I ignored the foul-smelling liquid and dragged the Depthless Dream down over his chest. The gold-green sap slid over the monk’s skin. Black veins bulged from his skin, and his body writhed as it fought off the demonic corruption of the Broodmother.
“Gods above,” Vesma whispered, horrified. “What’s happening to him?”
“Who cares?” Mahrai said. “Don’t stop, Ethan. We can’t afford to fight him here.”
The monk stilled, and a pathetic moan slipped free of his throat. “Swordslinger.”
I halted the flow of the Sunlight Ichor.
“Give me a damn good reason not to kill you here and now,” I said.
“You’ve freed me,” the monk said weakly. “Thank you.”
His eyes cleared and met mine. I didn’t move the Depthless Dream away from his chest, but I took my weight off it just a little. The man’s eyes were lucid, but I still didn’t trust him. I fought off a tide of trepidation and asked the first question that entered my mind.
“Who are you?”
“I am Ultin. A—” He vomited more black fluid and feebly wiped it away from his mouth. “A brother of the Dying Sun Monastery. The orb brought us to this plane for a purpose. You, Swordslinger.”
“You’re from another plane?” Vesma demanded. “How?”
“The Orb,” Ultin whispered. “The cursed artifact.”
Nydarth gasped at his words but immediately went silent again. Questions flooded my mind, but I took a deep, steadying breath, and focused on the task at hand. My immediate priority was the source of the demons in Wysaro Castle.
“The Broodmother. Is it gone?”
“You slew it,” Ultin said weakly. “It invaded my mind, used my knowledge, controlled me like a puppet to do its bidding.” Blood slipped free of his nose and streamed over his mouth. “Even with all my training, I was powerless to stop it.”
The heat haze of the minotaurs, the black fire of the Broodmother, and the silver fire from the monsters flitted through my memory. They all matched the Augmentation ability of the monks. The pieces fell into place in my mind, but a cold thrill raced down my spine at the thought. Somehow, this Orb had managed to corrupt the strongest practitioners of the Wandering Path and turn their powers against us.
“And yet you still defeated it, Master,” Choshi said proudly.
Heat washed over my face as Hamon stepped to my side and leveled his gaze at the crippled monk. His expression was unreadable, but the cold tone of his voice betrayed his thoughts.
“You freed me,” Hamon said. “Why?”
“To sow chaos in the castle and distract the Swordslinger,” Ultin answered. “Then, the Broodmother took me within herself to empower the demons. To kill you once and for all.”
His pale face met mine with a pleading expression. “Forgive me.”
“He has fought long and hard, Master,” Yono said softly. “But his soul is in agony. Demonic corruption is at war with his very nature, and his time grows short.”
“Claim his life,” Nydarth argued. “See justice served, Master.”
“Not until I get some answers,” I replied.
“Where is my father?” Hamon asked.
“He left the valley days ago,” Ultin whispered.
So, Jiven’s loyalists hadn’t been lying. Jiven was already a step ahead of us.
“What is he planning?” I demanded. “Where is he headed?”
“I do not know.” The monk coughed. “But he wanted his revenge on our greatest student, and used us to get it. We took the Orb to him, and it corrupted us. Invaded our minds, turned our powers to Wysaro’s bidding. We were to bring the valley to its knees.”
“As a final act of revenge against Guildmaster Xilarion,” Cinder added. “I overheard the guards talking about it. My uncle’s ambitions were never simply the province itself.”
“But if he could strike against the guild and still follow his greater strategy,” Hamon said slowly, “he would. My father never forgives, and never forgets.”
“Sounds like someone we know.” Vesma glanced at Hamon. “But how did he manage to do this under our noses? Surely the guild, or the locals, would have heard whispers of it?”
“Tymo,” Mahrai hissed. “He’s behind this.”
Ultin went still at the name of my teacher, and I pressed the trident deeper into the man’s chest. “How are Tymo and Jiven connected? How deep does this scheme go?”
“You must swear something to me, Swordslinger,” Ultin whispered.
“You’re not in a position to be making demands, old man,” Mahrai said.
“What do you want?” I asked.
“Swear on your mantle of the Swordslinger that you will bury me among my brothers,” Ultin said. “Please. Do not leave me to rot among this testament to my weakness. I beg you, Swordslinger, please.”
Tears spilled out of Ultin’s eyes and mixed with the blood from his nose as he fixed his eyes on mine. Regret and sorrow warred within his gaze, and I couldn’t help but feel sympathy for the old guy. He hadn’t wanted any of this. Everything he told us lined up with what I’d seen, and my gut told me that Ultin wasn’t lying. But I needed confirmation. I needed to know if Tymo had truly turned against us and banded together with Jiven to unleash the forces of darkness against Flametongue Valley.
“You deserve to die in a fucking ditch,” Mahrai spat. “You slaughtered helpless civilians to bring about this evil. You did everything you could to get us killed. I don’t care what you say, old man. You’re guilty.”
Indecision slipped across Vesma’s expression. Cinder murmured something to the prisoners, and they started out of the room with shambling steps. But she stayed behind and stood beside Hamon. I looked back to Ultin’s pleading eyes and made my decision.
“I’ll bear you back to the monastery,” I said. “And if there’s a single one of your brothers who still possess a shred of integrity, I’ll convince them to bury you there. But I can’t promise anything more than that.”
“Swear it, Swordslinger,” Ultin rasped. “Please.”
“I swear it on my mantle,” I vowed. “If every monk hasn’t turned from the Wandering Path, I’ll see to it that you’re buried
