28. Alistair
twenty-eight
Alistair
Agony flared through Alistair’s left leg and the left side of his chest, but he shoved it down, forcing himself to his feet. Already, the worst of his pain was dulling to a more bearable ache as his dawnflame set about mending his bruised flesh and battered bones.
Scrabbling about his vicinity, he searched until he spotted his fallen sword and bent over to retrieve it.
The familiar press of metal in his grip bolstered his resolve.
He had no idea what had happened to weaken the golem’s impenetrable hide, but he’d eagerly exploited the gift.
Now, it fell to him to finish what he’d started before the wounded creature caused any more damage.
Screams resounded from further down the tunnel, and Alistair managed a hobbling charge after the rampaging golem as it carved a path through the defending villagers and Iggie’s few remaining undead.
While he ran, he emblazoned his sword with a fresh coat of dawnflame, gritting his teeth at the moans and cries of pain the golem left in its wake.
Merciful Light, I have to put an end to this, now!
As if the Celestials had heard his prayer, the golem abruptly skidded to a halt a few paces ahead of him. With a wordless cry, Alistair abandoned all caution and leaped past a slew of flailing tentacles onto the abomination’s shattered back.
Gone was any pretense of form or technique—this was little more than brutal butchery as he hacked his sword down again and again. Shards of splintered crystal gouged his hands, his arms, his face, but he didn’t relent. With each blow, he drove his dawnflame-infused blade deeper.
A final sword thrust spewed a great burst of dawnflame, and Alistair felt something within the golem give way.
Broken magic billowed over him, and he hunkered down, bracing himself as best he could against the resulting shockwave.
The erratic azure light flickering across the creature’s hide dimmed, its movements slowing until, with one last, lumbering step, it toppled, its body shattering like glass upon the cavern floor.
Savage triumph surged through Alistair as he staggered to his feet amid the wreckage, a handful of survivors letting out a ragged cheer.
The confrontation had left him bloodied and battered, but victorious nonetheless.
Despite all his doubts and second-guessing, he’d done it—he had saved the people of Singer’s Rest.
Glancing about at the bodies strewn around the passage, his gut twisted. Most of them, in any case. He only hoped there weren’t too many casualties among the villagers who had been brave enough to fight alongside him.
“A fine showing, Sir Alistair,” Liliana called as she strode toward him.
A blood-soaked arm hung limply at her side, and her right eye was crusted shut from a nasty gash along her forehead.
Nevertheless, she sported a fierce grin.
“I guess the Order knew what it was doing when they sent you after all.”
He managed a weary grin of his own. “I was just doing what any Knight would. Now that the golem is dead, we should send word to the others and fetch help for the wounded.”
“Already done. The passage here isn’t too long, so they should be able to reach us in a matter of minutes.”
“Good.” His grin faded as he looked again at the carnage. “Any idea how many we lost?”
Liliana glared toward the shattered pile of crystals the golem had left behind when it perished. “I saw at least four I’m certain didn’t survive—another dozen unaccounted for, either wounded or dead. But it could have been far worse. Would have been, if not for you and that necromancer of yours.”
Alistair’s heart somersaulted at the mention of Iggie.
He never should have doubted the necromancer’s courage.
Now that the immediate threat was past, Alistair yearned to talk to him and set things right.
Though everything remained a confused mess in his head, his thoughts concerning the Order and his place in it still complicated, one thing was certain—whatever he decided next, he was done pushing Iggie away.
“Where is Iggie?” he asked, glancing from side to side. “Did he go to fetch help?”
The instant he saw Liliana avert her gaze, her stern expression softening, Alistair knew. His stomach tied itself into knots as he struggled to draw breath. “No…” he whispered, unable to put his sudden terror into words. “No!”
Liliana’s voice was laced with sympathy. “The beast seemed fixated on him. He must have realized. But instead of attempting to run and risk more casualties, he…”
The golem’s sudden pause. Not a gift from the Celestials after all, but from a single foolishly brave necromancer.
Alistair closed his eyes. Most people would have bolted when faced with an eldritch abomination barreling toward them.
Not Iggie. He’d rushed forward to meet it.
He must’ve known what would happen, known he couldn’t possibly face it.
And yet, he’d gone anyway in the hope of sparing other villagers from becoming collateral damage.
Oh, Iggie…
Alistair’s eyes shot open. Clenching his jaw and clinging to desperate hope, he scrambled over the golem’s remains, digging through the jagged crystal.
Iggie couldn’t be dead—he couldn’t! There were too many things Alistair had yet to say, too much more he’d hoped to share.
His vision blurred, but he didn’t stop, couldn’t stop.
He’d sworn to protect Iggie—to keep him safe.
And that was a promise he meant to keep.
Liliana watched his frantic efforts in silence. She didn’t waste her breath trying to talk him out of it or offering empty platitudes. For that, he was grateful. No words would’ve sufficed for the tightness building in his chest.
He hurled aside a chunk of crystal and froze when he glimpsed a familiar mop of red hair beneath a scattered pile of yellowed bones.
Two broken skulls lay nearby, one half-crushed by the rubble.
Marlon and Cynthia—it had to be. From the look of things, they’d sacrificed themselves attempting to shield Iggie from the golem’s collapse.
Uttering a silent prayer of thanks for their noble efforts, Alistair focused on Iggie himself.
The necromancer’s eyes were closed, his lips slack and his face far too pale, his hair slicked dark with a disconcerting amount of blood.
Merciful Light, Iggie’s going to faint if he sees himself like this, Alistair’s dazed mind supplied.
Shaking himself from his stupor, he leaned down to check Iggie’s pulse and was relieved when he felt it, faint but still there.
Iggie’s body convulsed, and Alistair’s gaze fell on a crystalline shard the size of a dagger embedded in Iggie’s chest. Blood painted the shimmering harmonite in glowing shades of crimson.
Never before had Alistair so regretted that he lacked the ability to heal others with his dawnflame.
He didn’t need to be a psychic to tell that Iggie didn’t have much time left.
The necromancer’s only hope was Brother Kelvin.
As a priest, he could channel his dawnflame to mend even fatal wounds. If anyone could save Iggie, it was him.
Alistair knelt there with Iggie, watching the necromancer’s labored breathing beneath a crushing pall of helplessness, until he heard approaching voices.
Looking up sharply, he found the first group of villagers arriving from deeper within the caves.
When they saw the fallen golem, they let out scattered cheers.
Alistair ignored them, scouring their ranks. When he spied a familiar gold-robed figure, he shouted, “Brother Kelvin! Over here!”
The priest quickened his step, and Alistair bite back the urge to call for him to move even faster. It wouldn’t help anyone if he lost his composure, least of all Iggie. After what felt like an eternity but couldn’t have been more than ten seconds, Kelvin reached his side.
“Well done, Sir Alistair!” the priest exclaimed, clapping him on the back. “You have done yourself and your House proud today. I shall be sure to commend you in my report to the Order.”
Alistair jerked a nod, though right now he couldn’t care less what anyone thought of him. Drawing the priest’s attention, he gestured frantically at Iggie. “He’s wounded pretty badly. Please, you have to help him.”
“Of course. I—” Kelvin glanced down at Iggie and trailed off, his eyes narrowing. For a long moment, neither of them spoke. Alistair’s patience ran out first.
“I don’t think he has much time left. He’ll die without your healing.”
“Yes,” Kelvin said, his voice cool. “I imagine he will.”
When the priest still made no move to help, Alistair’s initial astonishment turned to outrage. “You’d leave him here to die after he fought to protect you? You took an oath, same as I did!”
Kelvin pursed his lips. “An oath to shelter and nourish those who walk in the Light. A necromancer—and a thief to boot—can hardly be considered a paragon of society.”
Alistair struggled to reconcile what he was hearing with his own visions of the Order and the Church. After what Iggie had told him, he’d known that they weren’t always the bastions of good they pretended to be. But this…
“He sacrificed himself for you, put his life on the line for you and everyone else in Singer’s Rest. How can you still think he deserves such a fate?”
“One paltry moment of redemption does not make up for a lifetime of wickedness. The Church’s stance on wildlings is clear, especially those who channel duskflame.
” The priest rubbed absently at the holy sigil hung around his neck.
“Perhaps it is best this way. Let him die a martyr. Surely, that is better than whatever wretched existence he led before?”
Alistair’s fists tightened atop Iggie’s ruined chest. “Iggie is a better man than you will ever be.”