37. Fear the Night
Chapter 37
Fear the Night
14 th Day of the Blood Moon
Port of Ankar, southeast of Achyron’s Keep – Winter, Year 3081 After Doom
Dayne stood atop the westernmost cliff that curled around Ankar’s port, dense black clouds blotting out the moon, the wind battering at his cloak and roaring in his ears. Below, the bay that provided the port safety from the harsh waves that plagued the rest of the coastline was filled with at least fifty ships. When they’d heard Loren was gathering a fleet, they’d had no choice but to act. They could have mobilised their own fleet from Skyfell or Lostwren, but this was quicker and, if done right, would make the Lorians and the traitors fear every shadow that moved in Achyron’s Keep.
“It’s time.” Alina approached from over Dayne’s left shoulder, Mera walking at her side. Both Rynvar and Audin moved behind their riders, dark talons clicking against rock, blue and gold eyes seeming to glow in the moonlight. Dayne was still in awe of the creatures. He’d never expected to lay eyes on a wyvern again for as long as he lived.
Mera ran her hand along Dayne’s right cheek, pulled her fingers into the back of his neck, and planted a kiss on his lips, then moved on to stand at the edge and look down at the ships below.
Dayne nodded to his sister – his queen – as she came to stand at his side.
Even as he looked at her then, the sunstone crown atop her head, her body covered in dark leather armour, the tattooed markings of a Wyndarii on her fingers and hands, Dayne couldn’t help but see the little girl he’d left behind all those years ago.
He could hear her voice so clearly. “That’ll be me one day. I’ll be a wyvern rider. Just like mother.”
“What are you thinking?” Alina asked, lifting her gaze from the water below.
“Just remembering.” He allowed his thoughts to linger on that memory for a moment longer, savouring it. That time was long gone, and there was no getting it back, but it didn’t mean he would ever let it go. “I know your answer already, but can I ask you one last time to reconsider? You’re the queen now, Alina. This rebellion holds fast because you are at its head. If anything were to happen…”
To Dayne’s surprise, Alina didn’t snap back at him. She simply shook her head softly. “I’ve spent a lot of time thinking on what type of leader I want to be. And the answer I always come back to is that I want to be like our mother. I will never be the queen who sits on a throne while she sends others to die. Queen or no, I am the daughter of Ilya Ateres and I’m a Wyndarii. Fighting is in my blood.” The smile that followed was soft, and she gave Dayne a nudge. “Besides, I will not have the bards say that Dayne Ateres haunted the Lorians’ dreams while his sister sat back and reaped the rewards.”
“We shall haunt them together then.” Dayne allowed himself a half-smile. He wanted to tell her how proud he was, how she was already everything their mother had been: strong, fierce, loyal, compassionate. But words spoken too often meant little, and now was not the time. “Have either of you seen Belina? She should have been here by now.”
“Perfect night for it.”
Dayne gave a start, then let out a sigh at the sight of Belina standing by the cliff’s edge a few feet away, her arms folded, bottom lip turned up. Over a decade together, and he still had absolutely no idea how the woman always managed to sneak up on him. “Were you waiting there for when I asked?”
She gave him a smile that said that had been precisely what she’d been doing and that she was delighted about it. She sauntered over to stand between him and Alina, tilting her head upwards and watching Rynvar with a cautious eye.
Rynvar’s nostrils flared, and he lifted himself taller, winged forelimbs spreading around Alina protectively. In the dark, the creature’s black and orange scales made him look almost unnatural, sections of his body blending with the night.
“He’s a very big dog,” Belina said as she handed Dayne a satchel that he slung over his shoulder. She looked down over the cliff once more. “You sure you still have it in you?”
“Try to keep up.” Dayne looked to Mera and Alina. “Ready?”
Both nodded in response.
“Don’t do anything stupid.” Mera kissed him once more, then mounted Audin, clipping her straps into place on the saddle while the wyvern rolled his shoulders and let out a quiet, high-pitched, vibrating rumble.
Alina grasped his forearm. “By blade and by blood, brother. It means everything to have you by my side.”
“By blade and by blood. Stay safe. Leave the mages to me.”
“You two are adorable,” Belina said. “But it’s fucking freezing up here, and the wyverns are looking at me like I’m supper. I mean, who could blame them? Look at me.”
A deep growl and a series of high-pitched pulses escaped Rynvar’s throat as the wyvern stretched his neck forwards and curled his lips, the frills on his neck shaking.
“Good boy. Gooood boy.” Belina lifted a hand. “I’m not as tasty as I look. Lini, a little help?”
Alina held up an open palm and Rynvar purred, brushing the scales of his jaw against her fingers.
“My queen.” Belina gave a bow too deep to be believable and winked at Alina, who both glared and blushed at the same time.
Belina turned her bow in the wyvern’s direction, seeming to enjoy the hiss Rynvar aimed at her before he continued to allow Alina to scratch his jaw.
“Belina.” Dayne did little to hide the irritation in his voice. The woman was perhaps the only soul in the world with stones big enough to antagonise a wyvern.
“What? I’m just trying to be nice. What more do you want from me?”
“Silence would be appreciated every now and again.”
“You don’t mean that.”
Dayne moved closer to Belina and grabbed both of her forearms. “Oh, but I do.”
Belina’s eyes widened when she realised what he was about to do. “No, please, not again. You didn’t tell me that was how we were getting down. No,” she repeated. “I’ll climb. Just start without me, and I’ll catch up.”
Dayne’s smile stretched from ear to ear. It wasn’t often that he had Belina squirming instead of the other way around. It was a sweet thing.
“Give us some time to get to the ships. We’ll move on your mark,” he said to his sister before looking back to Belina. “Don’t scream. The cliffs will carry the sound, and they’ll hear us coming.”
“I’m going to fucking bite you the whole way down. I’m going to fucking bite you, and I’m going to draw blood.”
Dayne’s smile didn’t falter. “Deep breath.”
With that, he wrapped his arms around Belina and hauled her off the edge of the cliff.
Alina shifted forwards and pressed herself close to the scales of Rynvar’s neck, gripping the saddle’s handles as tight as she could. The wyvern’s body snaked, and he surged upwards, the buckles clinking as the thick leather straps that held Alina in place pulled taut. She loved the feeling when Rynvar climbed, the pressure of the world pulling at her shoulders, trying to rip her free and failing.
Once the wyvern levelled out, Alina signalled for the others to hold formation. Amari and Lukira flew at her left, their wyverns – Syndel and Urin – blending with the night. Mera sat astride Audin on Alina’s right, ten other Wyndarii at her back.
They flew just below the black clouds that covered the sky, faint pink light piercing through. Below, the Lorian ships swayed in the dark water, the crashing of the waves echoing up the cliff. Dayne and Belina would be in position now, somewhere to the right of the fleet. The woman irritated her to no end. She had no sense of etiquette, and every thought that drifted into her snake pit of a brain seemed to flow between her lips. But Dayne cared for her in a way he cared for few. That was something Alina had seen from the first moment Belina had walked into the tent.
And what’s more, she fought with a cold efficiency that Alina could only respect. Between her, Dayne, and the Andurii, countless Lorian and Koraklon caravans lay burning in the dirt and almost five hundred heads were mounted on spikes along the main road leading to Achyron’s Keep.
It had been Belina and Dayne’s idea to only attack at night, to rip apart any and all raiding parties without mercy, to destroy every caravan, every camp, and every outpost they could find. To use the Wyndarii to harass the supply lines from Varsund along the Hot Gates. They could not attack the Keep without the reinforcements Aeson had promised – not without risking a horrible defeat. But they could teach the Lorians and the traitors to fear the dark.
The plan had worked perfectly. The raids on Valtaran villages near the keep had slowed to almost nothing, and some of the villagers had taken to calling Dayne and the others the ‘Demons of the Pass’, referring to the section of Valtara that connected to Achyron’s Keep.
The most irritating part about the woman though was that Amari was infatuated with her. But that was a problem for another day.
Alina took a deep breath, holding it as Rynvar dropped to catch a current of air that broke below them. Just a little longer, to ensure Dayne and Belina were in place. Savrin, Olivian, Glaukos, and some fifty of the Andurii would already be situated by the port’s gates, ready to hunt down any stragglers, letting only a handful through. Scouts had reported that some fifteen hundred spears guarded the port, along with several Lorian Battlemages. Alina had insisted they attack with greater numbers, but Dayne had been adamant they keep the party small. She trusted him, just as she trusted his judgement on naming Savrin to her Queensguard.
A hand signal to Alina’s right drew her attention: now. Attack. Question.
Mera wore a white glove on her left hand, as did Alina and the others, to make signals more visible at night.
Alina answered, then touched her spread palm to her chest: by blade and by blood.
Mera reciprocated the gesture, and Alina pressed a hand to Rynvar’s neck and shouted over the wind. “Dive.”
Dayne treaded water, keeping his head just above the surface, the spray of the waves lapping at his face. He wove thin threads of Water around the satchel that bobbed in front of him, preventing the contents from flooding. In his years with Belina, he’d found that most mages couldn’t sense the use of the Spark if the threads were thin enough and the distance great enough. Few useful functions could be performed with threads that thin, but this was one of them.
“I’ve still not forgiven you.” Belina floated in the water beside him, ceaselessly shaking her head.
“Shut up,” he whispered, watching the sky, his shoulder stinging from where she’d bitten him.
“You know I hate jumping from cliffs like that. You remember Karvos? I thought I was dead. Not all of us can do your little la-dee-dah magic tricks. Besides, do you have any idea how long it takes my hair to dry? Hair doesn’t look this fabulous on its own.”
Dayne curled a thin thread of Water around himself and used it to splash Belina in the face.
“I know that was you.”
“No idea what you’re talking about,” he said, purposefully not looking at her. The closest ship sat in the water no more than fifty feet away. A handful of Lorians occupied the deck, garbed in red and black leathers. They called to each other, their shouts echoing.
The port itself was a different story. Patrols of both Lorians and Valtaran traitors moved in groups of twenty across the dock, lanterns illuminating their path.
Mera’s scouts had reported numbers of over a thousand in the garrison, set behind a freshly erected palisade wall and augmented with several Lorian mages. The Lorians should have sent more spears.
Something moved in the sky at the edges of Dayne’s vision. A flash and then it was gone. A low whistling noise touched his ears, followed by a series of crashes and shouts as Alina and the Wyndarii swooped low and launched the Godfire down onto the decks.
The substance was a concoction used for naval warfare. Its makings were guarded ferociously by the Narvonan Pyroclast Guild, and the secret of its creation was one of few things all the kingdoms agreed on. But if a person had the right connections, it could be obtained in small quantities. Belina had first introduced him to it almost seven years ago during the burning of the fifth fleet in the Bay of Light. He had no idea what comprised it, but as soon as it was lit, the liquid burned with the ferocity of dragonfire. Even water couldn’t quench its flames. And when launched in small clay vessels, there was nothing that could sink a ship faster. Thankfully, Belina knew more smugglers than a bird does trees.
“Time to move,” Belina whispered, swimming towards the closest ship.
“What in the fuck was that?” a voice called out from the deck above.
“There’s bits of it everywhere,” another voice called back.
“Smells kind of nice,” another answered.
Dayne pressed his finger to his lips, holding his position a few feet from the ship’s hull, the waves lifting him up and down.
Belina mimicked his gesture, mocking him.
From the satchel that floated around his neck, he produced a tin with flint and quenched steel along with two clay jars plugged with waxed stoppers and handed them to her. Without a word, she twisted onto her back, stuck the tin between her teeth, held the jars above the water, and swam past the ship’s bow.
More crashing sounds signalled the wyverns’ second run, the vessels of Godfire smashing onto the decks of the ships.
Dayne moved himself to the bow. He could just about make out Belina fifty or so feet away, her dark hair bobbing in the water.
He removed the waxed stopper from the first jar, the horrid stench of the rags soaked in rendered fat wafting from within. One thin thread of Fire later and flames burst from the small jar. Dayne launched the jar up and over the ship’s rail.
A heartbeat passed, followed by a smash, and then the ship’s deck erupted with raging fire, the flames burning like a signal fire in the dark. Soldiers shouted and boots slapped on wood, and before long, the sails and rigging were ablaze as well.
A moment later, another ship erupted in flames as Belina did her part.
While the fires raged, Dayne swam to the next-closest ship and tossed his second jar. Smash. Flames.
Dayne ducked below the water and swam as hard as he could towards the eastern edge of the port, rising only for air. By the time he reached the docks, three more ships had caught fire, the wind fanning the flames. There truly was nothing like Godfire. All it took was the whisper of flames, an ember on the breeze, and another ship exploded in a blazing inferno. Before long, the entire fleet would be nothing but smoke and ash.
Bells rang out, men and women shouted, and feet pounded against wood as the entire port descended into pandemonium.
Dayne grabbed the dock and lifted himself from the water as the guards scrambled to kill the flames.
He drew his breaths in slow through his nose, settling himself, clenching his jaw tight so his teeth wouldn’t chatter. The winter air was bitter and he was soaked to the bones, but he needed to move quickly. He crossed the wooden planks, dipping into the shadows between two buildings that overlooked the docks. Soldiers rushed past in the streets, carrying buckets, screaming and shouting.
“The flames won’t die!” a voice called.
It didn’t take long for Dayne to feel the tingle of the Spark running down his spine. He moved so he could get a clear look at the jetties to which the ships were moored. Six Lorian mages stood amidst the chaos, black cloaks draped over their shoulders, threads of Fire, Water, and Air weaving about them.
Just as planned.
A screech sounded overhead, echoed by another, and another, and then the wyverns swooped through the raging flames, the Wyndarii on their backs dropping the last of the Godfire over the docks after having drawn the mages in.
Dayne held his breath for half a second, watching as a piece of burning sail drifted downwards, slowly, twisting and turning. It landed, and the flames caught the Godfire and swept over the docks like a blazing wave. Men and women screamed as they jumped from the jetties, the shrieks growing louder when they rose from beneath the surface to find the water itself had caught fire.
The Battlemages had not been so easily swept aside. From where Dayne stood, he saw one lying in a burning heap, but the other five had shielded themselves with the Spark and shifted to face the attacking Wyndarii.
An arc of lightning streaked from a mage’s palm and caught a wyvern in the side. The creature dropped without a scream or a howl, smoke billowing as it crashed into the port town.
Dayne drew a knife from his belt and charged from the side street, keeping his heart still. He’d told them not to fly low. The wyvern’s scales had been dark blue. Not Audin or Rynvar.
As Dayne stepped from cover, a soldier shouted to his left and lunged, only to go limp mid-run and collapse into the dirt. Dayne threw a glance upwards and spotted Belina leaping from roof to roof, staying low, steel glinting in her hands.
Two more soldiers spotted him in the chaos. The first never got his sword from its scabbard. Dayne leapt towards him, flipped the knife in his right hand, then drove it down into the man’s neck, blood gushing as he pulled it free.
The second soldier thrust a spear at Dayne’s head as his companion fell. Dayne twisted, grabbed the shaft, and yanked the soldier in close. The man stumbled off balance, and Dayne leaned in, ramming the knife through his right eye, the hilt clicking against bone. Abandoning the knife lodged in the man’s socket, he tossed the spear into his right hand and launched it.
Before the spear connected with its target, Dayne was running, slipping a new knife from his belt. The spear punched into the back of the closest Battlemage’s head, bursting out through his face in a cloud of shattered bone, blood, and brain, the force dropping the body forward.
For all a Battlemage’s strength and power, their greatest weakness was their unbridled arrogance. They believed nothing could stand in their way, that the Spark was theirs to command and theirs alone. Centuries of little opposition emboldened this belief. They never expected to be hunted, never for a second imagined there might be bigger predators in the world. And that made them easy prey.
Four left.
A woman bearing the yellow skirts of House Thebal, a bucket in one hand, spotted him out of the corner of her eye and lunged. She threw the bucket and drew her sword.
Dayne planted his front foot, stopping dead, the bucket soaring past him. He twisted at the waist and closed the distance between himself and the Thebalan in a heartbeat.
He grabbed the wrist of her sword hand mid-swing, then drove his knife into her belly. One, two, three times, then once into her throat. Blood flowed free as she slumped to the wood.
Dayne kept moving, leaping over a still-burning corpse. The remaining mages hadn’t spotted him yet. They continued to weave threads of Fire, Air, and Spirit about themselves, looking towards the sky for wyverns. One had even resumed attempting to quench the fires blazing on the ships. They were lions believing they stalked deer, stumbling their way into a wyvern’s Rest.
Dayne slipped past a group of soldiers dragging their companions from the flames, the Godfire clinging to everything it touched.
He stepped up behind the first of the remaining four mages, wrapped his hand around her mouth, and slit her throat. The mage to his right twisted, calling to his companion, eyes widening as he saw Dayne striding through the flames while she choked on her own blood.
The mage pulled on threads of Fire and Spirit, whirling them around himself and funnelling them into his right hand, a red glow emanating from the pendant that hung from his neck.
Dayne opened himself to the Spark and drove a whip of Air into the side of the man’s knee, bones snapping. The mage screamed, his eyes wide with shock. Those eyes were still wide when Dayne reached down his throat with that same thread and pulled the air from his lungs. That was always the same with the Battlemages. So sure in their own power they rarely ever thought to defend themselves.
Dayne walked through the flames, his attention fixed on the two surviving Battlemages – one launching arcs of lightning into the sky, the other pulling the air from around the ship fires.
As he moved, he pulled on threads of each element, weaving them through his hand, the power of the Spark burning in his veins. Light streaked from his hand, his níthral taking the shape of a gleaming white spear that trailed along the wooden dock.
The first mage noticed him in her periphery and stared in disbelief as she fumbled to free her sword from its scabbard while unleashing a column of black fire from her hand, drawing on the power of the Blood Moon. Dayne split the flames with threads of Air and Spirit, stepping through and driving his níthral into her chest. She twitched for a moment, her gaze meeting his, then fell back and off the edge of the dock, the water taking her.
When the last mage finally realised that all her companions were dead, she looked at Dayne, mouth agape. “Who… what are you?”
Dayne wove threads of Spirit around the woman in a latticed web, encasing her, feeling a thrum when the final thread clicked into place, cutting her off from the Spark.
She let out a gasp but immediately reached for something beneath her breastplate. The red gemstone she produced had already begun to glow when Dayne snatched it from her grasp with a thread of Air and pulled it into his hand.
He didn’t even have to hold the mage in place with the Spark. She simply stood there like a stunned deer, unmoving while Dayne looked down at the glowing red gemstone in his hand, his níthral casting a white light across the dock.
Lorian soldiers and Valtarans in the colours of Koraklon and Thebal circled around him but dared not come closer. They’d seen what he had done to the mages – what he was currently doing.
One man dared take a step forward, only to drop like a sack of stones when Belina put a knife in the back of his head from atop a nearby roof, vanishing again before the others could spot her.
Dayne looked down at the glowing gemstone. He’d held one before but had never allowed himself to draw from its strength. But something about it felt different that night beneath the Blood Moon. It called to him, whispered in his ear, yearning for him to tap into the strength it offered. And for a brief moment, Dayne considered it. He’d seen what the Lorian mages could do with the power their Essence offered. And in his hands, in the hands of someone who understood death, it could be used to free Valtara.
But he had also seen what Blood Magic did to the mind over time. He had sent enough warped mages into Heraya’s embrace. And so Dayne lifted his gaze to meet that of the last surviving Battlemage, pushed threads of Earth and Spirit into his hand, and crushed the gemstone to dust. Crimson light sprayed through his fingers, bright as a star, then died in a wisp of red mist.
“Do you have any last words, mage?” Dayne asked as he tilted his hand and let the dust fall onto the docks. He could feel the woman probing at the ward in which she was encased, desperately trying to break through.
“You don’t have to do this,” she called back. Dayne could hear the fear in her voice. He knew it well. When a person lived with the Spark at their fingertips, it became engrained in everything they did. And when it was taken away, they were helpless as a newborn babe suckling at their mother’s tit. “You don’t,” she repeated. “We will surrender the port without further bloodshed. I promise it.”
Dayne believed her. “Unfortunately, it’s your blood I need. Not your surrender. I truly wish that were not the case. But it is. May Heraya embrace you.”
Dayne released his níthral and at the same time wrapped a thread of Air about the mage’s waist and another around a sword on the dock behind him.
He pulled.
The woman careened through the air, screaming. He grabbed her by the throat just as his fingers wrapped around the hilt of the dropped sword, then drove the steel through her gut.
“In another life,” he whispered as the light went out in the mage’s eyes.
He could have dealt with them all quickly, but that night wasn’t about efficiency, or haste, or even death. It was about terror. It was about the traitors and the Lorian soldiers watching their mages be ripped apart one by one. Watching the shadows hunt them. It was about making them fear the dark.
Dayne released the woman’s throat and let her body drop. He wove threads of Spirit and Air into his voice, looking about at the soldiers around him, the light of the burning ships drawing shadows across the docks.
“I am Dayne Ateres. This is my home, and you are no longer welcome.” He cast his gaze over the Lorians and Valtarans who stood about him, their weapons drawn. “Those of you who survive tonight, tell them what happened here. Tell them that the wyvern of House Ateres flies again and that it yearns for blood. Leave Valtara and never come back. If you do this, you may yet live to grow old and grey.”
Dayne opened himself fully to the Spark, feeling it pull at him, feeling it burn in his veins and crackle over his skin. He found the elemental strand of Air in his mind and plucked, its smooth, cool touch rolling over his skin.
“Now, I say to you but one last thing – run.”
He drew a deep breath, then cast threads throughout the port town, spreading them over the burning ships and every lick of flame he could find: the candles, the lanterns, the firepits.
In a single breath, he quenched them all, and with the black clouds above blocking the moon’s light, Ankar descended into darkness.
Petrick Leoth ran with such haste he could hear nothing but the sound of his own heart and the scrambling of feet and shouts around him.
He’d never seen a night so dark. He could barely make out the ground before him.
A sudden burst of white light illuminated the street, revealing the mass of men and women around him, Lorian and Valtaran both. That shimmer of white gifted him a momentary sense of relief, only for his eyes to fall on the dark silhouette of the man who had called himself Dayne Ateres, a coruscating spear in his grip. He swung the weapon in a wide arc, ripping through three soldiers. And then the spear was gone and, with it, the light.
“What the fuck is he?” someone shouted to his left. “He’s like some kind of?—”
Whoever had been speaking never finished the sentence. A sharp thunk was followed by the sound of a body hitting the ground.
That was when wingbeats thrummed above, accompanied by those sharp, pulsing screeches.
“Petrick!” A hand grabbed Petrick’s shoulder. The voice belonged to Mikhail. “This way!”
Petrick hesitated. The gates were forward. The voice was not.
The white light burst into life once more, and Petrick watched Dayne Ateres drive his white spear through a man’s chest, arcs of lightning streaking from his palm and tearing a group of Thebalan loyalists to pieces.
A second hand pulled him in the opposite direction – Gwinton Jon. Sweat-streaked ash covered Gwinton’s face, his eyes wide, veins in his neck bulging. “What are you doing? Move, move!”
Petrick made to answer, but then something crashed into Gwinton from above, slamming him to the ground. Deep red scales and savage horns. The wyvern opened its jaws and ripped chunks of flesh from Gwinton’s shoulder and neck, its rider sitting calmly on its back. The creature lifted its head, and bright golden eyes looked into Petrick’s.
The wyvern tilted its head to the right, strips of flesh dangling from its teeth, blood dripping. A moment of calm passed as he stared into the creature’s eyes, and then the wyvern opened its jaws and shrieked, the frills on its neck and back shaking. The light vanished once more, leaving Petrick’s pulse scrambling.
Mikhail grabbed him and yanked him backwards into what must have been an alley.
He dropped to the ground, panting like an exhausted dog, his back pressed against the wooden wall, his hands clasped behind his head. “What is happening? What is happening? What is happening?”
“Petrick.” Mikhail grabbed him and shook him. “Petrick, shut the fuck up.”
Bloodchilling screams and howls filled the air, wingbeats and wyvern screeches answering.
“We’re dead.” His hands trembled furiously as he pulled them away from his head. He tried to stop them shaking, but he had no control.
“No, we’re not. We’re going to make it out of here. I just need you to stay quiet and stand up.”
“No,” a third voice said, a touch of sadness to it. “Your friend’s right. You’re going to die here.”
Mikhail jumped backwards, and Petrick jerked away from the voice, fingers digging in the dirt, feet pushing.
A woman stepped from the dark, close enough for Petrick to make out her face. He saw dark skin and long, braided hair. Narvonan. She moved like a lion stalking its prey.
Mikhail took a step towards her. “Who… who are you?”
Her lips curled into a sad smile. “On any given day? A woman trying to finally do something worthwhile. But tonight? Tonight, I am death. So very sorry to meet you.”
Petrick didn’t see what happened next. There was a flash of movement, and then Mikhail was holding his neck. His friend looked back at him, a vacant expression on his face, and when he pulled his hand away, blood spurted.
Petrick pushed himself back in the dirt as Mikhail reached for him, stumbling, blood spurting from the wound in his neck.
Mikhail crashed to his knees, and the woman stepped over his body. She eyed Petrick, a soft sigh escaping her. “Wrong place, wrong time.”
Petrick scrambled backwards and hauled himself to his feet, springing from the alley and back into Ankar’s main thoroughfare.
He crashed into someone, scrambling to stay on his feet. Wingbeats sounded, a screech, then a gust of wind swept across his face and the person he had bumped into was gone.
The sky was a bit brighter now, his eyes adjusting to the dark. Those scaled beasts soared over the town, swooping only to tear people apart.
The gates weren’t far. He could make it.
He pulled his gaze from the sky and made to run, footsteps sounding all around him.
That same white light burst into life once more, and there stood Dayne Ateres in the street before him, looking like a demon that had crawled from the void itself. The man – if that’s what he truly was – swung his spear of light and smashed it into a fleeing soldier’s head. Petrick assumed the pieces that exploded outwards were bone and brain.
As the man walked towards him, Petrick tripped over a body, feeling a crack as his elbow slammed hard into stone. He tried to haul himself to his feet, but something held him down. Something he couldn’t see or touch. He’d been around mages long enough to know it was the Spark, to know there was nothing he could do.
This was where he would die. Thousands of miles from home, in a place for which he cared little, surrounded by the dead bodies of men and women he had once called friends. Worse, even as Dayne Ateres stood over him, that white spear pulsing light, Petrick still wasn’t quite sure what he was meant to be fighting for.
If he’d been the given choice, he would have died fat and drunk in the arms of a woman who loved him. And a dog, he would have loved to have a dog.
Petrick squinted at the bright light of the white spear.
“I take no pleasure in this,” Dayne Ateres said, standing over him, shadows welling in the hollows of his face. “But nor will I shy away from it. Heraya embrace you.”
He raised the spear and then thrust it down into Petrick’s heart. The pain lasted for but half a second. Then the world went cold and black, and a strange sense of panic and unease consumed him. He screamed, but no sound came.