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Authors: Kristen Britain
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down at her with glinting yellow eyes, and she could only stare back up at it, too stunned to move.
“Greenie,” it said, and followed it with some coarse, garbled speech she did not understand. It found her saber, and raised it for a death blow.
It all registered dully in Karigan’s mind. She couldn’t move and in but a moment her own sword would come bearing down on her.
Insanely she laughed. She laughed because of her thought earlier in the evening about how her ride to Darden in a nightgown would be the most notable thing anyone would ever remember about her.
Even as she laughed, tears rolled down her cheeks. There were too many things left undone. She had to make peace with her father, tell him she loved him. Yet, when she closed her eyes against her fate, the image that came to her was that of King Zachary. There was a questioning look in his brown eyes, and for him Karigan felt some sorrow, some great depth of loss. Not for him, necessarily, but for . . . for herself?
Light footfalls passed by her, accompanied by a strangely familiar rank smell. It had been taking a rather long time, she realized, for the groundmite to kill her. She popped one eye open, and then the other. Brogan the bounder bent over the still hulk of the groundmite lying on its back with a forester’s knife lodged in its throat. Brogan yanked the knife out and wiped it on the groundmite’s tunic.
He then gazed down at her. His expression was feral, that of a predator on the hunt. Without a word he crept stealthily away, vanishing through the dark woods.
Brogan, Karigan realized, was doing as she had done herself—attacking from the shadows. He had looked at her just as she had others, to ascertain if she lived.
Karigan herself found it hard to grasp that she was still alive. She grew aware of a wave, building power and momentum, and that it would swamp her if she allowed it. At all costs, she knew she must hold it at bay.
She drew in a raspy breath, and sat very still, trying to settle her mind and take stock of her condition. Her entire side ached. When she flexed her arm, a tearing sensation ripped through the muscles. Her arm was not broken, but she would be unable to handle her sword again this night.
She rose unsteadily to her feet, cradling her arm against her. She peered again to the clearing, wondering what she could do to help.
Then something curious happened. It was impossible that she hear something so faint over the clamor of battle. No, it was more that she felt it, as though it traveled through the tree roots beneath her feet, or that it was whispered from branch to branch above her in the forest canopy.
Varadgrim, Varadgrim, Varadgrim . . .
And onward it hastened toward the clearing. Had she really heard . . . felt it? Somehow it reminded her of her dream. It had that tang of darkness. Even as she thought about it, she was overwhelmed by an awful feeling of impending disaster. It was as though the air had grown taut, as though there was a great pressure on it and it was about to explode.
In the clearing, there grew the steady rumble of thunder. The ground trembled beneath her feet. The battle seemed to pause as combatants perceived the change as well. The rumbling grew and intensified into an unbearable roar until finally there was release—a rupturing within the clearing.
The lines of defenders broke apart and chaos took hold. Groundmites threw down their weapons and bolted. Shields fell and figures ran and darted, flickering in the glimmer of lanterns and campfires.
Searing white energy coalesced about the obelisks, crackling up and down as though the magic of the wards was building up power.
A dark figure appeared between a pair of obelisks. Groundmites and Sacoridians both fled before it, terror-stricken and screaming. Intricate spider webs of energy arced throughout the clearing, explosive and bright, lighting the sky above, scoring through anything and anyone in their path.
Tendrils of energy pounced on
“Greenie,” it said, and followed it with some coarse, garbled speech she did not understand. It found her saber, and raised it for a death blow.
It all registered dully in Karigan’s mind. She couldn’t move and in but a moment her own sword would come bearing down on her.
Insanely she laughed. She laughed because of her thought earlier in the evening about how her ride to Darden in a nightgown would be the most notable thing anyone would ever remember about her.
Even as she laughed, tears rolled down her cheeks. There were too many things left undone. She had to make peace with her father, tell him she loved him. Yet, when she closed her eyes against her fate, the image that came to her was that of King Zachary. There was a questioning look in his brown eyes, and for him Karigan felt some sorrow, some great depth of loss. Not for him, necessarily, but for . . . for herself?
Light footfalls passed by her, accompanied by a strangely familiar rank smell. It had been taking a rather long time, she realized, for the groundmite to kill her. She popped one eye open, and then the other. Brogan the bounder bent over the still hulk of the groundmite lying on its back with a forester’s knife lodged in its throat. Brogan yanked the knife out and wiped it on the groundmite’s tunic.
He then gazed down at her. His expression was feral, that of a predator on the hunt. Without a word he crept stealthily away, vanishing through the dark woods.
Brogan, Karigan realized, was doing as she had done herself—attacking from the shadows. He had looked at her just as she had others, to ascertain if she lived.
Karigan herself found it hard to grasp that she was still alive. She grew aware of a wave, building power and momentum, and that it would swamp her if she allowed it. At all costs, she knew she must hold it at bay.
She drew in a raspy breath, and sat very still, trying to settle her mind and take stock of her condition. Her entire side ached. When she flexed her arm, a tearing sensation ripped through the muscles. Her arm was not broken, but she would be unable to handle her sword again this night.
She rose unsteadily to her feet, cradling her arm against her. She peered again to the clearing, wondering what she could do to help.
Then something curious happened. It was impossible that she hear something so faint over the clamor of battle. No, it was more that she felt it, as though it traveled through the tree roots beneath her feet, or that it was whispered from branch to branch above her in the forest canopy.
Varadgrim, Varadgrim, Varadgrim . . .
And onward it hastened toward the clearing. Had she really heard . . . felt it? Somehow it reminded her of her dream. It had that tang of darkness. Even as she thought about it, she was overwhelmed by an awful feeling of impending disaster. It was as though the air had grown taut, as though there was a great pressure on it and it was about to explode.
In the clearing, there grew the steady rumble of thunder. The ground trembled beneath her feet. The battle seemed to pause as combatants perceived the change as well. The rumbling grew and intensified into an unbearable roar until finally there was release—a rupturing within the clearing.
The lines of defenders broke apart and chaos took hold. Groundmites threw down their weapons and bolted. Shields fell and figures ran and darted, flickering in the glimmer of lanterns and campfires.
Searing white energy coalesced about the obelisks, crackling up and down as though the magic of the wards was building up power.
A dark figure appeared between a pair of obelisks. Groundmites and Sacoridians both fled before it, terror-stricken and screaming. Intricate spider webs of energy arced throughout the clearing, explosive and bright, lighting the sky above, scoring through anything and anyone in their path.
Tendrils of energy pounced on
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