Heeding his own advice, he backed toward shore, keeping his torch between him and the pair of daemon knights. The flames kept them at bay. But to either side, the other ghawls floated toward shore, again moving without disturbing the water, eerie and silent.
But Lorr kept his focus on the closest pair.
A mistake.
Behind him, a dark shape lunged out of the water at his heels, catching the tracker off guard. And rightly so, as the water was only ankle-deep-too shallow to hide such a form-but Brant knew it wasn’t truly water from which these creatures welled. They arose out of the darkness that lay across the waters like oil.
Dart screamed, in both warning and surprise.
But it was too late.
Lorr half turned as the daemon knight’s blade buried itself in his back. He was lifted from the water, impaled and arched on the sword. Shadows spread out from the blade. His flesh darkened and sank to his bones. His last breath was a wail of a hunter on a trail.
But where Lorr went to hunt now, they could not follow.
His body was cast aside, to splash facefirst into the waters.
The other ghawls headed toward shore.
Arms grabbed Brant, raising a startled yip.
But it was only Krevan. He snatched Brant’s shoulder and Dart’s arm and all but threw them into the ring of firelight. “Stay by the fire!” he yelled. “It’s the only safety.”
“Where are you-?” Brant started.
The pirate furled out his shadowcloak and vanished into the shadows beyond the firelight. His last words carried back. “To find Tylar.”
They circled each other inside the tent, shifting shadows. Though their blades did not strike for the moment, they still fought, testing each other, feinting for an opening. A shoulder move here, countered by a shift of hip. A leg stepped back, met by a contrary twist of a wrist. Move by move, they danced in a slow circle.
Tylar had taught Perryl well.
He lifted Rivenscryr in his good hand. The blade glowed with its own inner fire, a soft silvery radiance, moonlight given substance. He knew it was the only weapon that could withstand the blade wielded by this daemon knight.
Perryl’s blade glinted with green fire, the same poison that ate through Tylar, weakening both naethryn and its vessel.
As if reading his worry, the daemon spoke for the first time, whispery and low, oily with malevolence. “You are riddled with the blood of Chrism, darkly Graced with old enmity and fury. Nothing in Myrillia, nothing in the naether can burn this poison away. You are doomed. Better to open your guard and die quickly. A final kindness…”
Proving this point, Tylar stumbled on his bad leg. His chest burnt with every breath. They had come at each other twice already. Tylar had barely kept his footing at the last attack, deflecting the daemon’s blade more by sheer luck than skill.
As they circled, he wondered how Perryl had found him so readily. Was this an ambush by the Wyr? A trap? Or had the ghawl found him by the poison he just described? Sniffed out like a dog on a trail?
Either way, Tylar had to survive.
He heard the screams beyond the tent. Perryl had not come alone. But before Tylar could help any others, he had to deal with this one, plainly the leader. If he could vanquish this daemon lord of the ghawls, the others might take flight.
But how to do that?
Once before, he had speared Perryl through the chest with Rivenscryr and still failed to slay the beast. But perhaps a fiercer blow, a slice through the neck-even a daemon would lose his fight with his head rolling across the floor.
That was Tylar’s only hope.
Tylar’s ankle turned on a knob of root underfoot. He dropped his sword for balance, opening himself up. Perryl blended shadow and speed brilliantly. Tylar had just enough time to appreciate the beauty of the move. A Jackman’s Tie. He attempted a Sweeper’s Row to block, but he knew it would fail.
Then a rustle of tent flap, and a storm of shadows burst into the tent.
A knight shed out of the darkness.
Krevan smashed into Perryl. But Perryl turned the blow to his advantage. Using Krevan’s own weight, he spun on his back heel, coming around as swift as any shadow. His blade sliced for the pirate’s neck.
Krevan rolled to the side-but not fast enough.
Perryl’s sword sliced across Krevan’s raised wrist, cutting through cloth and flesh down to bone.
Normally the pirate would not have faltered, but this was no ordinary blade. A howl escaped Krevan’s lips as he fell back. Shadows fell like water from around the pirate. His outstretched arm sprayed blood, but not enough to wash out the poison. His hand melted from his wrist, then the corruption spread up his arm.
Tylar remembered Malthumalbaen’s brother, who suffered a similar fate.
Krevan swung at Perryl, driving him back a step.
Tylar had regained his footing and attacked. He yanked his other sword free, earning a flare of complaint from his bandaged hand, and swung the blade-not at Perryl but at Krevan.
Using all his strength, Tylar cleaved through Krevan’s raised arm. He took the limb off at the shoulder, before the poison could spread. He followed through by shouldering Krevan back out the tent flap and shoving him clear.
As the heavy hide tent flap clapped shut, Tylar swung wildly with Rivenscryr as Perryl tried to close on him. Too eager, Perryl. Tylar faced the daemon, tossing his knightly sword to the floor and lifting Rivenscryr high.
The Godsword was his only hope.
Sweating and with his limbs on fire, Tylar faced the daemon lord again.
Though likely doomed, he knew what he had to do.
Let’s end this dance.
“Stay low,” Rogger said, pulling Brant farther down.
They all crouched with their backs to the fire. Brant knelt on one knee. Beyond the thief, Malthumalbaen lay almost on his belly, while Calla took up a post on the far side of the fire, facing where Krevan had vanished.
Dart kept to Brant’s other side. She had covered her face when Lorr died, but the deaths had not ended there. All around, the Wyr-folk were being slaughtered. Screams echoed from all sides.
A moment ago, a large-limbed woman had lumbered past their flames, howling in fear, knuckling on one arm as she ran. Brant had tried to call her over, but her wits were as low as her forehead, and what remained had been burnt away by fear.
She trundled past their flames only to have shadows open to one side and a blade shoot out, striking clean through her neck. Her body continued for another two steps, then slid to the ground. Her head rolled farther off into the darkness as if still trying to escape.
The only Wyr-folk who seemed to have found a safe haven were the strange women led by the one named Meylan. They had scaled the nearby pinnacle, reaching the flames on top. They cast the occasional fiery brand down the side, scattering sparks along the rock, warning against any trespass by the ghawls.
And that was the true danger.
The ghawls lurked just beyond the reach of the firelight, searching for a way past their defenses.
Rogger explained one such threat as he pulled Brant lower. The thief had been studying a few other fires across the camp. “You don’t want your shadows to stretch out to the darkness. I think they can flow up such channels to reach you.”
Brant dropped to his other knee.
“What happens when we run out of wood?” Malthumalbaen asked, sprawled almost flat to keep his silhouette low.
Rogger shook his head. “Mayhap you can leap and grab a few branches overhead, tear them down with those long arms of yours.”
The giant eyed the canopy as if considering this plan.
