Thorns
The trees back at the logging camp (the trees who’d attacked Isofal Cenobium) had been horrible, but they’d still been trees. Animated in ways trees shouldn’t be, but undeniably trees. Even the Queens, despite brief illusions suggesting femininity, had appeared primarily as trees.
This was not a tree.
Yet, much like Catimus Abhigan, there was mischief and intelligence in the creature’s dark eyes. The smile was the worst, though. Math knew that smile—he’d known it most of his life.
“Huraiik” jumped from the tree branch, landed lightly on his feet, and pirouetted in place before bowing. “Don’t be so dour, Math. I thought you’d be happier to see me, if only for old times’ sake.” His eyes didn’t blink; he no longer had eyelids.
Math dropped the equipment bag and aimed the black-powder weapon at the creature. “I saw you die, Huraiik.”
“That’s not your friend,” Kaiataris warned.
“Yeah, I figured that out on my own, thanks.”
Huraiik chuckled wickedly. “Oh, but you’re wrong. I am your friend. Or as much as we ever were. I mostly tried to make your life miserable.” He shrugged. “It was something to do. Honestly, I wasn’t very happy as a knight.”
Math had told himself Abhigan had been corrupted or controlled—still fundamentally human beneath the grimmock magic. But what did that make this creature? It looked and acted like Huraiik … yet couldn’t possibly be him.
“I don’t know why you’re here, but crawl back into whatever hole you grew out of.”
“No, don’t feel like it. And what’s that tube thing you’re pointing at me?” Huraiik studied the weapon curiously.
“It’s what killed every Idallik Knight here, so maybe run before I use it on you.
” Math was bluffing. The Kaliri agents had reloaded their weapons after each use, which meant that even if he could make this work, he only had one shot.
After that, it would become nothing more than an oddly shaped club.
Math had no other weapons; none of the fallen knights had carried anything larger than a dagger.
Why would they when they could manifest their preferred weapons out of thin air?
Uncomfortably, Math found himself hoping Kaiataris would raise the dead again, but she seemed reluctant to act. He glanced briefly toward her, but she had stepped back, out of view—though not out of awareness. He could still sense her.
She was angry, frustrated—but mostly, afraid.
Damn it all. Why did he know she was scared? How?
“No need for threats,” Huraiik continued cheerfully. “The Queens thought you’d be more receptive to a familiar face. They just want to talk.”
“Like they ‘talked’ to you? To the loggers? To Catimus Abhigan?”
Huraiik laughed—a strange, rustling sound. “No. You’re apparently special.” He raised both hands in mock surrender. “I tried telling them you’re basically useless and can’t even manifest a weapon, but they don’t think that’s important.”
“Kind of you. Thanks.”
“Anytime. Just looking out for you.” Huraiik waved him forward. “Come on. I’ll introduce you.”
Math tightened his grip on the weapon. “No, thanks.”
Huraiik rolled his eyes. “It’s not actually a request, Math. Why do you always have to be so difficult—” He tilted his head sideways, peering behind Math.
Realizing what had caught the monster’s attention, Math shifted to block Kaiataris from view.
“Huh,” Huraiik murmured. “Who’s she?”
Unfortunately, he wasn’t asking Math.
Our enemy, said a voice that echoed strangely in Math’s mind. The only real threat to our plans.
“That little thing?” Huraiik scoffed. “I’d never have guessed that.” His expression hardened as the voice spoke again.
Destroy her.
“Introductions will have to wait,” Huraiik told Math. “I have a little thing to take care of, first.”
Math felt Kaiataris’s spike of panic as clearly as if it were his own.
The legendary, terrifying grim lord ran for her life.
“Oh, no you don’t.” Huraiik manifested his weapon—a fiery sword—and began to chase.
Math froze. Each knight’s manifested weapon was unique to them and them alone. And that was Huraiik’s sword. A fake copy of the man shouldn’t have been able to summon it.
Math raised the stolen weapon, aimed at Huraiik’s back, and squeezed the trigger.
Nothing happened.
There was no resistance when he pressed the latch, no sign that the damn trigger did anything but jiggle. There was no fuse, no flame—nothing obvious to ignite the powder.
“Gravefucker!” he snarled.
Huraiik laughed without breaking stride. He’d nearly caught up to the necromancer when she spun around, clutching a necklace with one hand while thrusting the other hand toward him. A burst of white energy enveloped Huraiik’s head and then condensed into a metallic silver coating.
The vine man screamed and doubled over, clawing at his face. His sword vanished.
Kaiataris resumed running, but Math knew the distraction wouldn’t last long.
Math studied the weapon desperately. He’d seen the Kaliri assassins fire them repeatedly. Had he missed a step? How did one light the black powder with no fuse? It was impossible, short of using magic …
Short of using magic.
Math snorted. Sure, why not? If you were already going to break half of the Innalova Accords, why not break the other half, too? Black powder was classified as a class-one weapon.
So was magic.
He set the stock firmly against his shoulder as Huraiik straightened, preparing to chase again.
Math circled Sun, channeling heat through the weapon. A sharp crack echoed and smoke billowed.
Huraiik collapsed.
Math didn’t wait to see how long it might stop the creature. He suspected the answer was “not very.”
Then a fierce, stabbing pain erupted in his ankle—as though he’d twisted it badly. But he hadn’t moved, hadn’t tripped.
Glancing down, he saw nothing wrong. Yet the agony was vivid.
Off in the distance, he watched Kaiataris pick herself up off the ground where she’d fallen, and move away, slower now. Limping.
He wasn’t feeling his own pain. He was feeling hers.
What else had she done to him?
Still holding the now-useless club, Math chased after her, furious and afraid in equal measure.
She hadn’t gotten far.
She’d been smart enough to avoid the forest, but she was also limping. If Huraiik chased after her, she’d be easy prey.
The wind picked up behind him, except it wasn’t wind. It was the sound of countless tree branches moving on their own as they marched.
“Math!” he heard Huraiik scream from behind him.
Math grabbed Kaiataris’s hand as he caught up to her. “You know, if you were going to raise the dead, back there was the right time.”
She growled at him, her composure finally broken. “I would have, were it only an option.”
“You did it before—”
“In my sanctum, my place of power, graved and prepared centuries before! Out here, I’m not strong enough to do more than—”
She looked past him—and blanched.
He didn’t need to ask why.
“Understood. In that case, don’t kill me. You’ll just be hurting yourself.”
“What are you—?”
Math threw her over his shoulder and ran.
She screamed to shake the sky, but didn’t hex him, which he took as a win. He circled spells one-handed as he went, searching for any advantage. Master Wadera would have been proud.
“Do not run into the forest!” Kaiataris yelled at him.
He ran into the forest.
Math might have been more confident just a short time earlier. The trees hadn’t moved swiftly. But Huraiik—who had all the gifts he’d possessed as a knight, and now whatever abominations the plants had granted—was a different matter.
He was more than capable of catching up to Math. When he did, Math would be without any weapons other than a club and a necromancer who couldn’t necromance.
Not ideal.
So he did what he’d sworn never to do: He went home.
“Put me down! I can heal my foot. Put me down at once!”
He didn’t argue. Carrying her over Valmaki terrain wasn’t sustainable, even if she was petite.
He set her down. “Ten seconds. Then I’m picking you up again.”
She bit back a retort and instead moved her fingers over one of her bracelets, tracing the pattern. A faint, pale glow circled the gold metal, then wrapped around her ankle before disappearing.
She straightened. “There. A considerable improvement.”
He felt it—the lessening of her pain.
“Good.” He grabbed her hand and ran.
Math slowed his pace to match the woman’s shorter steps, the rhythmic slap of her sandals a constant reminder of her unprepared state of dress. He helped Kaiataris over roots and warned her away from troublesome briars, navigating by instinct.
At least he no longer had to carry her. He needed that advantage: the full darkness of night was fast approaching. When that happened, Math would be forced to risk a conjured light guaranteed to betray their position.
He hadn’t seen this place in years, yet it felt unchanged. The scent of poplars and damp earth, the twilight calls of cuckoos and crows, every turn of trail and abandoned path tugged at bright and bitter memories.
Then he saw it: a low, ruined silhouette of an abandoned cottage, ivy-draped and half-swallowed by undergrowth. Birch and elms surrounded it, along with countless rowans, a few ancient yews, and miles of blackberry and briar bushes. The wind through the branches felt like hello.
Part of him was glad for the dark, for how it concealed the glade’s beauty.
It made hating this place easier.
“Math!” Huraiik again, much too close.
Math pushed Kaiataris toward the ruins. “Hide in the house. Just ahead.”
“You cannot fight him.” Her voice was taut with fear, fury—concern.
Concern for him.
He didn’t know what to do with that. He couldn’t reconcile the stories of the grim lord necromancer, the horror stories told to children, the definition of power and darkness, with this fragile, furious woman in a torn silk dress and broken shoes.
The woman who, according to the Queens, was the only one who could stop them.
“You’re right,” Math said, “but I won’t have to. It’s a trap.”