Justan kept an eye out for the Prophet. The man had disappeared soon after the first jar of wine was opened. Kyrn was gone too, so Justan figured that he was somewhere talking to the elf. Justan really wanted to talk to him, but he couldn’t leave the group. Not when Vahn was somewhere out there, waiting.
Soon, the first four jars had been completely emptied and two more were unloaded from the wagon. When the lid of the next jar was removed, the man holding it grabbed his nose. “We got a bad one here.”
Xedrion frowned. “What a waste. Move on to the next.”
Gwyrtha’s head raised suddenly. Smell!
Justan’s hackles rose as the smell hit his sensitive nose; a harsh chemical tone mixed with an underlying beastly jumble as if the wine contained the scent of a hundred different animals rolled into one.
Basilisk! cried Deathclaw and Gwyrtha at once, recognizing the smell from Justan’s memories.
Tolynn smelled it too. “A flesh changer! In the jar!”
Justan reached for his swords, willing the world to slow around him. So that was Vahn’s plan; seal his basilisks away in jars so that they couldn’t be detected until it was too late. Even worse, this creature had that same acidic smell as the one that had exploded on the road to the Mage School.
A lot of things happened at once. A set of claw-like appendages shot out of the open jar, gashing the neck of the man that had opened it. Stunned gasps echoed through everyone in Xedrion’s network of rings. Orders were shouted out.
More appendages spewed from the jar, forming a tangle of hairy limbs like claw-tipped spider’s legs. These limbs planted themselves into the ground and the basilisk lifted itself out of the jar, the remaining part of its body shaped like the torso of one of Yntri’s people, dangling down under the legs.
To everyone’s credit, they acted swiftly. The crowd of mourners, no matter how tipsy, were Roo-Tan, most of them warriors. They grabbed the bleeding man and backed away, making room for the guards to attack. The first arrow struck the creature within seconds.
Justan expected the beast to come for him, but it had other orders. The upside-down spider-elf thing then began to climb aboard the wagon, its entire body glistening wet as it reached for the lids of the other jars. Justan understood. Vahn’s other basilisks were trapped, sealed away inside containers meant to hold the pressure of years-long fermentation. They couldn’t get out on their own.
Xedrion saw that too. “Don’t let it open those jars!”
There was no hesitation. Arrows filled the air, fired by Roo-Tan archers and elves alike. The basilisk staggered, hit with dozens of arrows at once. Its body shifted, many of its legs lifting to form a shield of sorts while it pried at one lid.
The arrows didn’t really hurt the creature. It only had one weak spot, its brain, and the basilisk could shift the position of its brain anywhere in its body. The odds of striking that point were low, but it only took one lucky shot.
The acidic smell grew. White foam was bubbling where each arrow had struck it. Justan warned his bonded to stay back and cried out. “Wait! It’ll explode.”
Xedrion knew what this meant. When the tale of the exploding basilisk that had nearly killed Jhonate along the journey to Malaroo had reached his ears, the protector had taken the information to the elves. Evidently this hadn’t been the first occurrence.
If the contractor was willing to pay a bounty high enough, a nightbeast could command a basilisk to drink a certain chemical that intermixed with its body chemistry, making it very ill. If the creature were to die while in this state, the process of turning to stone would set off a chain reaction.
Xedrion cursed and held out his fist, commanding the archers to stop. But he was too late. One well-aimed arrow struck the hanging torso of the basilisk just as it managed to pry the first lid open. The arrowhead pierced the hidden brain of the beast.
“Get down!” Justan shouted and dove for Jhonate as he watched the transformation take place. The basilisk jerked. Then its body began to harden. A spider web network of cracks appeared in its flesh. Flames appeared in the cracks.
Justan tackled Jhonate, at the same time instinctively throwing up a shield of air magic around them.
A violent explosion filled the quiet of the grove. The people too close to the epicenter were tossed like rag dolls. Everyone else was simply thrown to the ground. The wine jars and the wagon beneath them were shattered by the blast. Pieces of shrapnel were hurled through the grove, striking any of those unlucky enough to be in their path.
Justan’s shield absorbed most of the shockwave, but he and Jhonate tumbled into the side of a large Jharro root and he felt something heavy strike him in the back. He opened his eyes and looked down into Jhonate’s shocked face. She was pinned underneath him. “Are you alright?”
“Father,” she said in a panic. “Justan, he was standing close. I saw the blast hit him.”
Justan looked over at the place where the wagon had been. Most of it was gone. The parts that remained were burning. Shards of pottery were sticking out of trees. Bloodied forms littered the ground. Huge Jharro leaves were fluttering down from above. He didn’t see the Protector of the Grove.
Justan tried to get up off of Jhonate, but the heavy thing that had struck him was still lying across his back, pinning him down. Jhonate’s mouth opened in shock and Justan twisted and looked over his shoulder. Half of a wine jar was on top of him, a jagged piece of it wedged into the Jharro root behind him. Cupped in the remains of the jar was a black amorphous form, like a half-melted mix of insect and bird.
The basilisk was alive, but stunned. Large pieces of it had been blasted away in the explosion. It moved groggily, but Justan was sure that it wouldn’t take long for the thing to recognize him as its target. Thankfully this one didn’t give off that caustic chemical smell.
Deathclaw! Gwyrtha! Justan squirmed, trying to get out from under it. “Jhonate, help me push!”
He arched his back and she shoved against his chest, but all they managed to do was rock the thing a little. That was enough to get the basilisk’s attention. A bird-like head formed in its flesh, stretching out on a curving neck. Justan could see it reflected in Jhonate’s horrified eyes as it hovered above his unprotected head.
Coming, said Gwyrtha numbly. She had been hurled a good distance and slammed into a tree. Justan didn’t think she was too badly hurt, but he had no time to make sure. The basilisk reared back, its beak hardening as it prepared to strike.
“Don’t move!” shouted a voice and Justan looked over to see Beth standing not far away. Her hair was disheveled, her blouse torn, but she had her viper bow in hand. Justan didn’t see how that would help. Her quiver was empty, her arrows knocked lose during the explosion.
With her free hand, Beth pulled her Jharro dagger from its sheath at her waist. It transformed in her hands, taking the shape of an arrow and in one smooth motion, she fitted it to the string, drew back and fired. For an instant, Justan thought he saw the gray spirit of the snake coil around the arrow as it was released.
As the arrow sunk into the basilisk’s black center mass, the viper struck its soul, stunning the beast. At the same time Beth commanded the arrow to split and spread out, forming a network of root-like branches seeking out the basilisk’s fragile core. A few brief seconds later, the beast shuddered and began turning to stone.
I’m here, Gwyrtha said. The rogue horse put her shoulder against the pottery and together with Beth’s help, tore the shard free from the root. Justan stood on shaky legs. He felt bruised but nothing was broken. The magic of the two-chance vest was spent. Jhonate’s gift saved him from the full force of the impact.
“Thank you, Beth,” he said.
“No problem,” the witch replied, grasping the stubby end of the Jharro arrow that was protruding from the basilisk’s stone remains. It was taking a while for the wood to retract all its parts so that she could pull it free. “I’ve been wanting to try that trick anyway.”
People were starting t
o stir. Several of them cried out in pain. Those that could stand began filtering back into the garden, helping to tend to the wounded. Most of them were hurt themselves, many of them temporarily deafened by the blast, but they did the best they could.
“Father!” Jhonate shouted.
“He may not be able to hear you,” Justan said. She nodded and ran off in the direction she had last seen him.
Deathclaw! Justan shouted through the bond. The raptoid’s thoughts were muted. He had been up in one of the Jharro trees when the explosion happened and the bond told Justan that he was still up there.
Shouts rang out as two more black forms rose from the ground, taking nightmarish shapes. Justan drew his swords. Peace took away his pain and emotion while his mind whirred. There had been seven unopened jars. How many of them had contained basilisks and how many of them had survived the intensity of the blast?
Then Xedrion appeared. The protector, covered head-to-toe in segmented Jharro armor, charged into one of the basilisks. Blood was leaking from under his open-faced helmet, but if he was severely wounded he didn’t look it. His double-bladed staff was a blur, hacking at the basilisk’s many clawed limbs. Soon Jhonate was at her father’s side. Communicating via Jhonate’s ring, they worked in concert, cutting the basilisk apart piece-by-piece.
Justan ran for the remaining beast. I have this one, Gwyrtha. Make sure there are no remaining basilisks alive.
The basilisk saw his approach and turned to face him. A myriad of clawed arms sprouted from its torso. Justan was ready for it. Rage had been charging ever since Yntri’s death and was yearning to release its power.
He didn’t get the chance. Deathclaw plummeted from the branches high above and struck the beast, leading with his tail and sword. The force of his impact crumpled the basilisk to the ground. Its arms reached for the raptoid.
Justan arrived, and managed to slice a few of its limbs free before the beast shuddered. Deathclaw emerged from its hardening tangle of claws, clutching a pulsating pink lump of flesh in one hand. He tossed it to the side and sheathed his sword.
There was a garish wound in Deathclaw’s forehead caused by a piece of shrapnel, but he had somehow managed to cling to the branch up above until he had regained his senses.
Justan winced at the sight of it. “Let me heal you.”
“Do not waste your time,” Deathclaw hissed. “Stay alert. Last time the nightbeast struck it was right after a battle.” He crept away, sniffing the air, his senses alert in search of danger.
Jhonate returned, looking relieved. “Father is alright. Something struck his neck in the blast, but his armor protected him from the worst of it. The elves are seeing to his wound now.”
“And your mother?” Justan asked. He hadn’t seen the pregnant woman after the elven portion of the funeral.
“Mother is fine. She was napping in her palanquin when it happened. She would not have . . .” Jhonate’s voice trailed off and her hand rose to her mouth. She ran past Justan to the side of a Roo-Tan solder that lay on the ground, curled on his side. “Oh no. Please . . .” She moved closer, bending to look at his face and stumbled, her jaw trembling as she reached out to touch him. “Beltry.”
Justan’s heart lurched. Jhonate’s childhood friend, Beltry bin Hoon, the man who had taught him so much about using his Jharro weapon, lay glassy-eyed, his hands clutching at a large shard of pottery that protruded from his chest.
Justan grasped Jhonate’s shoulder. “Jhonate, I am so sorry.”
“Edge!” said Beth, jogging up to him. “Where is my husband?”
“I-I don’t know,” Justan said, realizing that he hadn’t seen Sir Hilt since the explosion.
“How could you not know? My knife says he should be right-.” Beth’s breath caught in her throat. She stooped down and picked something up from the ground. It was a leather necklace with a Jharro pendant hanging off the end. She straightened up, her eyes darting through the trees. A knowing scowl appeared on her face. “Ooh, he is going to be in so much trouble when I find him!”
Justan turned around, thinking to help her search for the named warrior, when he saw the Prophet at the edge of the gardens, tending to the wounded. Justan frowned and approached him. Where had he been this whole time?
The Prophet was crouching next to an elf woman who was lying in the rich black soil, thrown at the base of one of the trees by the force of the blast. The elf woman was groaning, her teeth clenched in pain as she looked up at the Prophet with pleading eyes. John put his hands on her head and whispered a few words and she calmed, falling to sleep.
“John, sir,” Justan said.
The Prophet sat back on his haunches and looked out over the scene. He rubbed his chin, his kind eyes sad. “She will survive. Unfortunately there are so many that I cannot help.” He reached down and gently patted the shoulder of an unmoving Roo-Tan warrior that was curled up next to the elf, then stood, mumbling something about, ‘losing major players’.
John! said Gwyrtha excitedly, coming up to nudge the man.
“Oh. Hello there, Gwyrtha,” the Prophet replied.
“John, where were you?” Justan pressed.
“I’m sorry for my absence, Sir Edge. My master called me away to tend to something. I returned as soon as I heard the blast.”
“You’re sorry for your absence?” Justan said. “People are dead here.”
Justan, Gwyrtha said, disapproving of Justan’s tone.
Justan sighed. “I’m not saying that it’s your fault, sir, but if you had stayed, you could have done something. People could have been saved.”
The Prophet’s eyes were pained. “It doesn’t work that way. I can only intervene in certain circumstances. There are rules.”
“Rules?” Justan scoffed. “What good is your power if you aren’t allowed to save those that are on your side? These people are elves that tend your master’s sacred grove and humans that defend the grove on your behalf!”
Justan! Gwyrtha said, this time with a tone of outrage. This is John.
I know. The moment that the words had left Justan’s mouth, he’d felt a surge of guilt. He knew that he was being unfair. In truth this was his own fault. These people had died because they were protecting him. It was just like Yntri all over again.
He waited for the Prophet to reprimand him, to point these same things out. But the man simply put his hand on Justan’s shoulder. “I understand why you would feel that way. It is one of my burdens. I wish I had time to explain it to you further, but I must leave.”
“Your leaving?” Justan said, his irritation rising again. “Now?”
“I am afraid so,” John said, his tone apologetic. “There is some place I have to be. It is urgent.”
“But . . . I have things I need to talk to you about. Things I need to ask you,” Justan said.
The Prophet sighed. “There just isn’t . . .” He cocked his head and nodded slowly. “Maybe I do have time. But you would have to come with me. Yes, I think that would be for the best. Follow me.”
He turned and headed out of the gardens, away from the destruction. Confused, Justan followed behind him. “Where are we going?”
“I’m not sure yet,” he said. “Bring Gwyrtha along, if you would.”
Okay! the rogue horse said.
Justan frowned. He said that he had someplace to be and that it was urgent. How could he not be sure where it was yet?
Where are you going? Deathclaw asked. The raptoid was still prowling around the trees searching for a sign that the nightbeast was lurking nearby.
I have no idea, Justan replied.
* * *
Vahn watched Sir Edge and the Prophet from afar. The powerful telescopic eye that he had created zoomed in, but he was unable to read their lips. Sir Edge had his back to him, while the prophet’s lips were . . . blurry.
The nightbeast seethed. This whole operation had been a blunder. At every step, his preparations had proved lacking. First he had been forced to wait until his body
’s core had healed; spending an agonizing week in his true form. After that, he had snuck into the palace to listen in on Xedrion’s planning. On two separate occasions he had been close enough to Sir Edge to slit his throat, a difficult thing to do with that rogue horse and dragon thing so close by. He had been tempted to kill the man there, but he had been patient.
That Xedrion bin Leeths was a clever tactician. His precautions were effective, his planning intricate. Vahn had found it a delicious challenge.
The most difficult part had been sneaking his basilisks into the grove. The elves were too alert, their senses tuned to the basilisks’ musk. Up to a few days ago he had still been unsure how he would accomplish it, but Xedrion’s request for the wine jars had been a perfect opportunity.
Luckily, the wine house had been one of Vahn’s hiding spots and he was already familiar with the comings and goings of the guards. He smuggled his basilisks inside the night before the funeral. The only difficult part had been disposing of eight jars full of wine without anyone noticing. In the end, he had emptied them into the city’s sewer system.
It had all seemed so perfect. It wasn’t until the procession reached the grove that things had started to go awry. First, the elf woman had changed the venue at the last moment, likely Xedrion’s idea. Vahn had scouted that area out several times, disguised as a Roo-Tan warrior. That had only been a minor disruption, though. He hadn’t planned to kill Sir Edge during the elven part of the ceremony. Yntri Yni had deserved that much respect at least.
Then the Prophet had shown up, further complicating things. Vahn had wanted to sneak down and break the seals on the jars before the human part of the ceremony started, but he had been forced to keep his distance, knowing that if he got too close, the ancient man would sense him. The Prophets were all annoying like that. Instead, Vahn had watched helplessly from afar, hoping that the Prophet would not sense the basilisks. But the Prophet had walked away before the jars were brought out.
The Ogre Apprentice Page 38
