Willing Sacrifice
Page 40
He dropped them into the box, closed the lid and bound the thing shut with his shirt so he could carry it safely. The last thing he wanted was to have the box open and get his ass blown off by a pile of rocks.
As he turned to leave, his instincts warned him of danger.
He could see the top of Grace’s head along the ridgeline. As he stared, she moved enough that he could tell she was fine. A quick scan of the area revealed no enemies in plain sight.
Still, something was definitely wrong.
Grace stood and pointed, making herself an easy target.
Torr drew his sword and turned to face the threat.
Nothing.
He kept scanning the area, searching for what she’d seen.
The wind quieted, and he heard a scratching sound. It was close. Right in front of him.
He took a step back and watched as the sandy remains of the Mason he’d smashed re-formed. As each grain of sand took its place, the surface of the creature hardened into a smooth mass.
It was rebuilding itself, as Brenya had said it would, but he’d never imagined it would be so fast.
If the one at his feet could do that, then so could the one in the forest—the one that was only a few yards away from Grace.
Torr slammed the hammer down on the Mason, crushing its progress. More sand crumbled away, but it was obvious that the destruction was only temporary.
He scooped up as much of the sand as he could carry and sprinted toward Grace. Maybe if he got a piece of the thing far enough away, it would stop the healing process. It was the only thing he could think of without more time.
And with Grace up there, no way was he slowing down to ponder the situation.
He hit the tree line running and flung the sand out as far as he could. His fingers were numb from the cold work he’d done, but he forced them to move enough to grab Grace’s hand.
“Run!” he yelled, pulling her into compliance.
“You killed it.”
“For now. There’s still the other one.” As he said the words, he saw a grayish shape lumbering through the trees up ahead.
He veered to the left, heading toward a stream he’d spotted earlier.
Their progress was slow. Grace was trying hard to keep up, but there was only so much she could do.
He fell behind her, urging her to keep going as fast as she could. Her bandages kept snagging on low branches until they were loose enough that they fell around her feet. They tripped her up twice. Finally she stopped long enough to strip them away, then picked up speed again.
By that time, the Mason was right behind them, crashing along in their wake.
“Left!” Torr shouted, hoping she would understand what he meant.
Without hesitating, she banked sharply to her left, heading down a steep slope. She fell and slid halfway down, but regained her feet just in time to splash across the shallow stream.
Torr drew his sword and turned to face the Mason. This was where he would make his stand.
“Keep going,” he ordered.
He didn’t know if she obeyed, but he no longer had time to find out.
The Mason charged, but Torr was ready. He dodged the first heavy blow that came at him. The Mason had no hammer, but its fist flew past his head so fast that the wind ruffled his hair. He stepped to the side and swung his sword in a complete arc that sliced right through the Mason’s thick wrist.
It roared as its hand fell in a sandy pile on the bank of the stream.
Torr’s rush of victory lasted less than a second. The Mason’s foot slammed into his knee, bending it sideways.
Pain attacked his brain, blinding him for a moment. His body instinctively went on defense, protecting his vital organs while he regained his vision.
As soon as he did, he saw Grace with a thick stick in her hands, closing in.
Like fucking hell.
Torr let his body take over, giving his rage just enough rein to strengthen him. He wasn’t as mobile with only one functional leg, but that wasn’t going to stop him from killing the thing before it could lay so much as a single grain of sand on Grace.
Each swing of his sword cut away another crumbling section of sand. Defending himself was no longer a priority. It made him reckless but deadly.
Grace drew the stick back like a baseball player at bat.
The Mason saw her and swung its uninjured arm right toward her head.
Torr launched himself at the creature, ignoring the wrenching pain in his knee. His sword struck first, cutting a hole through its chest. His fist tore through the hole, forcing it open enough that the rest of his body could fit through.
The Mason’s scream died as it disintegrated into a waterfall of sand over Torr’s body.
He landed hard, unable to control his fall with a busted knee. Sand clogged his eyes and filled his mouth. He spat it free and shook his head to rid himself of the rest.
“Are you okay?” she asked.
Frigid rage made his body lock up. Regardless of what he did or said, Grace was determined to put herself in harm’s way. Now that he was injured, she was going to be even more likely to believe he couldn’t take care of himself.
He couldn’t speak right then—at least not about her actions. If he did, if the anger pounding through him broke free, he knew he’d scare her off forever.
“Dump as much sand as you can in the stream. Spread it out.”
“Your knee—”
“Will heal,” he snapped. “Move the fucking sand!”
She ducked her head and hunched her shoulders, looking like a scolded puppy.
Instantly, Torr felt like a dick. No matter what she did, she didn’t deserve to hurt. Her whole life had been about suffering, and he wasn’t about to be the asshole who added to that burden.
It took a good five minutes of deep breathing before he trusted himself to speak. She was scraping a pile of sand together with her hands when he found the guts to open his mouth. “I’m sorry, Grace. Again. I shouldn’t have raised my voice.”
“No, you shouldn’t have. But you’re in pain.”
“That’s no excuse. Pain doesn’t excuse bad behavior.”
She looked up at him, surprised. “Most people would say it did.”
“They’d be mistaken.”
She took a tentative step closer. “How bad is it?”
Something was definitely torn, though he couldn’t tell what. His jeans were growing tight over the swelling, and he would bet his sword that the whole knee was already turning black and blue.
As he turned to leave, his instincts warned him of danger.
He could see the top of Grace’s head along the ridgeline. As he stared, she moved enough that he could tell she was fine. A quick scan of the area revealed no enemies in plain sight.
Still, something was definitely wrong.
Grace stood and pointed, making herself an easy target.
Torr drew his sword and turned to face the threat.
Nothing.
He kept scanning the area, searching for what she’d seen.
The wind quieted, and he heard a scratching sound. It was close. Right in front of him.
He took a step back and watched as the sandy remains of the Mason he’d smashed re-formed. As each grain of sand took its place, the surface of the creature hardened into a smooth mass.
It was rebuilding itself, as Brenya had said it would, but he’d never imagined it would be so fast.
If the one at his feet could do that, then so could the one in the forest—the one that was only a few yards away from Grace.
Torr slammed the hammer down on the Mason, crushing its progress. More sand crumbled away, but it was obvious that the destruction was only temporary.
He scooped up as much of the sand as he could carry and sprinted toward Grace. Maybe if he got a piece of the thing far enough away, it would stop the healing process. It was the only thing he could think of without more time.
And with Grace up there, no way was he slowing down to ponder the situation.
He hit the tree line running and flung the sand out as far as he could. His fingers were numb from the cold work he’d done, but he forced them to move enough to grab Grace’s hand.
“Run!” he yelled, pulling her into compliance.
“You killed it.”
“For now. There’s still the other one.” As he said the words, he saw a grayish shape lumbering through the trees up ahead.
He veered to the left, heading toward a stream he’d spotted earlier.
Their progress was slow. Grace was trying hard to keep up, but there was only so much she could do.
He fell behind her, urging her to keep going as fast as she could. Her bandages kept snagging on low branches until they were loose enough that they fell around her feet. They tripped her up twice. Finally she stopped long enough to strip them away, then picked up speed again.
By that time, the Mason was right behind them, crashing along in their wake.
“Left!” Torr shouted, hoping she would understand what he meant.
Without hesitating, she banked sharply to her left, heading down a steep slope. She fell and slid halfway down, but regained her feet just in time to splash across the shallow stream.
Torr drew his sword and turned to face the Mason. This was where he would make his stand.
“Keep going,” he ordered.
He didn’t know if she obeyed, but he no longer had time to find out.
The Mason charged, but Torr was ready. He dodged the first heavy blow that came at him. The Mason had no hammer, but its fist flew past his head so fast that the wind ruffled his hair. He stepped to the side and swung his sword in a complete arc that sliced right through the Mason’s thick wrist.
It roared as its hand fell in a sandy pile on the bank of the stream.
Torr’s rush of victory lasted less than a second. The Mason’s foot slammed into his knee, bending it sideways.
Pain attacked his brain, blinding him for a moment. His body instinctively went on defense, protecting his vital organs while he regained his vision.
As soon as he did, he saw Grace with a thick stick in her hands, closing in.
Like fucking hell.
Torr let his body take over, giving his rage just enough rein to strengthen him. He wasn’t as mobile with only one functional leg, but that wasn’t going to stop him from killing the thing before it could lay so much as a single grain of sand on Grace.
Each swing of his sword cut away another crumbling section of sand. Defending himself was no longer a priority. It made him reckless but deadly.
Grace drew the stick back like a baseball player at bat.
The Mason saw her and swung its uninjured arm right toward her head.
Torr launched himself at the creature, ignoring the wrenching pain in his knee. His sword struck first, cutting a hole through its chest. His fist tore through the hole, forcing it open enough that the rest of his body could fit through.
The Mason’s scream died as it disintegrated into a waterfall of sand over Torr’s body.
He landed hard, unable to control his fall with a busted knee. Sand clogged his eyes and filled his mouth. He spat it free and shook his head to rid himself of the rest.
“Are you okay?” she asked.
Frigid rage made his body lock up. Regardless of what he did or said, Grace was determined to put herself in harm’s way. Now that he was injured, she was going to be even more likely to believe he couldn’t take care of himself.
He couldn’t speak right then—at least not about her actions. If he did, if the anger pounding through him broke free, he knew he’d scare her off forever.
“Dump as much sand as you can in the stream. Spread it out.”
“Your knee—”
“Will heal,” he snapped. “Move the fucking sand!”
She ducked her head and hunched her shoulders, looking like a scolded puppy.
Instantly, Torr felt like a dick. No matter what she did, she didn’t deserve to hurt. Her whole life had been about suffering, and he wasn’t about to be the asshole who added to that burden.
It took a good five minutes of deep breathing before he trusted himself to speak. She was scraping a pile of sand together with her hands when he found the guts to open his mouth. “I’m sorry, Grace. Again. I shouldn’t have raised my voice.”
“No, you shouldn’t have. But you’re in pain.”
“That’s no excuse. Pain doesn’t excuse bad behavior.”
She looked up at him, surprised. “Most people would say it did.”
“They’d be mistaken.”
She took a tentative step closer. “How bad is it?”
Something was definitely torn, though he couldn’t tell what. His jeans were growing tight over the swelling, and he would bet his sword that the whole knee was already turning black and blue.
