Chapter 23
The camp erupted. Officers barking orders. Soldiers scrambling for weapons. Horns calling men to arms. The entire camp shifted from quiet exhaustion to chaos in the space of a heartbeat.
From the treeline, the Sylphar came. First came a trickle, then a flood, their pale bodies gleaming with war paint and the promise of violence. They ran with the silence of ghosts, but their eyes burned with a hunger that could not be denied.
Theron staggered upright, legs numb and wooden. Rook handed him his sword, and they watched the first wave hit the camp, watched men he knew buckle and break. He tightened his grip on the sword, felt the medallion cold against his chest, and readied himself for what came next.
A human scream tore open the darkness, then another, and then the entire world collapsed into violence.
Jaroad rushed out from under the canopy of the temporary command center. He had his sword out and voice at full volume, barking the ancient command: “TO LINE! TO LINE!” The men of the nearest squad, all veterans, had the good sense to follow before they even knew who or what they were facing.
Over fifty Sylphar had poured in from the trees. They moved in long, low sweeps, their feet barely touching the ground.
“Shields up!” Caulin roared. He was already near the front of the fighting with his sword raised, already covered in the violent blood of a Sylphar he’d killed in the first heartbeat. Behind them, Theron and the rest of his squad writhed to life as they caught up with Caulin, weapons clattering as hands fought cold and panic both.
The world became a scene of chaos, framed by the battering of bodies and the smell of blood and pine.
Theron had never enjoyed killing. It was a habit, like breathing or sleeping, but one that left a bitter taste behind every time. Tonight, bitterness was all he could taste.
He drove his sword into a Sylphar’s abdomen, twisted, and tore it free. A shockingly young face stared back at him, androgynous and painted in ritual dyes, mouth working soundlessly as life slipped away. The body dropped, and another attacker vaulted over it in a rush, blade sweeping toward Theron’s neck.
He ducked, caught the attacker’s wrist, and broke it with a sharp twist. The blade dropped. Theron kicked the Sylphar in the knee, then drove the hilt of his sword into the side of the enemy’s skull. The bone yielded, and the Sylphar collapsed, silent and perfect.
A human voice shrieked behind Theron, and he wheeled to see a young soldier impaled through the thigh and dragged down by two Sylphar. He made it halfway back to him before a spear arced out from the left and grazed his ribs. The pain flared icy and hot, but he pushed through it and kept driving toward the fallen soldier. He was on the ground, and a Sylphar pinned his shoulders. Another hacked at him with short, brutal strikes that looked more like butchery than combat. Theron roared and closed the last few steps, but the Sylphar were gone before he reached them, slipping back into the melee like shadows caught in torchlight.
The soldier lay still. His eyes were open, glassy with shock, and his blood soaked the dirt in a dark, spreading pool. Theron dropped to a knee, but the truth was already there, written across the boy’s slack face. He had arrived only breaths too late.
Theron forced himself upright and turned back toward the battle. There were others he might still reach.
The ground had been churned to muck, the blood already pooling and mixing with black dirt. Men and Sylphar fell together, each death leaving a smear of red or a spray of purple-black that steamed in the cold air.
“To me!” Jaroad bellowed, voice shattering through the chaos. He had fallen back to the command canopy and overturned the makeshift table that held their scouting maps with one hand and used the other to drive a sword through the neck of a Sylphar that tried to follow him. “By Jac’s sword, form on me!”
Caulin seized the moment, driving his squad into a wedge and shoving through the madness. “On me! Let’s go, men!”
Theron felt Rook at his side, the merchant-scout’s knife slick with blood and his face streaked with dirt and panic. Rook’s head wound had reopened, blood running down his temple and soaking the collar of his uniform. Still, he fought with a kind of desperate fury that was half terror and half joy. “Ha! And we thought we’d run them off!” Rook shouted, voice almost lost in the slaughter. “These Sylphar wolves let you lead them back to our camp!”
Theron didn’t answer. He was too busy driving a Sylphar back with quick, short strokes. Each time he landed a hit, the Sylphar hissed in pain and retreated, only to come back and try again.
Caulin’s voice was everywhere, a relentless litany: “Step! Strike! Step!” His commands were simple and brutal, but the men who followed them survived another heartbeat.
A Sylphar with braided hair and a pair of hooked swords appeared in front of Theron. They exchanged three blows before the Sylphar feinted low and slashed for Theron’s ankle. He leapt back, lost his footing, and landed hard on his side.
The Sylphar pounced. Its face was a mask of anger and glittering tattoos. It pressed a knee onto Theron’s chest and raised both blades overhead.
“Theron!” Rook shouted.
Theron caught the strike on the edge of his blade and shivered under the force. He clenched his jaw and set both hands on the hilt. The Sylphar drove against him, the tangled blades grinding. A cold mist rolled from its mouth, heavy with the stink of iron.
Rook hurled himself into the Sylphar, shoulder first, and together they rolled across the ground, weapons flying. The Sylphar lashed out, scoring Rook’s arm and drawing a hot spurt of blood. Rook screamed but kept fighting, wrestling the Sylphar for control of its own blade.
Theron crawled to his feet, grabbed a rock, and smashed it against the Sylphar’s temple. Once, twice, until the enemy stopped moving.
Rook slumped, breathing hard. “Thanks,” he said, spitting out blood and grinning like it was the funniest thing in the world. “Next time, don’t fall down.”
Theron offered a hand, and together they got upright.
There was no end to the Sylphar. They came in waves, thin and elegant, every one a perfect killer. The night was alive with the shriek of blades, the wet thunk of weapons finding flesh, the snap of bone. The air was full of arrows, some of which struck Sylphar, but most found human targets.
Jaroad rallied his men behind the large table, which now served as the only cover in the clearing. “Here! Hold here!” he called. “We make our stand. We don’t give an inch! You fall, you get up or I kill you myself!” The men responded with something like a cheer, though it was lost in the violence.
Theron watched as Varn, an enormous man with a hollow laugh, got an axe through the shoulder and kept swinging until three Sylphar pulled him down together. Varn screamed, then choked, then was gone.
Caulin never stopped moving. He darted through the melee, dragging the wounded to safety and moving with the able-bodied back into the fight. He showed no fear, only focus.
“Theron!” Caulin shouted. “Take the right! Hold them!”
Theron nodded and turned to the Sylphar running at them, Rook limping behind him.
Theron and Rook held them off. For a minute, then two. Then a spear grazed Theron’s thigh, followed by a Sylphar blade that cut across his chest. Blood ran hot and sticky under his shirt. He killed three Sylphar in as many heartbeats, but more kept coming.
Rook’s movements were growing sluggish. His wound was dangerous now, and blood streamed down his face and neck. He looked at Theron, eyes wild. “This is it,” he said, laughing and crying at once. “What a Jac-damned mess.”
“What? You think this is bad?” Theron asked, trying to lift Rook’s spirits. “Wait until we take the Pass back!”
A Sylphar with intricate red markings across its face stepped forward, raising a blade. Rook tried to block, but his arm gave out. The Sylphar brought the sword down, aiming for Rook’s exposed neck.
“No!”
Theron screamed the word as he threw his hand toward Rook. His fingers shook with the effort. A deep pull stirred inside him, that buried well of power he had fought so hard to ignore. He had sworn never to touch it again. He knew the price too well. Every time he drew on it, something inside him cracked and fell away. Every time it stole a piece of what little remained.
The air around his palm shimmered, a ripple of heat in the cold night. Theron felt the cost hit him like a hammer to the chest. A memory flickered and dimmed. This time, it was his mother’s laugh on a particular summer evening, softer now, far away. He clenched his jaw against the ache, but the power surged anyway, hungry and unforgiving.
Rook’s eyes were wide and filled with terror. That was what broke him. That was what shattered every promise he had made to himself. His friend mattered more than the cost. Rook mattered more to him than his fear.
“No,” Theron breathed.
The Sylphar’s sword reached the space above Rook’s throat. The air around it split like thin glass.
Theron let the power inside him rise.
Light rushed from him in a violent surge. It burned through his veins. It tore at him like claws. The world blazed white as the energy burst from his outstretched hand. The ground rippled. Dust and stone lifted in a rising wave. The Sylphar froze mid-strike, trapped in a sphere of blinding light that pulsed like a living heart.
He forced the power outward. He roared as it tore free.
The Sylphar’s blade slowed to a crawl. Rook hung there, neck exposed, the tiniest bead of sweat standing on his skin, and then he rolled away.
The sphere collapsed, the Sylphar’s sword missing his neck by a hair. The Sylphar, momentarily stunned, wavered. Theron pounced, grabbed the Sylphar by the wrist with Influence-enhanced strength, and crushed it. The bone shattered, and the sword fell. Theron threw the enemy down with inhuman speed, then pressed his own blade to the Sylphar’s throat and ended it.
Theron dropped to his knees. The light faded from his eyes. His breath shook. His heartbeat was weak and uneven.
Rook stared at him, blood trickling from a shallow cut on his cheek. “What in all the gods’ names was that?”
Theron lowered his hand, breathing hard. “Something I shouldn’t have done.” But he managed a smile that held no strength.
Jaroad, from behind the overturned table, had watched it all. His jaw was slack, his eyes wide in disbelief, but his voice found itself first. “NOW!” he bellowed. “Drive them! DRIVE THEM!” He shot Theron a blended look of awe and something like terror, then set to killing the next Sylphar in reach.
Caulin, who had seen more than enough death to know what a miracle looked like, gave Theron the briefest of nods, then rallied the survivors. “Line! Re-form! Push them to the trees!”
The humans, battered and bleeding, surged forward. They howled, a wordless animal sound. Even wounded men found the strength to rise and rejoin the melee.
Theron got to his feet and surged to the front, his body moving with a new fluidity. The pain of his wounds was distant, as if someone else bled, and his exhaustion seemed to have eased. He cut down a Sylphar who dared block his path, then another. He looked for Rook and found him back where he left him, on hands and knees, spitting blood, but alive. Rook looked up at Theron, eyes wild.
The Sylphar broke. Some tried to rally, but the spell was gone and their unity had shattered. They bled and screamed and fled in panic. Every man and every Sylphar in the clearing had seen the surge of light that burst from Theron. All of them understood something of what it meant.
Gods-blessed.
The moon caught on the streaks of blood that marked their trail as they vanished into the trees.
The ground was thick with the dying. Bodies in every position, some clutching at their wounds, some already slack and glassy-eyed.
Jaroad stood panting, blood running down his face from a slash above the eyebrow. He surveyed the scene, then roared, “Tighten up the line! No one pursues!”
The order was unnecessary. No one wanted to chase the Sylphar into darkness.
Caulin limped over to Theron, face pale but alive. “You did that, didn’t you?”
Theron looked at his hand. It was shaking, fingers stained with blood and mud. He nodded once.
Caulin smiled, thin and crooked. “I don’t have a clue what just happened, but remind me never to piss you off.” He clapped him on the shoulder.
Theron tried to smile, but found he couldn’t.
He looked again for Rook and found him still nearby, slumped against a rock, cradling his wounded arm. Rook’s breathing was shallow, but his eyes were bright. “Well, that was something, Theron. You gonna tell me how you did it?”
Theron shook his head. “You’re bleeding from your enormous head right now. You think you’d understand anything I tried to explain to you?”
Rook chuckled, winced, and nodded, as if this made perfect sense. “Fair enough.”
Around them, the men of the squad gathered their wounded, checked the fallen. Some wept, while others just stared blankly into the distance.
Theron dragged Rook to a log at the edge of the chaos. Rook’s head lolled, blood matting his hair and streaming into the collar of his coat. His eyes fluttered, never quite focusing. Theron stripped away the sleeve from Rook’s arm and pressed a scrap of cloth to the gash, hands trembling with the remnants of the night’s terror.
“You’re terrible at this,” Rook mumbled, his lips now split and swollen. “Better with a sword than medical aid, that’s for sure.”
“Shut up,” Theron said, voice as dead as a grave.
From the other side of the clearing, soldiers who had also trained as medics worked with frantic hands. They wrapped tourniquets, stitched and patched wounds, and forced wounded men to drink foul concoctions that stank of herbs and earth.
Caulin was everywhere. He moved through the remains of the forward scout squads with the precision of a man counting coins, marking each body and each survivor. At every stop, he touched the dead with the barest brush of his glove, a silent tally for the men that had died.
“Forty-three, alive and able,” he said, more to himself than anyone else. “Seventeen wounded. Twenty-eight down.” He didn’t flinch at the math. Instead, he stood and mouthed a silent prayer towards the heavens.
Captain Jaroad paced the edge of the carnage, his face unreadable in the bloody moonlight. He barked orders to the nearest sergeant, who nodded and relayed them onward. “We bury the dead before dawn. Sort the wounded by severity. Stack the Sylphar at the perimeter and take their weapons. And find me someone who can run word back to command.”
One of his officers, seemingly happy to take the duty on himself, darted off toward the main camp around five miles south of their position, feet splashing in the pooled blood of the fallen.
Jaroad stalked over to where Theron and Rook sat, then stopped, taking some deep breaths before he spoke.
“Is he going to live?” Jaroad asked.
Theron nodded, uncertain. “If you get him some sleep. Food.”
Rook, teeth red with blood, gave a weak thumbs-up. “I’ve never been better, captain,” he said, as he gave a pathetic motion that might have been an attempt at a salute, then passed out.
Theron shook his head, smiling. Jaroad stood over them for a long time, saying nothing. When at last he spoke, it was with a gentleness that surprised even himself.
“Thank you,” he said. “For saving him. For saving us.”
“Sir,” Theron replied.
Jaroad gestured for Caulin to join them. The squad leader limped over, the cuts on his face raw but ignored.
Jaroad dismissed the nearby men with a glance, waited until only the three of them remained, with Rook passed out between them. The air was heavy.
“Well, no way around it,” Jaroad said, looking at Theron. “I know what you are.”
Theron met his gaze, seeing nothing but exhaustion behind his eyes.
“You’re Gods-blessed,” Jaroad said, the title a curse and a benediction all at once. Caulin nodded, unsurprised.
Theron closed his eyes, and the cold moon caught in his lashes, a wet glitter that could have been anything. Sweat, blood, or maybe even a tear.
No one spoke again. The name hung there, unanswerable, as the last of the living set about making a grave for the dead.