Poisonwell
Page 147
A grotesque look of rage crumpled Kiranrao’s face as he feinted and then lunged again. Paedrin deflected the thrust and whipped his elbow around to smash into the Romani’s face, but again he vanished in a plume of smoke.
“Smoke and shadows, that’s all you are!” Paedrin shouted, dodging another arrow. It thunked into the tree with the others. “A cawing raven. You have no power. You can only steal.”
“You will die, Bhikhu,” Kiranrao threatened. “That I swear!”
“You could not hit me with an avalanche,” Paedrin quipped. “You couldn’t hit me with a rainstorm. You’ve gotten lazy, thief.”
There he was again, materializing out of smoke, his face contorted in rage. Paedrin prepared for the attack. Kiranrao’s eyes widened with shock. A look of confusion rippled across his face. He shook his head, startled and panicked, and then vanished into smoke again.
Fire exploded from the tree behind him.
Paedrin whirled in shock. There was Phae, perfect and whole. Her clothes were different, clean and unstained. Her red hair billowed from the heat as blue flames bloomed from her hands, streaking into the woods and striking one of the sentinels, turning him into ash. Paedrin saw another one lift his bow and he tried to warn her. He would have rushed in front of her to protect her, but he would have stood in the flood of flames and died himself.
The arrow went straight toward her, striking her full in the heart with a stony clunk before dropping harmlessly to the ground at her feet. She smiled savagely and turned her flames against that sentinel, scattering it into ash as well. Shion whirled with surprise, his face lighting with joy when he saw her. Phae took a step forward and sent a final gust of flames and destroyed the third and final sentinel.
“Away from my tree,” she said triumphantly.
“Phae!” Paedrin gasped.
From the gap in the split trunk, twin blurs of silver-white fur came charging out. Paedrin gaped in shock. These were lions, taller than horses, and they bounded into the burning grove and with twin ferocious howls, they scattered the Weir who had gathered around the ancient oak. Their roars sent a spasm of dread into Paedrin’s bowels and he watched with awe as their huge muscled limbs shredded through the Weir. Their roars could be heard over the cinders and crackling flames and seemed to mix with the thunder booming from the clouds overhead. The two lions struck down Weir one by one, and the massive cats became the hunted ones and fled in panic.
Phae grabbed Shion in a fierce hug, whispered something to him, and then she rushed to where Annon had fallen. Paedrin and Shion joined her, watching sharply for a sign of Kiranrao, but the thief had not materialized since his stricken look.
The Dryad knelt by the Druidecht and produced a small, damp pouch. Digging her hand into it, she withdrew a clump of vibrant green moss with little flowers—the same kind Paedrin had found in Khiara’s belt that he had used to heal Baylen. Paedrin stared with wonder, realizing the Dryad had gotten it from Mirrowen somehow, and then watched as she pressed the moss into the savage claw wounds on Annon’s bloodied back. The magic swept over the Druidecht, bringing color back to his pallid cheeks. Annon lifted his head, then pulled himself up on his elbows.
“Phae?” he questioned, his voice raw but his strength returning.
“We must reclaim the Scourgelands,” she said, gripping Annon’s shoulder. Then she pointed into the woods toward the stark hillside where the ruins were. “It’s time to rebuild Canton Vaud. The ruins there . . . built by our ancestors . . . I know all of it now. I know the history. The gate to Mirrowen was closed by cruelty. We go to open it again, to open the bridge. To cross it, you must know its name. I give it to you. Pontfadog. Gather the others and fight your way in. Shion and I will go into the depths to counter the Plague. I know how. Meet us there. Go!”
Paedrin’s heart nearly burst with joy. He wanted to rush to Hettie, to save her before it was too late. Phae had changed completely, but she was still vulnerable to the blade Iddawc.
“Kiranrao is still loose,” he warned her.
She shook her head. “He doesn’t remember anything right now. I took all his memories. When our task is done, he will be hunted down and that blade taken and hidden until its binding has ended. I understand what Iddawc is now. Trust no man to wield it.”
Paedrin nodded. He didn’t need any more reason. Invoking the power of the Sword of Winds again, he flew up into the branches and crashed through the thicket and pierced the sky. He soared up to the clouds that lowered over the crumbled ruins.
“I can’t walk,” Hettie said to her captors, sitting on the ground near a pile of rubble and massaged her leg. There were three of them, wearing tunics bearing the symbols of Kenatos. They were soldiers, not Rikes, and she could see the fear emanating from their eyes. None of them dared look at her, for she still wore the illusion of Phae’s countenance and they had assumed she was Tyrus’s daughter.
“Smoke and shadows, that’s all you are!” Paedrin shouted, dodging another arrow. It thunked into the tree with the others. “A cawing raven. You have no power. You can only steal.”
“You will die, Bhikhu,” Kiranrao threatened. “That I swear!”
“You could not hit me with an avalanche,” Paedrin quipped. “You couldn’t hit me with a rainstorm. You’ve gotten lazy, thief.”
There he was again, materializing out of smoke, his face contorted in rage. Paedrin prepared for the attack. Kiranrao’s eyes widened with shock. A look of confusion rippled across his face. He shook his head, startled and panicked, and then vanished into smoke again.
Fire exploded from the tree behind him.
Paedrin whirled in shock. There was Phae, perfect and whole. Her clothes were different, clean and unstained. Her red hair billowed from the heat as blue flames bloomed from her hands, streaking into the woods and striking one of the sentinels, turning him into ash. Paedrin saw another one lift his bow and he tried to warn her. He would have rushed in front of her to protect her, but he would have stood in the flood of flames and died himself.
The arrow went straight toward her, striking her full in the heart with a stony clunk before dropping harmlessly to the ground at her feet. She smiled savagely and turned her flames against that sentinel, scattering it into ash as well. Shion whirled with surprise, his face lighting with joy when he saw her. Phae took a step forward and sent a final gust of flames and destroyed the third and final sentinel.
“Away from my tree,” she said triumphantly.
“Phae!” Paedrin gasped.
From the gap in the split trunk, twin blurs of silver-white fur came charging out. Paedrin gaped in shock. These were lions, taller than horses, and they bounded into the burning grove and with twin ferocious howls, they scattered the Weir who had gathered around the ancient oak. Their roars sent a spasm of dread into Paedrin’s bowels and he watched with awe as their huge muscled limbs shredded through the Weir. Their roars could be heard over the cinders and crackling flames and seemed to mix with the thunder booming from the clouds overhead. The two lions struck down Weir one by one, and the massive cats became the hunted ones and fled in panic.
Phae grabbed Shion in a fierce hug, whispered something to him, and then she rushed to where Annon had fallen. Paedrin and Shion joined her, watching sharply for a sign of Kiranrao, but the thief had not materialized since his stricken look.
The Dryad knelt by the Druidecht and produced a small, damp pouch. Digging her hand into it, she withdrew a clump of vibrant green moss with little flowers—the same kind Paedrin had found in Khiara’s belt that he had used to heal Baylen. Paedrin stared with wonder, realizing the Dryad had gotten it from Mirrowen somehow, and then watched as she pressed the moss into the savage claw wounds on Annon’s bloodied back. The magic swept over the Druidecht, bringing color back to his pallid cheeks. Annon lifted his head, then pulled himself up on his elbows.
“Phae?” he questioned, his voice raw but his strength returning.
“We must reclaim the Scourgelands,” she said, gripping Annon’s shoulder. Then she pointed into the woods toward the stark hillside where the ruins were. “It’s time to rebuild Canton Vaud. The ruins there . . . built by our ancestors . . . I know all of it now. I know the history. The gate to Mirrowen was closed by cruelty. We go to open it again, to open the bridge. To cross it, you must know its name. I give it to you. Pontfadog. Gather the others and fight your way in. Shion and I will go into the depths to counter the Plague. I know how. Meet us there. Go!”
Paedrin’s heart nearly burst with joy. He wanted to rush to Hettie, to save her before it was too late. Phae had changed completely, but she was still vulnerable to the blade Iddawc.
“Kiranrao is still loose,” he warned her.
She shook her head. “He doesn’t remember anything right now. I took all his memories. When our task is done, he will be hunted down and that blade taken and hidden until its binding has ended. I understand what Iddawc is now. Trust no man to wield it.”
Paedrin nodded. He didn’t need any more reason. Invoking the power of the Sword of Winds again, he flew up into the branches and crashed through the thicket and pierced the sky. He soared up to the clouds that lowered over the crumbled ruins.
“I can’t walk,” Hettie said to her captors, sitting on the ground near a pile of rubble and massaged her leg. There were three of them, wearing tunics bearing the symbols of Kenatos. They were soldiers, not Rikes, and she could see the fear emanating from their eyes. None of them dared look at her, for she still wore the illusion of Phae’s countenance and they had assumed she was Tyrus’s daughter.
