Chapter Twenty
Helspira
THEY SEEMED SO FAR away, townsfolk and undead sentinels, but Helspira knew they would be upon her any moment.
She glimpsed Ben’s bones, nestled inside the pooling fabric of his dark red cloak and scarlet scarf.
His lute and sword lay beside him. What she wouldn’t give to hear one last song strummed on those strings.
“I got you, Ben. This won’t be how it ends. You’ll decide when you go. But I’m going to need to borrow this.” She scooped up his sword and planted her feet, chest swelling with a deep breath.
The bodies came at her, as if in slow motion. With less than a minute left to prepare for their arrival, Helspira’s gaze flitted to Sikras’s note.
Saelihn,
If you’re reading this; surprise! I'm finally dead. Sincerest apologies that it took this long to get my shit together. The sale of the mansion should cover my outstanding debts. There isn’t enough ink in this pot to cover all the sorrys I owe, but kindly issue one to Rowan for me should he survive.
Also, do ensure Nyllmas remains Helspira’s home.
I know I’m in no position to beg favors, but you wouldn’t deny a man his dying wish, would you?
Should you refuse, I’ll spend eternity figuring out how to crawl out of Enos—and Saelihn—I will haunt you.
All the best. Your friend,
- Sikras
Helspira bit her bottom lip and tucked the note into her leather armor. Not that she would need it. Sikras Nikabod would not die today. At least, not more than eight times.
She would ensure that, in addition to guarding Ben’s remains.
The bodies came with a clash, and Helspira dug her sword into an older man’s chest. She kicked him off her blade and severed an undead’s head in another quick swipe.
One woman against this many. She snarled and detached the leg from another.
No. Not one woman. One demon and whatever minions Sikras spared her.
Some enemies ran past her, clamoring for Vinepool’s gate. Barred by Sikras’s undead, they warred.
All they could do now was their best.
She brought down a fourth, a fifth attacker, heart pounding, never straying far from Ben’s bones. Undead animals and manipulated townsfolk didn’t put up much of a fight, but when her sword met the steel of a turned sentinel, a ripple of fear pulsed through her.
Helspira grappled against her aggressor’s skill, snarling. Vacant eyes stared back at her as she awaited an opportunity to strike, but her opponent didn’t leave an opening. Her mind scrambled for an alternative when steel suddenly poked through her opponent’s chest, and he crumpled to the ground.
Shock rippled through her, and Helspira gasped when the fallen corpse revealed its killer. “Banneret? Y—you survived?”
Ragged and red with lacerations on his face, armor dented, Rowan scoffed and spat. “The fuck are you still doing here?” he grumbled, gaze flitting to the pile of bones near Helspira’s feet.
Helspira spied the flicker of recognition in the banneret’s tired, determined eyes. The scarf. The lute. It didn’t take a scholar to know those were the remains of Sentinel Champion Benjamin Reese.
As chaos reigned around them, Helspira positioned her sword before her.
“Banneret, I fled Chthonia because my kind are monsters. That’s not who I am.
That’s not who I want to be. I’ve repressed every demonic impulse since I set foot on this soil, because I love this kingdom, and I will not watch it devolve into the same violent pit I left behind.
But if you touch him, you will see the full force of a demon.
” She peeled back her upper lip to bare her fangs.
“And it will be the last thing you see.”
Chest heaving from labored breaths, Rowan readjusted his grip on his sword.
He raised his weapon, spun, and gutted another enemy who had entered their proximity.
As the body fell to the ground, Rowan stepped in line beside her, erecting a barrier between Ben’s bones and the remaining assailants. “If that sonofabitch fails again ...”
Relief came with a force that nearly buckled her knees. “He won’t. He can’t.”
There was no time for delays. No more bargaining chips in the form of scythes or lives or lucky dice rolls. This was Sikras’s last chance, and it wasn’t just his life on the line; it was Ben’s and the kingdom of Nyllmas.
For Ben’s life alone, Helspira knew he would give everything he had to come out victorious, no matter how much it gutted him to do what needed to be done.
Sikras
BLOOD AND BONE, HOW did front linesmen do this every battle?
Charging into the fray seemed all well and good, and it certainly made for great bard-song fodder, but even with the full power of the Cat’s Eye, Sikras had somehow managed to die two more times—much to Death’s joy.
This wasn’t at all like the wars he had fought for Saelihn.
They had strategy on their side then, and long, long distances separating Sikras from impending doom.
Little good all the power of Enos did him if he didn’t start focusing on his defense.
Five lives to go, and his legs burned from running, his back ached from twisting to avoid oncoming attacks, and his knees—ugh, his knees.
Slaughtering people had been so much easier in his twenties.
A line of men and women formed a blockade before him—some peasants, some undead sentinels. Sikras stopped to lean over, one hand raised, as he tried to catch his breath. “Okay, okay, just give me a second here—”
They charged in unison, war cries filling the sky.
“Gone gods. Have it your way.” He wiped the sweat from his forehead as they advanced. Shadow blades? No. Corroding organs had no effect on the undead. If he couldn’t go through them, he would simply clear them away like debris. “Vehemenus ventus.”
Gale-force winds twisted into a tight, focused cyclone.
With the flick of his wrist, the tornado plowed through his enemies, ripping bone fragments from the undead, scattering bodies, and silencing the screams of the living.
When the path cleared, the cyclone dissipated, dispersing the corpses of those it had swallowed.
Having earned access to pass, Sikras ran toward Vessik and found him standing alone on the edge of the forest—same long brown hair, same short well-trimmed beard.
But his eyes ... Gone was the soft compassionate gaze of the man he had known since he was a young boy.
The man who had taught him good from bad. It was nearly enough to paralyze him.
“You know”—Sikras paused to catch his breath—“the old Vessik was a gentleman. He’d have at least met me halfway.”
“The old Vessik was na?ve,” came a detached reply.
“I prefer na?ve to huge fucking asshole.” Sikras bristled. He should’ve just got it over with. But he still had five lives left. Enough for one final try. “This isn’t you. Is there any chance at all the Vessik I knew is still in there? I ... I miss him. Terribly. Every day.”
“This is the Vessik you knew.” Vessik’s hands spread. “I always wanted to help people.”
“I know. And listen, I like gutting civilians as much as the next guy, especially if they’re annoying or they deserve it, but you taught me better. You taught me that shit like this, this right here”—Sikras gestured all around them—“is not helping.”
Vessik dropped his arms to his sides, limp. “Aren’t you happy for me? I finally got the power to make a difference. Our wizardry apprenticeship did not turn me into the talented mage I’d hoped to become.”
“Those people were pricks. We didn’t need them to do great things.”
Vessik’s eerie monotone continued, unaffected. “The gods did not lend me their aid when I prayed for it day and night.”
“And I renounced all of them the moment they renounced you.” Sikras stepped forward, fingernails biting into his palms. “We never needed the gods. We never needed anything but each other, ever since we were kids, and I will never forgive myself for leaving you alone to fight Saelihn’s war.
I’m so sorry, Vessik. Sorry I wasn’t there for whatever you were .
..” He trailed off, jaw set. “I know life knocked you down a lot, but I never tired of pulling you up. Never tired of offering you my hand. Why did you tire of grabbing it?”
“I never grew tired of grabbing your hand, Sikras. I grew tired of you having to offer it. How could I help others when I lacked the ability to help myself? Finding and fusing with the Cat’s Eye was my final hope to have enough power to quell the sickness in Siaphara. Alas, another of my many failures.”
“I ...” Sikras’s words faded, a stab of regret pulling his gaze downward.
“I’m sorry I ended up with it. I never wanted it, Vessik.
Never. I just ...” Didn’t want the fusion process to kill him.
Didn’t want it to overcome him. Didn’t believe he could handle it.
Sikras could not give any comforting answers. He said nothing.
The scraping sound of a short sword leaving its wooden scabbard ended the silence. Vessik planted his feet and pointed the blade forward.
Sikras gawked at it, unimpressed. “Oh, come on, Vessik. We’re casters, not swordsmen.
The undead do our fighting for us. Do you have any idea how ridiculous we’d look if we tried to wield swords?
” He cringed at the mental imagery. “Like two newborn antelopes suffering from uncontrollable muscle spasms.”
“You should’ve had the decency to stay dead when I killed you the first time. Now I must do it all over again.” Vessik rounded his shoulders. “Do you have any idea how hard it is to kill someone you love?”
Sikras squeezed his eyes shut before forcing them to reopen. “I have a feeling I’m about to.”
When Vessik stiffened his arms, Sikras anticipated an attack. What he did not anticipate was an attack from behind. From spine to sternum, a blade plunged through, streaked red when it exited the other side of his torso.
A guttural cry left him as his back arched, head twisting to view his attacker.
Skeletal hands.