Chapter Sixteen
Aren
What the hell is that? The creature came from nowhere, melting out of the air like fog, and when it threw Dietan against the wall, all I could do was scramble out of the way. Shaking, I duck behind the bar, peeking over the top of the counter.
This can’t be happening.
Kilandrar aren’t real. Despite being told the contrary, my brain refuses to believe the truth. And now one of those fuckers is in my bar.
We don’t have tornadoes here in the valley. I’ve only heard of the destruction a tornado leaves in its wake—how it darkens the land, rips through fields and homes alike, tears trees from their roots, shredding everything in its path until there’s nothing left. Nothing can be done to stop it.
And that’s what’s inside the Raven’s Beak. A living tornado stands before Dietan, growing darker and larger as it feeds off the air in the room. The fire in the hearth weakens, and the flames lunge outward, sucked into the creature’s vortex, before they sputter out.
Everything falls into darkness, but I can still make out its shape, swirling with the embers of the dead fire it consumed.
It’s stronger now, its winds battering the windows from the inside, shaking the glasses on the shelf above my head and the floorboards beneath my feet.
The roof is threatening to tear away like opening a jar of preserved peaches.
Its winds howl like a wild animal, and dear Goddess, that’s the Kilandrar speaking. Prince of Loegria… it says in a voice akin to screaming, keening gusts cutting through a gap in a window. I clamp my hands over my ears to cover its terrible sound.
Dietan scrambles to his feet and, to my shock, spreads his arms as if to shield me from the Kilandrar—but he looks injured and is moving too slowly.
The Kilandrar grabs Dietan and lifts him up. His feet dangle helplessly as he tries to grapple with the creature, but there’s nothing solid for him to grab. The Kilandrar’s arm encircles Dietan’s throat. There is a horrible noise, like the rushing of wind through a hollow tube.
Dietan’s mouth works helplessly, gasping for air that won’t come. His eyes bulge; his feet kick. He strains, trying to pull away, desperately pushing against the creature, but he’s caught in the air, as helpless as a fly suspended in a spider’s web. Baring his teeth, he claws at his own throat.
It’s stealing the breath right out of his lungs. It’s killing him.
Oh, Harvest Mother, I’ve got to do something. But my feet are rooted to the ground, paralyzed in terror.
The Kilandrar grows larger as it consumes him. Dietan’s face turns pallid, his lips blue. His eyes, bloodshot, roll up. It’s choking him—choking the life out of him like the marquis’s man once did to me—
Suddenly, I’m full of rage, and without thinking I grab the nearest thing I can find—my iron skillet.
I rush out from behind the bar, wielding it high.
I lunge forward and swing, aiming for the creature’s head, and am taken aback when it doesn’t pass through the wind.
Instead, the iron skillet makes a sound like a hollow gong as I strike the creature hard.
It drops Dietan. I hit it again, with another satisfactory gong!
Dietan coughs, choking on his own breath as it returns to him. He rolls over, eyes closed, and pants as color returns to his face.
I run to stand in front of the fallen prince, holding my frying pan before me like a sword, my entire body trembling as the Kilandrar gathers itself up and turns to face me, its fathomless black eyes glittering.
What in Albion am I doing?
I should run, get the hell out of here. But even though my entire body is vibrating in fear, I can’t—I won’t—let it harm Dietan again.
I’m standing in front of death itself. It screams at me with the rage of a thousand screeching winds, but I don’t dare drop the skillet to cover my ears. I don’t understand what it’s saying, but I know it’s angry.
Well, you know what? I’m angry, too. I’m furious. What the hell is it doing—destroying my bar and attacking my guest?
“Leave him alone!” I shout over its howling. My hair has fallen from my bun in the roaring storm, whipping my cheeks. My eyes water in the wind, but I force myself to keep them open, never taking them off the Kilandrar hissing and circling before me.
I look down at my iron skillet, then back at the Kilandrar, my mind racing. How did I hit it? Could I hit it again?
The Kilandrar lunges. I swing the skillet once more, batting its limb away, and the force of the impact reverberates up the frying pan all the way up my hand and arm, making my very bones vibrate like a bell. That hurts like a bitch.
It rears back and strikes. I try to deflect it again, but I miss. This time the Kilandrar knocks me down.
I crumple when my shoulder hits the floor of the tavern, screaming at the pain.
The Kilandrar twirls, moving as fast as smoke in the wind toward Dietan, but I push through the fire racing through my arm and back.
I rush at it again, swinging the skillet into the Kilandrar’s head before it can touch Dietan.
The Kilandrar pounces, pinning me to the floor with a furious blast. Its wind-formed mouth opens wide right in front of my face, a tornado of hate and fury, and Harvest Mother, I can feel it sucking the very life right out of my lungs.
I drop the frying pan—I can’t breathe—I’m going to die—when suddenly the foul creature is the one howling.
A sword point emerges through its dark mass, piercing right through its middle. Dietan’s blade.
One slash. Another.
The prince is on his feet, cutting the Kilandrar apart, his blade driving furrows through the elemental, carving it up piece by piece.
The Kilandrar turns its back to me as it bears down on Dietan, lashing him with ferocious wind, but the prince stands his ground. He plants his feet on the tavern floor and wields his sword like a dancer. With each blow, the ferocious winds seem to deflate.
Dietan is relentless, striking one blow after another. His eyes are wide with fury, his brow beading with sweat.
But the Kilandrar raises itself up like a snake and calls forth a screeching, angry gale.
I flatten myself against the floorboards while the windstorm rages around the tavern.
All the tables and chairs are upended. Mugs and plates fly through the air, but the winds aren’t half as strong as they were a moment ago.
Dietan’s sword is a blur, a silvery slash of light as he advances relentlessly behind.
With each blow Dietan lands, the creature fades, its power diminishing.
He drives the Kilandrar against a wall, pinning the wind against brick and timber.
He leaps on top of the bar and raises the blade high above his head, then strikes the finishing blow.
With a great crack, the creature swoops once around the tavern like a ghost before vanishing out the door and into the rain, just one more gust of air that disappears into the howling winds.
Dietan lowers his sword, and his eyes meet mine. “You alright?” he asks.
“I think so,” I say.
“Good.”
I slump back in relief just as the door to the tavern bursts open again, voices shouting over the storm. Dietan’s guards rush in, with Jared and Marcus at the helm.
“What the hell is going on!” Marcus thunders, unsheathing his sword.
“Leave me! Go after it!” Dietan croaks, pointing. He shoves his disheveled blond hair out of his hard, determined eyes.
His men nod and run after the dark spirit, giving chase into the night.
With the Kilandrar gone, the air inside the tavern returns to normal. Even the fire in the hearth catches an ember and reignites. The crackling flames are the only sound aside from our ragged breathing.
I crawl over to him, relieved that he appears recovered and—though I’m reluctant to admit it—impressed by his skill with the blade. He stares at me as well, bewildered but amazed.
“It hurt you, didn’t it?” he asks. He holds his head in a trembling hand. “I’m so sorry. This is all my fault.”
I don’t have the energy to reply. The Raven’s Beak is a mess: shattered glass everywhere, mugs and dishes in pieces, and the table Dietan fell into is broken into splinters. But at least the building is still standing. Thank the Goddess for that.
Back on my feet, I reach for my skillet and clutch it tightly against my chest. For some reason, holding it brings me comfort. I take in the damage as realization sets in. I—we—just fought an evil elemental spirit and survived.
“You risked your life to save mine,” he says. The look of admiration in his eyes is guileless.
“With a skillet,” I say, bemused, looking at the pan in my hands.
His laugh is weak. “As good a weapon as any.”
“But I thought this would just go through it—not hit it.”
Dietan nods. “Yeah. Not sure how my sword could hurt it, either. The scrolls say the Kilandrar cut through armies of men as if they were stalks of wheat.” As he gets to his feet, he gasps, teeth bared. He hunches over, reaching his arm behind him. “My back…”
He tries to hobble to a chair, but he can’t stand up straight. I rush to support him by the elbow. He inhales sharply, his handsome face lined with agony.
“This way.” I guide him into the kitchen, where the oven is still on. I sit him down in one of the extra chairs Bonnie uses as a stepping stool. He sits on it backward, collapsing onto the seatback, his face pressed against its wooden frame.
“Come on.” I reach for the hem of his shirt.
“What are you doing?”
“Let’s see how bad it is.” I tug it up, but he stops me with his hand on mine.
“Just wait—” he says, his breath catching.
“You may need a healer.”