.
Whitney released a gagging sound. “That blood was from an arrow? How in Elsewhere did you get that?”
“Did you learn nothing under my tutelage?” Uriah said, ignoring the thief. “You let a wound like this fester with no dressing?”
“I was a little preoccupied trying to save the kingdom,” Torsten said, pain making his voice hoarse. He couldn’t even lift his arm any longer. “Something you wouldn’t know anything about.”
“Mine is the work of all mortals. Now stop being so stubborn. If we don’t clean that wound, your kingdo
m, along with the rest of us, will perish.”
Uriah positioned himself with firm footing and wrapped a hand around the broken stump of the arrow. Torsten winced and stared at his old friend. A messy gray beard hugged his chin, masking wrinkles deep as the caverns of the Dragon’s Tail. He looked exactly the same as the day he’d left to chase Redstar into these very woods… except in his eyes. Something was different there, darker maybe, now that he’d turned to the Buried Goddess.
“It’s a Shesaitju thorn arrow,” Uriah said. Torsten nodded in understanding. Shesaitju arrows were four-pronged, with backward facing spikes. They didn’t fly as far or as accurately, but once they went in, they couldn’t be yanked out without causing a heap more damage. They were especially effective in naval combat, clinging onto enemy ships.
“Shesaitju?” Sora asked, eyes going wide.
“Yeah, I second that question,” Whitney said. “There are Black Sands. Here? I mean, as the King’s Shield knows, fighting them is my specialty, but…”
“They’re camped in the swamp, to the far east along Trader’s Bay you fool,” Torsten growled, the pain making Whitney even more insufferable. “An army, prepared to attack the Glass Kingdom with nobody left to defend it. So, the faster we get on with this, the faster we might have a chance to stop them.”
“We didn’t see a camp,” Whitney said, looking to the ground as if he were insulted. Like he even could be.
“Of course, you didn’t. You couldn’t find a—”
Uriah suddenly pushed. Torsten didn’t even have time to scream as the arrow plunged all the way through his shoulder. He just sat, shaking, as the shaft fell to the ground.
“There you go, old friend.” Uriah patted his other shoulder. “Now’s the fun part. Thief, use my torch to heat your blade.”
Hearing Uriah issue orders brought Torsten back to simpler times following Liam into battle, though it may have been the pain.
“I’m sorry, since when do you give me orders?” Whitney said.
“Just listen to him,” Torsten moaned.
“If we do not seal the wound, infection is likely,” Uriah said. “That will kill him quicker than any satyr or spider—Bliss or not.”
Whitney took the torch, eyed it quizzically. “You want me to…”
“Men,” Sora sighed. “Don’t do it, Whitney, unless you want his screams to attract whatever out there is worse than satyrs. I can heal him. I won’t let the Shesaitju kill anybody else.”
“Sora, last time you almost—”
“Last time, the wound was fatal. This is just one hateful knight being a baby.”
“I don’t want to have to carry you.”
“You won’t.” Sora blew by Whitney toward Torsten. At some point, she’d retrieved her knife and now held it over her bandaged palm.
“What is this?” Torsten asked.
“You’re sure you are capable?” Uriah asked.
Sora nodded.
“Capable of what?” Torsten said.
“I could sense how special you were the moment I saw you, blood mage,” Uriah said. “Nesilia would welcome you with open arms.”
“Good for her,” Sora said.
Uriah placed a hand on Torsten’s good shoulder to keep him steady. Torsten watched in horror as the Panpingese witch knelt in front of him, then slowly slid her blade across her hand. She cut deep, flinching as the blood oozed out.
“What is this madness?” Torsten said. He fidgeted as Sora reached toward him, but Uriah held him steady. “In the name of Iam, don’t you lay your accursed hand on me!”
“I am sorry if you’re not a fan of blood magic. But yours is not the only life at risk here. Now hold still.”
“Watch out, he’s bigger than that rancher,” Whitney said. “And infinitely more bullheaded.”
Torsten continued to resist. “I will not be party to this heresy!”
Sora lay her bloodied hand over the wound even as Torsten protested. The moment the bond was made, Torsten was rendered still. Cool blue smoke rose from the bloody hole and Sora grimaced as if in incredible pain. Immediately, it stopped hurting, but he felt a deep chill spreading up his arm and across his chest—cold like he’d been half-buried in Winter’s Thumb.
“Iam protect me,” he whispered over and over... though he realized he was saying no words. His throat was closed, and he couldn’t speak. He pawed for his necklace of Iam’s Eye before remembering he’d given it to Abigail.
Then, as suddenly as it had appeared, the feeling was gone. Sora fell back into Whitney’s waiting arms, panting uncontrollably.
Torsten sprang to his feet. He gasped, then glanced down. Where there had just been a hole, only a streak of red and dried mud remained around a barely visible scar on either side of his shoulder. He stretched his arm, rotating it in wide circles. No blood. No puss. No gaping wound. He felt completely fine.
“Where did you learn to do that?” a wide-eyed Uriah asked.
“My teacher says it comes naturally to me… said…” Sora muttered, barely able to speak above a whisper. The magic left Torsten feeling like he could face any foe but left her unable to stand without Whitney’s help.
“I would like to meet—”
“What is this devilry?” Torsten barked, his shock finally waning enough for him to speak.
“I healed you, you ungrateful triss,” Sora said.
“With the powers of the fallen gods themselves!”
“You could show a little gratitude, Torsten,” Whitney said. “That takes a lot out of her.”
“To her?” Torsten said, aghast. “I don’t even know who she is, but she has no place here.”
“She’s an old friend from the homestead that wanted to help.”
“Why am I not surprised that you are friends with a witch.”
“Better than a knight turned cult leader, no offense.” He nodded in Uriah’s direction.
Sora pulled herself free of Whitney. Beads of sweat rolled down her forehead as she huffed. She looked like she was ready to pass out. “You are the most insufferable, hateful, ignorant—”
Exhaustion sent her back into Whitney’s arms. Before she fell, Torsten could have sworn he saw small flames bursting in her hazel eyes, more gold than brown. He saw something in them—something familiar.
“Everyone stop.” Uriah’s voice was soft but authoritative. It was almost as if the very words were a spell. Torsten couldn’t help but comply with his old mentor.
“This is helping no one, Torsten,” he said. “If you only heed my advice once more, heed this, thank the lady, and let us destroy Bliss together—like old times.”
Torsten shifted the aim of his ire. “There is nothing about this that resembles ‘old times.’ My mission is to find Redstar, and forgive me, but I will not take the word of a deserter. I don’t care who you are.”
“I don’t know, I think we let him tag along,” Whitney said.
“He locked us both in cages! Lies spew from his mouth now as if it is his very nature.”
“He saved our skins this time. Plus… a dire wolf? There’s a good chance we are going to need him.”
“Then go with him. Go with both these heretics. My soul is with Iam and the Glass alone.” Torsten snatched up his sword, placed it in his back-scabbard and started trudging away.
“You promised me a name!” Whitney shouted. Torsten didn’t even slow down.
“Stop,” Uriah said. “Let me lead you to where I know Redstar was last seen.”
“Why would you know that?” Whitney asked.
Torsten stopped and spun back. Uriah stood, calmly stroking the neck of his wolf. “Yes,” Torsten said. “Why would you know that?”
“Don’t misunderstand,” Uriah replied. “I never did find the man after Oleander sent me after him, but I’ve heard of his exploits. His followers left him to die here after they learned their Arch Warlock planned to make an offering to Bliss and betray their mission for vengeance. Now, as you know, we continue the great cause he abando
ned.”
Torsten stormed back, hand on the grip of his sword. The giant wolf at Uriah’s side crouched and let out a low growl, the hair on his back rising. “You said he abandoned them to come here, not that they were with him.”
“I’m sorry, Torsten,” Uriah said. He rested a hand on the wolf’s head. The beast calmed immediately. “I wanted to tell you everything, but you wouldn’t listen to reason. I didn’t want you to go chasing ghosts.”
“That doesn’t surprise me,” Sora muttered, still using Whitney as a crutch.
“You betrayed me and the Glass,” Torsten said. “You betrayed Iam. Your King!”
“Do you serve Queen Oleander?” Uriah said.
“I serve all the royal family.”
“Even her?”
Torsten nodded.
“Why?” Uriah asked. “What has she ever done for you?”
“She is the wife of Liam and the mother of our present king—if Liam trusted her, so shall I.”
“She’s not bad to look at either,” Whitney added. Torsten and Sora shot daggers his way. “What? I met her.”
“You did not,” Sora said.
“Well, I saw her. Running. From a great distance.”
“I tried to tell you the truth in the ruins,” Uriah continued. “The truth on many things, but you would not see. Nesilia is not who you believe her to be, Torsten. Imagine Iam to be like King Liam.”
“More than any man who ever lived,” Torsten said, back straight and head tall.
“Now imagine Nesilia as the Queen.”
“Blasphemy!”
“The answers were all there on that ancient mural. You didn’t want to hear the legend then, but now you must. When I heard it from Redstar’s lost disciples, I finally saw. I knew what I had to do.”
Uriah cleared his throat and began to sing softly. His voice was raspy, coarse, but Torsten and the others couldn’t help but listen.
When last the dew drops come to dry
Clouds and heavens unleash a cry
Web of Eyes: (Buried Goddess Saga Book 1) Page 26
