Read Online Gathering Of The God-Touched (Book 4) by Ron Collins - Free Book Online
Authors: Ron Collins
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too—a beating heart, another life force, powerful and strong. He smiled and considered telling her of the child, then decided against it.
He turned to the next man in line.
It was the ranger from the alley. Sweat rolled off the man’s bald pate. His bristled, spittle-knotted beard quivered with his pain as he looked at Garrick. A deep gash scored his side.
Garrick funneled life force into the man.
Despite his pain, the man was strong and firm inside. Garrick felt balance to his purpose, the power of his conviction. Emotion boiled up inside Garrick then, an emotion that had nothing to do with magic or planewalkers or his internal life forces.
When Garrick was done, tears ran down his face.
“What is your name?” he asked.
“What?” the ranger said.
“I asked you your name.”
“Fredric,” the big man said. “My name is Fredric.”
Garrick smiled.
“Rest now, Fredric.”
A cheer rang over the battlefield.
Voices of soldiers of Dorfort rose in a vast cry.
“Darien! Darien! Darien!” they yelled.
The Lectodinians were routed.
The battle of God’s Tower was over.
Chapter 21
Darien rode toward Garrick, his face sweat-drenched and his armor spattered with mud. A trickle of blood ran down his arm, and his leg was stained crimson. He raised his father’s sword over his head and shouted above the voices of his men.
“Hail, Garrick!” he cried to his warriors.
The army cheered, rattling their swords and beating their shields. Mages shouted Garrick’s name. Darien’s smile was bright, and his eyes beamed in the late afternoon sun.
Garrick stood.
His life force was nearly balanced. His hunger was not raging, nor did he feel the deep whispers of excess. He was tired, but it was a good tired. If he could just stay this way forever, he thought. But while the rest of the Torean army could cheer, Garrick knew that was not going to happen.
He scanned the field for Sunathri but did not find her. He glanced at Darien, his chest growing tighter and his eyes wide with the question.
“Where is Sunathri?” Garrick asked.
A dark cloud crossed Darien’s face. The cheers fell to silence.
“She was defending the south pass last I saw,” Darien replied.
Garrick pushed through the gathering and sprinted toward the pass.
Darien rode, his horse easily outracing Garrick.
Still Garrick ran, his stride a graceful lope and his arms and legs pumping. He vaulted broken pikes and destroyed supply wagons, sprinting like a deer through brambles, his straw-colored hair blazed in the late sun.
More men on horseback raced past him.
Garrick reached the saddle of the next horse that came by, and in mid-stride, hefted himself up behind the man. The rider spurred his animal and they rejoined the chase. When they caught the group, Darien had already dismounted.
Four men stood around him as he knelt.
Garrick slid from the horse before it came to a rest.
Sunathri lay on the ground with three other Toreans. Blood pooled under her, and her rib cage had been ripped with a great gash. An entire detail of Lectodinian mercenaries and sorcerers lay dead around them.
An eerie separation came over him. He felt nothing.
He did not hear, did not smell. It was as if this wasn’t real, as if he was viewing it from afar. Except that he
was
there. This
was
happening.
Garrick ran to Sunathri’s side, brushing Darien out of the way. He put his hand to her forehead, and felt for her life force.
There was nothing.
Nothing.
He opened one of her lids. Her eyes were dull and lifeless.
A tear trailed like fire down his cheek.
Sunathri’s body lay like an empty shell waiting to receive the life force he could give her. He could do it. He could bring her back, but then she would be fueled by magic and her eyes would carry the cold yellow light that Alistair’s did. For a brief moment, he actually considered it. But then he remembered the shrill sound of pain in his superior call as he stood alone in his desolate manor yard, and he
He turned to the next man in line.
It was the ranger from the alley. Sweat rolled off the man’s bald pate. His bristled, spittle-knotted beard quivered with his pain as he looked at Garrick. A deep gash scored his side.
Garrick funneled life force into the man.
Despite his pain, the man was strong and firm inside. Garrick felt balance to his purpose, the power of his conviction. Emotion boiled up inside Garrick then, an emotion that had nothing to do with magic or planewalkers or his internal life forces.
When Garrick was done, tears ran down his face.
“What is your name?” he asked.
“What?” the ranger said.
“I asked you your name.”
“Fredric,” the big man said. “My name is Fredric.”
Garrick smiled.
“Rest now, Fredric.”
A cheer rang over the battlefield.
Voices of soldiers of Dorfort rose in a vast cry.
“Darien! Darien! Darien!” they yelled.
The Lectodinians were routed.
The battle of God’s Tower was over.
Chapter 21
Darien rode toward Garrick, his face sweat-drenched and his armor spattered with mud. A trickle of blood ran down his arm, and his leg was stained crimson. He raised his father’s sword over his head and shouted above the voices of his men.
“Hail, Garrick!” he cried to his warriors.
The army cheered, rattling their swords and beating their shields. Mages shouted Garrick’s name. Darien’s smile was bright, and his eyes beamed in the late afternoon sun.
Garrick stood.
His life force was nearly balanced. His hunger was not raging, nor did he feel the deep whispers of excess. He was tired, but it was a good tired. If he could just stay this way forever, he thought. But while the rest of the Torean army could cheer, Garrick knew that was not going to happen.
He scanned the field for Sunathri but did not find her. He glanced at Darien, his chest growing tighter and his eyes wide with the question.
“Where is Sunathri?” Garrick asked.
A dark cloud crossed Darien’s face. The cheers fell to silence.
“She was defending the south pass last I saw,” Darien replied.
Garrick pushed through the gathering and sprinted toward the pass.
Darien rode, his horse easily outracing Garrick.
Still Garrick ran, his stride a graceful lope and his arms and legs pumping. He vaulted broken pikes and destroyed supply wagons, sprinting like a deer through brambles, his straw-colored hair blazed in the late sun.
More men on horseback raced past him.
Garrick reached the saddle of the next horse that came by, and in mid-stride, hefted himself up behind the man. The rider spurred his animal and they rejoined the chase. When they caught the group, Darien had already dismounted.
Four men stood around him as he knelt.
Garrick slid from the horse before it came to a rest.
Sunathri lay on the ground with three other Toreans. Blood pooled under her, and her rib cage had been ripped with a great gash. An entire detail of Lectodinian mercenaries and sorcerers lay dead around them.
An eerie separation came over him. He felt nothing.
He did not hear, did not smell. It was as if this wasn’t real, as if he was viewing it from afar. Except that he
was
there. This
was
happening.
Garrick ran to Sunathri’s side, brushing Darien out of the way. He put his hand to her forehead, and felt for her life force.
There was nothing.
Nothing.
He opened one of her lids. Her eyes were dull and lifeless.
A tear trailed like fire down his cheek.
Sunathri’s body lay like an empty shell waiting to receive the life force he could give her. He could do it. He could bring her back, but then she would be fueled by magic and her eyes would carry the cold yellow light that Alistair’s did. For a brief moment, he actually considered it. But then he remembered the shrill sound of pain in his superior call as he stood alone in his desolate manor yard, and he
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