“Get out,” Hunter commanded the woman.
He was not overly excited about keeping women in his army, but they had proven useful when it came to the properties of healing. The problem with them was they often dared to oppose him.
This healer was no different.
“But, my lord,” she protested, a twisted look of surprise on her face, “he will die without me.”
“So be it,” Hunter said. He flicked his head in Hex’s direction. If she would not go willingly, Hex would drag her out by her braid; if she fought back, Hex would kill her.
She went willingly enough, giving Hunter a scoff on the way out. He noticed, but was too focused on the soldier on the floor to retaliate.
Tonight was a joyous night. Sure, there had been mishaps and obstacles for them to get through, but Hunter would let nothing else stand in his way.
He knelt down next to the soldier. The soldier’s good eye searched Hunter’s face. It didn’t look like the man saw him, though.
“Describe the sword to me,” Hunter said. Heat radiated off the man in waves. This Dragon Tongue would not survive the night, no matter what potions and healing spells were used on him. Poor fellow, Hunter thought, Not able to see the most glorious moment in the Tongue’s recent history.
“The s-sword?” the soldier asked.
“The one possessed by the young witch.”
The man moaned.
“Perhaps we should come back when he’s feeling better,” Hex suggested.
Hunter snapped at him. “Get out!” he shouted. “Get out and leave us.”
Taken aback, Hex nodded and offered a half bow in Hunter’s direction. He left the room, closing the door behind him. As the door shut, Hunter noticed the healer peeking in.
She must have some personal investment in this soldier. Another reason he didn’t want to admit females into his ever-growing army—love complicated things. That was why Hunter never took a wife, though he’d had many, many chances throughout his long life.
The man coughed. Flecks of blood sprayed out of his mouth and landed on his bare chest.
“The sword, my soldier, the sword,” Hunter said again.
“Do the moons still rise?” the soldier asked.
What?
“Give Anton my best,” he continued, the delirium setting in.
That’s it. Hunter conjured up his flames. They extended from his fingers and brushed across the soldier’s face. The soldier cried out in pain, his one exposed eye bulging as far as the bridge of his nose. Once the screaming stopped, however, the soldier’s delirious state seemed to subside.
“The sword, soldier, and remember who you are talking to,” Hunter demanded.
“The sword…the sword. It was long and silver, seeming to go for miles. The hilt…was wrapped in shiny leather, accented with golden brass, and it…ended in a circle. Just like Anwyn’s.”
“The carvings?” Hunter probed. He now feared the worst.
“The carvings…” the soldier moaned, slipping back into semiconsciousness. Hunter snapped the flames from his fingers again. The cracking sound resounding through the air was enough to make the soldier come back into the now. “The carvings were…of the creature.”
He snarled and let the dark magic explode out from his hands. The flames consumed the soldier. Flesh burned. Hair singed and disintegrated. The man fought and kicked, even managing to get halfway up from his prone position. That was as far as he got before death took him.
The smoldering corpse behind him, Hunter opened the door with a wave of his hand. The woman rushed in with tears in her eyes, for the smell was thick in the air and had undoubtedly drifted out into the corridor.
Hex stood, looking on with his mouth agape. Hunter’s gaze found his.
“Come, Hex. The fire must be lit, and the words must be spoken.”
Chapter Nine
Maria was just a few feet from the water tower when Gelbus and Sherlock stormed through the town’s streets. She had not seen Sherlock move that fast since his run-in with the Milkbone box back on Earth.
Gelbus screamed at the top of his lungs. “Death to the Dragon Tongue!” while Sherlock barked his head off.
Yeah, the Dragon Tongue sucks balls! Sherlock added.
The Dragon Tongue working on the beach stepped away from the prisoners they had just lined up —Don’t worry, I’m coming for you guys, too, Maria thought—and looked at one another in utter confusion. They were taken aback by the sudden outburst.
One took off after Sherlock, and the others soon followed. But there were still the ones on the boats in the lake to worry about, as well as those that had stayed behind to guard the prisoners, which were about a dozen prisoners in all.
Maria unsheathed her sword and took a step toward the rickety water tower. Her plan was to cut the support beams down with her blade and push the water tower toward the beach, drenching the fire before it could spread.
There was no fire yet; the wanderers currently had the upper hand.
Across the street, Gramps and Frieda stood in the shadows, waiting for Maria’s word. Penelope and the escaped townspeople had gone to the other side of the beach, where they were waiting for the distracted Dragon Tongue with the weapons they were able to scrounge up. Maria didn’t like the idea of them fighting and potentially losing their lives, but they had insisted.
It seemed that if there was to be any death, there would not be much. Thankfully.
Maria pointed to herself, across to Gramps, and then to the beach, signaling that they would move forward and take the rest of the Dragon Tongue down.
Across the way, Ignatius nodded, raising his wand. White flames glowed serenely in Frieda’s palm as she stood next to him. This was not as dangerous a mission as going back to the prison keep to free the townspeople when he had felt so weak and drained,
