Chapter Seventeen
Sikras
HE WOULDN’T HAVE GOTTEN any sleep even if he hadn’t slept on a rock generously labeled as a bed. Sikras knuckled his spine, feeling less like a man in his thirties and more like an ancient temple on the verge of collapse.
Steam wafted from the bowl of food warming his palm as he stood outside Benjamin and Helspira’s tent, but warmth was the only credit he afforded the vile gray mush.
Perhaps instead of prioritizing the cleric’s health, they should’ve prioritized the cook.
Alas, the cook’s legacy ended at being another statistic in Vessik’s reign of terror.
A shame, that. The man made a damn good curry.
Now they were left with—he sniffed the bowl and cringed—this.
Perhaps he should’ve been grateful. It was a miracle the Red Sentinels offered up their food at all, given how they all tiptoed around him, as if they walked on a frozen pond and he was the thin sheet of ice deciding whether they lived or died.
Sikras scanned the horizon for signs of Vessik but couldn’t locate any creepy undead birds.
Nor advancing enemies. Nor long overdue apologies for the atrocities he had committed.
Nothing but an endless horizon of twisted black trees and blinding snow.
Stow’s Peak had faded from their line of sight when they had retreated into the woodlands yesterday, and there seemed to be no indication that his old friend planned to leave it.
And with powerful magic protecting his very own village, why should he?
“Where-oh-where did you learn to pull off spells like that, Vessik? We were only supposed to excel at necromancy.” Sikras stared outward, mindlessly tapping the edge of the bowl, until he refocused on the mush.
What was Helspira’s preferred breakfast, he wondered?
Did she even eat breakfast? Maybe she was more of a lunch person.
He should’ve asked. There were so many things he didn’t know.
It was strange to learn a person’s likes and dislikes again.
Stranger still that he wanted to. Vinepool had no shortage of attractive men and women, but after meeting Imri, Sikras only ever had eyes for her.
She had been his everything for so long.
Picturing someone else on the pedestal he had erected for her was . .. uncomfortable.
And yet ...
Blood and bone. Was he fantasizing about courting Helspira? Was that allowed? “I’m too fucking old for this,” he muttered, head dropping back, as he stared skyward. Gods, it felt as if he walked the same thin sheet of ice as the Red Sentinels.
The flap of an opening tent spiked excitement in him. “Good morning,” he blurted mid-spin and far too abruptly to be considered normal.
A flash of bones emerged, and Benjamin adjusted his red scarf and cloak. “Uh, thank you?”
“Oh, Benjamin, it’s you.” Sikras freed a nervous laugh and rubbed the back of his neck. “How did—is Helspira still—did she, uh, did she sleep well?”
“The way you’re looking at me makes me feel like I should know the answer to that, but I haven’t seen her since last night.”
“What?” Sikras’s head flinched back. “No, that can't be right. I took her to bed last night.”
“Really?” Benjamin stretched the single word into a long insinuating beat and nudged Sikras with his elbow. “I knew there was something between—”
“To sleep.”
If Benjamin had a face, surely it would’ve fallen. “Oh. In that case, I relinquish my playful elbow nudge. Pretend I’m replacing it with a chastising look of disapproval.”
Too concerned to bat back a witty retort, Sikras stepped past Benjamin and peered into the tent. It was tight quarters, certainly nowhere to escape being seen.
She was gone.
“Hold this for me, would you?” Sikras shoved the bowl into Benjamin’s hands and searched for the banneret.
There was probably a perfectly good reason Helspira wasn’t in that tent. Something totally normal and definitely not concerning, or nerve-racking, or anything that made him question all his life choices in the last ten hours.
The banneret’s baritone voice cut through a cold wind, and Sikras snapped his attention toward him. Rowan paced between two trees, hands behind his back, discussing battle strategy with one of his surviving advisors.
“We don’t know the limit of the arcane protections he’s placed around that village, nor do we know how many living and undead soldiers are inside,” the advisor said. “I say we return to Vinepool, gather explosives of our own, and use our catapults to light up the place from a distance.”
Rowan shook his head. “I don’t delight in the slaughter of those under his spell. It was sickening enough killing those who attacked us outside the gate. We’ll return to Vinepool, yes, but let’s discuss other options along the way. I’d like to spare as many citizens as we can.”
Sikras stopped beside the two. “Rowan. A word?”
Dark eyes scanned Sikras with cautious scrutiny. “Catseye. What do you want?”
Holding up his hands in the universal symbol of surrender, Sikras smirked.
“Ease up on that paranoia, Banneret. In a generous act of mercy that Benjamin forced upon me, I’ve decided not to kill you.
Say, speaking of paranoia, where’s Helspira?
Tell me you didn’t assign her to any scouting.
Demons may be resilient, but she’s still recovering from a severe injury. ”
Rowan’s chainmail rattled when a scoff shook his chest. “A generous act of mercy? As if you could kill me in your condition.”
“I love you, too. Now, answer my question.”
Rowan’s fingers curled into fists, and he crossed his arms. “The demon is no longer a member of the Red Sentinel.”
Sikras blinked once, twice. “I beg your fucking pardon?”
With a wave of his hand, Rowan dismissed his advisor.
The man skirted Sikras’s gaze, as if it would turn him to stone, and he slunk off like a fearful hound.
“I thought this news would please you given your discovery,” Rowan murmured.
“Or did you forget she was going to give Sentinel Champion Reese a fake scroll?”
“Did you forget you were standing behind the same rock?” Sikras arched a brow.
“You were both in on it, and honestly, the fact that you still want Benjamin dead when he’s the only reason you’re alive speaks loudly.
If he hadn’t stayed my hand, I’d be hanging you from a tree with your own entrails right now. ”
A low rumble vibrated from Rowan’s throat. “Good. Then you’d rot for tax evasion and murder.”
“Where’s Helspira?” Sikras repeated with force.
“We have bigger problems.” Rowan narrowed his eyes. “For the last time, focus on your kingdom’s wellbeing.”
Slow steps closed the distance between him and Rowan. “Right now, I’m more invested in Helspira’s wellbeing. This may come as a surprise, but abandoning someone to the mercy of woodland predators when they were recently eviscerated by a halberd is not good for someone’s health, Banneret.”
“She doesn’t matter.”
“She matters to me.”
“Bullshit.” Rowan spat and thrusted a stiff finger forward. “You haven’t cared about anyone other than yourself since Vessik turned your wife into an undead puppet.”
An eerie silence. And then, “Lepides skion.”
A burst of black and green mist appeared and twisted into ethereal daggers that circled the banneret like a small tornado.
The lash of magical recoil snapped through Sikras’s body, and damn, he never missed his beloved scythe-turned-walking-stick more than he did in that moment, but he held his ground.
Rowan went rigid, chest stilling. He dared not breathe, dared not inhale the tainted oxygen.
Sikras grinned. “Can’t hold your breath forever, Banneret.”
Tossing the bowl of food to the ground, Benjamin scrambled over, pointing a chastising finger Sikras’s way. “Hey, no, no creepy shadow blades. You promised me. ‘I’ll stab Vessik in the fucking face, Benjamin;’ that’s what you said, word for word.”
Shit. He did say that. Adding insult to injury, Benjamin’s Sikras impression remained flawless as ever.
Grumbling, Sikras curled his fingers into a fist and severed concentration on the spell.
As the mist vanished, the remaining sentinels surrounded him, all exhibiting confusion, all exhibiting fear, weapons ready, poised to fight if needed.
“Dammit, Catseye.” Rowan sneered, taking in a sharp breath once the threat of inhaling organ-withering mist had passed. “Stop resisting and step up for your kingdom.”
“Kingdom, kingdom, kingdom.” Sikras rolled his eyes. “Honestly, Rowan, that’s all you go on about. Did you ever stop to consider my feelings? That maybe I only like two or three people tops in the aforementioned kingdom?”
“Pathetic,” Rowan rasped, spittle flying between his clenched teeth. “You may not appreciate them, but I want to save this kingdom’s people. Unlike you, I have a fucking soul!”
“No.” In the face of Rowan’s anger, Sikras formed a slow, calm smile.
“You don’t have a soul; you are a soul. What you have is a body.
And if you talk to me like that again, I will kill that body, rip your soul back from Enos, and shove it so far up the asshole of the next decaying animal carcass we find that only a second death or a bout of violent diarrhea will dislodge you. ”
“Kill me? How?” Rowan’s booming voice exploded through the trees, and whatever shred of diplomacy he had three seconds ago vanished. “You’ve felled no more foes than an ambitious squire with a sharp stick couldn’t have felled themselves!”
“Listen, pal”—Sikras stuck out a finger but paused to scrunch his nose—“that’s ... Actually, that’s pretty accurate. I can’t in good conscience argue that statement.”