The sight didn’t reassure her or answer her earlier question, and she had the overwhelming desire to turn her horse and gallop back toward her family.
Chastising herself, she drew a shaky breath and ordered her quivering stomach to calm. Foolish panic had never done anything to keep her alive.
Well, she wasn’t dead and there wasn’t the drain on her magic like she would have expected from an acolyte’s feeding, so this was something else. Dangerous, perhaps? Actually, it most certainly was. Anything she didn’t know or understand was instantly dangerous.
The heat and pain slowly ebbed and her shocked mind began to work.
Whatever the mark was, it was clearly a working of higher magic. She just didn’t know if it was caused by her healing magic or some power the lupwyn possessed. But she was relatively certain it wasn’t something darker brought about by the acolytes’ twisted power. Her own magic didn’t consider it a threat.
And she knew well what the flip-side of her healing gift did to anything it considered a threat to her.
At the moment, she didn’t have time to worry about this new oddity.
She could feel the lupwyn growing weaker, his Larnkin being drained of its life force. Her own healing power redoubled its efforts and she poured more of herself into the healing.
She might have been tempted to quit had her Larnkin allowed that. And yet, this lupwyn felt familiar to her now that she was more closely linked to him. As unlikely as it might seem, she was sure this was the same male who patrolled her lands, watching for any signs of human patrols encroaching upon lupwyn lands.
She’d never seen him up close. He’d rarely been more than a shadow among the trees, but her magic had acknowledged his presence and tracked his whereabouts.
For his part, he never threatened any of her family.
Old Mother had said he was a neighbor and to treat him with respect and he would do the same.
Somehow, she knew the lupwyn being attacked by the acolytes was this neighbor, and her heart went out to him.
Perhaps it was her empathy or that her Larnkin was making some headway, but she found herself suddenly in his mind, sharing his anguish and slow death.
***
The burning in his chest intensified to the point Silverblade began to wonder if he wasn’t about to burst into flames. Not that he could do anything to prevent it. He might even welcome it, if it would give him a swifter death than what the acolytes had planned.
“Fight if you must, lupwyn, but in the end you will do as I say,” Ironsmith said as he dabbed at the ragged claw marks that followed a bloody track from his right shoulder, down across his collar bone and halfway to his waist.
The damage was substantial and bled profusely, but the strike hadn’t landed where Silverblade wanted. He’d been aiming for the acolyte’s throat. So much for dying surrounded by silence. Now, he’d still have to listen to Ironsmith’s reasoning tones as they drained him dry and turned him into a soulless husk.
Over all the pain and anguish, the fiery magic continued to burn in his chest, going to war with the cold, sucking power of the acolytes. But there was another power as well, until he had trouble distinguishing them all. Frowning in concentration, he was able to differentiate between the three distinct powers. The acolytes’ magic was cold and lifeless. At war within was another power: dark, deadly, and predatory. And dancing and weaving through and around the other magics at war within him was a green, soothing magic—a healer’s power. She still hadn’t given up. He almost wished she would. His poor, battered body couldn’t take much more.
As he lay there and panted, his lethargic senses sorted through everything and it occurred to him that the green power alone was sustaining him. If not for that, he was certain one of the other powers presently at war for possession of his body would have killed him by now.
He almost wanted to curse the fool of a girl for prolonging his torture. While at the same time, another part of him was thankful to have another being with him at the end. A lupwyn was never meant to be alone and she was proving better company than the acolytes. But he wouldn’t be responsible for leading them to the defenseless healer.
“Young healer,” he called out along the magic that linked them, “You need to run as far and as fast as you can. Go in any direction that isn’t toward me. You cannot save me. You’ll only lead the acolytes to your location.”
***
The lupwyn was able to communicate with her.
Surprise engulfed her mind. Beatrice had never been able to link her mind to a stranger’s before—not that she’d ever tried. The only others she’d ever managed to speak mind-to-mind with was Old Mother and Roan, and only then because they were family. She hadn’t even been able to reach her friends, the Stonemantle sisters.
But this lupwyn she could touch easily, and that gift seemed to flow both ways as more of his thoughts and emotions entered her mind.
He thought her young, not much more than a child. Although she could feel his age, and compared to him she was young. But then, so would any human seem in comparison to this lupwyn.
She learned more about him with each passing moment. One of the companions had been his mother. There had been other acquaintances among the casualties as well. But that one had been the hardest, watching the light go out of his mother’s eyes and being helpless to prevent it.
Beatrice knew he wouldn’t long outlive his mother if she didn’t do something. So she did the only thing she could over the distance, she shared more of her magic and strength with him.
All the while, the new mark on her breast continued to throb and burn as more of its foreign magic and power flowed into her from some other source. Whatever it was, her own magic didn’t consider it a threat. Her Larnkin may actually have been drawing on power from elsewhere.
She didn’t know where ‘elsewhere’ was, but if it helped her save a life, she’d accept it and deal with any consequences later.
***
Another mind brushed along his and he felt the healer’s thoughts and emotions. Young—very young—and female. It confirmed his earlier suspicions. The healer helping him was Beatrice.
“Not so young as all that, lupwyn.” Her reply held a hint of exasperation. “And you know my name, so you’re ahead of me on that one. You can explain how later, after we figure out how to get you away from this group of acolytes.”
Other thoughts and emotions were shared across their newly forged link, and he glimpsed her deep hatred for the acolytes. It only made him want her to flee faster and farther.
Silverblade wasn’t about to allow some young innocent to sacrifice herself just for him.
“Stop sharing your magic!” he barked along their link. “Go! Flee! The acolytes will come for you next.”
Another wave of exasperation washed down the link and into his mind. “What makes you think I can control this? I can’t, if you must know. So I suggest you get yourself away from them. You’re a lupwyn. You can outrun them. Follow this link and I’ll get you further from them and see what I can do to heal you.”
“Noble sentiment, but I can’t run. I can’t shapeshift. I can’t even stand.” Admitting such burned his pride but it was true.
“Hmmm. Let me think for a moment.”
Chapter Six
Beatrice felt numb, her body a distant thing. In a detached, almost bemused way that had her wondering if she was somehow going into shock because he was. But they had both bickered back and forth with equally sharp intelligence, so this distance she felt from her own body must have been her Larnkin’s doing.
The unusual mode of mental conversation was almost becoming natural. In the end, she realized he couldn’t escape without help.
She knew what she must do.
From an early age, she’d known she had power; that she wasn’t like other children. She could heal many things and always felt renewed when she did, but there was another side to her power. A dark, draining magic which took everything she had to control and con
tain, for it always wanted to escape.
Only once before had she lost control of that power and nearly been consumed by it. She feared it almost as much as she feared the acolytes. Almost. But the acolytes had proven themselves a much more monstrous evil.
The power within her soul was an intelligence that slumbered within her. Only recently had she started calling it Larnkin. But naming it didn’t mean she understood it any better or controlled it.
In her heart she knew her own power wasn’t evil. It wasn’t that she gained any benefit from it. Perhaps it was merely her inability to control it that made it dangerous.
If the lupwyn had any chance at survival, then this time she would have to control the power, not be controlled by it.
She guided her mount off the road into a small clearing where she dismounted and tied the gelding on a long enough rope that he could graze. Then, her thoughts turning to what she must do, she moved a little ways distant so as not to disturb the horse when she unleashed her magic.
If her own magic slipped her control, she doubted the horse was a safe distance away, but she was out of time. Or more to the point, the lupwyn was.
Kneeling, Beatrice closed her eyes and sought out the link to the male in question. He was there, his mind still sharp, but his body weakening as the acolytes fed.
Her healer’s mind noted that the host body showed signs of going into shock as the damage to the Larnkin increased.
Looking beyond their patient, to the others surrounding him, together they examined the acolytes.
She didn’t like what she found.
Anger flashed through her soul and Beatrice felt the Larnkin’s growing rage. It reached out to the lupwyn and shared a greater flow of magic with the victim.
The lupwyn twitched and grunted in pain, but her Larnkin was unmoved by either hosts’ pain, all its—her, for Beatrice sensed this Larnkin was female—attention was focused on strengthening the other Larnkin.
Beatrice agreed with her assessment. Pain was better than death.
Her Larnkin shoved more power at the poor lupwyn. For the first time, Beatrice sensed they were winning, the power was flowing into the lupwyn faster than the acolytes could suck it away again.
Power continued to build.
Beatrice, her own senses growing distant, suddenly saw what the lupwyn did.
***
Acolyte Ironsmith was weaving his way back into Silverblade’s line of sight. Well actually, the acolyte wasn’t weaving, that was Silverblade’s vision.
The acolyte continued to his side in a slow, painful-looking shuffle.
“Elemental, that was foolish.” He narrowed his eyes at Silverblade. “Why don’t any of your kind ever just agree to the terms? Why do they all choose death—horrible death? You cannot win and will be enslaved in the end anyways.”
The acolyte seemed truly perplexed and mildly grieved by the realization.
“It’s such a waste.” He shook his head and then reached out to tap Silverblade’s chest. A dagger had appeared in the acolyte’s fist and he expected to feel the sharp stab at any moment.
The expected pain didn’t manifest.
He eyed the acolyte as Ironsmith began to cut away his weapon harness and leather vest. The cotton shirt underneath was dealt with next.
“What is this?” Ironsmith asked and tapped his dagger’s hilt against Silverblade’s chest. “I’ve never seen one of these before. It’s rich with magic, but a kind foreign to my master. Although, it glows to my mage sight.”
Silverblade glanced down at his chest. The skin over his heart had been branded. The mark still glowed with potent magic as the acolyte said. He had no better idea as to what it was than the acolyte did. The mark certainly hadn’t been there this morning when he’d bathed.
“I have one forming, too,” the healer added, concern marking her voice with little inflections of fear. “I don’t know what it is, but I think our fates are linked. I also think these marks are about to do something drastic. If you want to live, I suggest you be ready to run.”
Hope rekindled in Silverblade’s chest, and it kept pace with the fierce power now spreading out from that mark, flowing to every corner of his body and soul.
The acolyte tapped Silverblade on the chest with his dagger’s hilt a second time. “You don’t have to tell me. There are other ways.”
Ironsmith brushed back the long sleeve of his robe and exposed a thick, black, metal band encircling his wrist. A dark red stone was mounted to the band.
It may have fooled a few onlookers into thinking it was a bracelet or some other decoration, but Silverblade saw it truly for what it was.
A slave shackle.
Ironsmith pressed the unnaturally cold metal against Silverblade’s chest, just below the glowing mage mark.
Immediately, some of the power swirling in Silverblade’s body was sucked into the black metal. Ironsmith’s brows knit together and then his eyes grew large and he threw himself back and to the side.
The two other acolytes holding Silverblade down were not so lucky and he witnessed the magic’s destructive force that he’d only sensed before. Power arced out of the mark on his chest and lashed at every acolyte within reach.
Whatever it touched—be it rock, tree, or acolyte—blew apart in a cascade of burning shadow and ash.
Silverblade lay there in shocked disbelief as bits of the gray ash rained down upon him. Cautiously, he looked around. He’d half-expected to see the forest leveled, destruction a wide pattern around him. But the nearest tree, only a few body lengths away, showed no signs of the potent magic’s attack.
However, the ground in a body length’s diameter around him, was now barren and scorched.
He rolled to his side, scanning the area. While the foreign fire magic—or whatever it was—had destroyed the nearest acolytes, several were still picking themselves up off the ground. Distantly, he could still hear their horses’ hoof beats as they fled.
Silverblade didn’t know how many of those horses still possessed riders, but he wasn’t going to wait around for them to come back and find out first-hand.
Heaving himself to his feet, he lurched almost drunkenly, but soon found his footing. His battered body screamed about its many abuses, but he forced himself to take in the scene with more detail and soon spotted Acolyte Ironsmith. His enemy still lived. Although he looked to have some severe burns covering a third of his body, which likely would have killed a human, but he doubted the acolyte could be considered human any longer.
A quick inventory of his own wounds showed he was in no shape to finish off the remaining acolytes. Silverblade also realized he was stuck mid-shift—half-human and half-lupwyn. But by Light’s mercy, he was alive and not yet enslaved.
And he could still run, if only on two legs instead of four.
Barely conscious of the direction he fled, he started away from the acolytes and the carnage they had caused and headed towards the healer.
Chapter Seven
As Beatrice expected, her death magic had obliterated all that it touched. The nearest acolytes had crumbled, their skin disintegrating and flaking away to nothing. Blood had misted away as cartilage and bone crumbled to powder. Even the fibers of their robes had returned to the earth to nourish new life.
As hideous as her dark power was to behold, it had left nothing for the acolytes’ master to latch upon and control.
For his part, the lupwyn took advantage of the distraction and escaped into the forest. The link between them was weakening, but she could still feel his aches and pains of both physical and mental variety.
She could no longer speak to him mind-to-mind—her death magic having damaged the link between them—but she followed his progress. One part of her mind said it was too slow, that the remaining acolytes would still catch him. Another part of her consciousness belonging solely to her Larnkin whispered that if the acolytes continued to pursue this lupwyn, she’d reduce their bodies back to base elements.
Beatrice
would have been concerned by her Larnkin’s bloodthirsty essence, but the cost of using the death magic was creeping up on her body. The cold, the stabbing pain in every muscle and joint, the nausea and the drumbeat taking up residence in her head would soon render her useless.
She forced herself back to her feet and made a relatively straight line to the gelding. Once there she removed his tack and pulled out a heavy blanket from one of the saddlebags and then bundling it around her shoulders, she laid down and curled onto her side.
Her vision grew dark as she slipped into unconsciousness.
***
Cold, damp grass was a poor pillow, Beatrice decided as she sat up. Looking around, she quickly spotted the gelding still grazing in the small area his lead allowed him to reach.
The unnatural cold, nausea, and bone-deep pain were not gone, but diminished enough that she could function. Unfortunately, they were now kept company by the more mundane aches and pains caused by sleeping on the bare ground for a few candlemarks. A glance at the sky showed the sun had continued its track west, and it was now mid-afternoon. Beatrice stood and hurriedly refolded the blanket and shoved it back in the saddlebag.
While she sought out the lupwyn with her healer’s senses, she tacked up the gelding. By the time the horse was ready, she had a location on the lupwyn.
To her surprise, he was only a candlemark’s walk to the south of her position. He’d made surprisingly good time considering the condition he’d been in when he’d started out. Now he seemed to be unconscious. Likely a result of pushing himself too hard escaping the acolytes.
She tipped the gelding’s nose in the direction of the lupwyn. It didn’t matter what condition he was in. As long as he had a heartbeat, she could fix him.
In Deception's Shadow Box Set: Book 1-3 Page 59
