CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE #3
Deckard heard Evylin’s agitated shout and turned, finding her stumbling back as a large group of Mages surrounded her with a whirlwind of magic.
She slashed at the roots that tried to pull her down, the mud climbing up her boots.
The wind cut at her, tearing holes in her cloak and drawing streaks of blood along her face, arms, torso, and legs.
The rest of the Mages continued their assault on the others. Thom and Auden shielded Ilain from the brunt of the attacks, while Rafferty and Ethenn failed to get any closer to their assailants. Auden sent out an arcing surge of Day magic, managing to knock down a few Mages. But it wasn’t enough.
The Wind and Terrae Mages pressed deeper into their ranks.
Evylin dropped to her knees, arms covering her head to protect her face.
The horses snorted and screamed in protest. Deckard tried to rise, but the Wind and Terrae wouldn’t let him.
His throat closed. His fingers clawed at the dirt, trying to carry him closer to Evylin.
Ilain grabbed her brother’s hand and called out for Ethenn. The Warrior lunged for her, hand outstretched. Ilain’s eyes locked with Deckard’s, conveying her message. He didn’t know whether to protest or accept the weight of responsibility she’d placed upon him in that singular look.
Then she squeezed her eyes shut in a concerted effort. Ethenn and Auden grimaced, their shoulders caving under the pull of Ilain’s magic.
Suddenly, the Wind died, and the roots shattered. The world was still. Eerie silence filled the night.
Ilain fell back, unconscious.
Knowing his role, Deckard rose to his feet. The highlady had sacrificed the rest of her energy to give him this chance. He could save them in this momentary reprieve.
Deckard raised his hands, ready to summon the Night and save their lives.
Nothing happened.
Dread spiked through Deckard. He felt no warmth, no power rushing through his veins, no clarity of mind.
He stared at his hands, devoid of magic.
Panic settled in as realization flooded him.
In the assault, he’d lost his focus. His connection to magic was gone, and he couldn’t save them. All was lost.
The enemy Mages wasted no time regaining the upper hand. The air swirled around them, violent and gaining speed. The terrae grew up, working to restrain them once again.
However, in the millisecond of her freedom from the whirlwind, Evylin spun. “Jonn,” she yelled and threw the Night Relic. It glowed bright amethyst, twinkling in the moonlight.
Deckard lifted his hand. The Relic struck his palm, warm to the touch. It beamed with a brighter luminance, casting a violet haze over the muddy road. Power surged through his arm. Heat radiated across his skin. His heart pounded. The edges of his vision went dark. And his mind stilled.
A slow smile came to Deckard’s lips, his whole body filled with renewed life. Relief spread through his veins as Night overtook his mind. The crystalline shadows reformed, coiling around him. He breathed in the crisp air. Then he turned to the Mages surrounding them.
The shards leaped at his unspoken command. They sailed through the air, weaving in and out of the Mages. The magic twisted and sliced. It spun and tore. Mage after Mage dropped to the ground around them.
Ethenn sprang forward, flinging the Wind Relic to Evylin. The ruby of the Fire Relic flared in his hand, elongating into a flaming sword. Thom and Rafferty rose, joining the Warriors as they attacked with their mundane weapons.
It took less than a minute. Not even a full sixty seconds passed as the five of them felled close to fifty Wind and Terrae Mages. Deckard’s magic claimed the largest number of victims among them all, though he’d lost count of the true number.
When their attackers lay dead in a circle around them, the team turned to Deckard. He could see the question on their faces. They waited for their next step.
His eyes landed on Evylin. Her expression was clouded as she studied him.
Her dark hair was wild, loose strands wispy around her face, streaked with cuts and blood.
The double-ended Wind sword shifted back to a Relic in her grasp.
Its silver light reflected coolly on her face, revealing her parted lips and shuttered gaze as she watched him.
Deckard’s conscience urged him to let go of the magic.
He could see the fear in her eyes and the tension in her frame as she stepped back, away from him.
She was afraid of him. How many had he just killed without a second’s hesitation?
How dark, how vile was his magic proving him to be? She should fear him.
But Deckard couldn’t let go of the darkness.
He tightened his grip on the Relic, the whisper of magic humming in his ears.
The power filled him, wrapping with a comforting embrace around his whole being.
With the merest thought, he shrouded the whole troop as Auden taught him, along with their horses, their edges turning soft like a mirage.
He settled the Relic around his neck and straightened.
“Let’s go,” he said, his voice unfamiliar to his own ears. It sounded emotionless and void. Flat. Cruel.
He resolved not to let it bother him. Not until they slipped past the guards of Sutterlund Reach, through the gate, and back into Wauld, invisible and silent.