34. SACRIFICE #2
She desperately wanted to believe she would not have to sacrifice Seth to save Neri. But the strength of her feelings—the pain of them—astonished her. After a decade of pretending he didn’t exist, she hadn’t thought herself capable of this.
“You have to let me attempt exorcism,” Jacen said. “We can incapacitate him and then let me try. I know you care for him too—”
“Hurry!” Mondral shouted.
Ysira gave Jacen a sharp nod, which seemed to placate him for now. She ran after Mondral, Jacen trailing behind. Seth, or the thing inside him, heard them push through the door seconds after he had.
He set Neri down beneath a crescent of shadow cast from one of the temple mezzanines. Neri stirred and whimpered. Black blood trickled from his hairline, and Ysira’s stomach lurched when she realized Seth must have struck him.
“Reinforcements are coming,” Turil said through Seth’s mouth, with eerie calm. She raised his sword into a high hanging guard. At his back, the Gate pulsed and shimmered. Close—but not close enough. “This vessel can hold you off long enough.”
Mondral drew his own sword, steel glittering in the eerie red light from above. “We’ll see.”
Ysira sprinted toward Neri, Jacen toward Seth.
Seth attacked. He would have taken off Jacen’s arm had Jacen not dodged with a quickness only a telepath could manage. He backed away, intense focus writ across his face.
Ysira checked Neri’s pulse, found it strong, and dragged him away from the struggle. She readied her glaive, wishing she were wearing something more practical.
Mondral and Seth locked blades, straining against each other. Then Mondral let go. His sword dropped with a clang as he leaned expertly sideways and pulled another weapon from his belt. An ashek. A blade extended from the strange stone—a lightless void, outlined in brilliant gold.
Seth’s sword connected with the ashek’s glowing edge. A perfect block. It sliced his blade clean in two. He stumbled. Mondral danced behind him and sliced his heel tendon. Seth dropped to one knee.
Turil sucked air between Seth’s teeth. “Haven’t seen one of those in a century or two.” She still gripped the broken half of his sword but said, “Well played!”
Ysira had barely taken a step. It seemed, to her mild surprise, that Kanan Var Mondral was every bit as skilled as he claimed. She reached for Ogden’s syringe.
Jacen put himself between Seth and Mondral. “Wait.” “Stand aside,” said Mondral.
Jacen held his arms out toward each of them in a gesture of cautious surrender.
“Fight it, Seth. You can take back control.” He did not avert his gaze from Seth as he ordered, “Mondral, get out of his head.” A pulse of extradimensional energy followed, so strong even Ysira felt it.
Her demon convulsed. Agony surged in the back of her skull.
Neri cried out. Mondral doubled over and screamed, “Kheris, stop!”
Seth’s right hand trembled around the hilt of his sword. He put his left to his forehead as though in pain.
Jacen lowered his hands. “Look at me. Fight it!”
Seth turned, so fast it shouldn’t have been possible, and threw his broken sword at Mondral.
The demon priest reacted in self-defense. Or, rather, his demon did. Whatever Jacen had done had stunned Mondral, must have hampered his ability to control it. Only instinct remained—and power.
Mondral flailed and gasped. His face contorted strangely, then unnaturally, his jaw lengthening and unhinging sideways as though caught between two encroaching walls. His right eye burst from its socket, dangling by the optic nerve. Armor crunched.
His skull split like an overripe melon. Bones creaked, snapped, splintered out of his skin, ripping apart muscle and armor. They shot out from him in a cluster of pale, bloody javelins, imprecisely aimed at Seth.
Jacen dove out of the way. Ysira threw herself back, over Neri. Bony shrapnel pierced her skin. A hail of blood and shredded flesh rained over them. Through a haze of shock, an inane thought struck Ysira: That’s what his demon does.
She shoved regret and horror away, deep into a corner of her mind where they could not impede her. No time for that. There was never time.
A jagged section of bone protruded from Seth’s shoulder. He appeared not to notice. He reached for part of a rib that had embedded in his thigh and snapped it short with a grunt.
“You are strong,” he said to Jacen. Turil’s voice rang through, clear as ever. “But not strong enough.”
Ysira clutched the shaft of her glaive, struggling not to retch as she wiped something warm and pulpy off her face. Jacen was unharmed but covered in gore. A bit of brain slid down his temple like a bloody maggot.
He faced Turil, trembling. He opened his mouth, but she spoke first. “Come now, Brother. You know the rite. Three priests to an exorcism. You don’t stand a chance on your own, not against me.
Surely, you remember that!” Seth’s eyes flicked up to the mezzanine above.
“My reinforcements are here. I suggest you surrender the boy, or else we’ll kill you rather messily, and Lord Semira will awaken to a most upsetting scene. ”
Jacen stood his ground. He put himself between Seth and the Gate. Heavy boots thumped across the mezzanine, but Ysira did not dare look up. Behind her, Neri pushed himself shakily to his knees.
Something hurtled overhead, bright as a comet.
It landed in front of Ysira with a crash that shook the temple, sending spider cracks shattering across the stone.
A man, white-haired and clad in shining silver armor, rose from a crouch.
He had to be over seven feet tall. He surveyed Ysira, an imperious sneer on his deep grey face.
Violet eyes in seas of black—the eyes of a god—peeled her apart, dissecting her weaknesses.
Seth was cackling madly. Rakalem, Lord of Fear, stepped through the bloody pile that had been Kanan Var Mondral. Metal boots squelched on viscera. The god smirked.
“This ought to be fun.”