Page 122 of Sword & Sacrifice

Penn blocked the attack with his forearm, the point of the blade stopping an inch from his face.

“Just die, you stubborn fool!” Niall snarled.

Penn rolled away from him and back into the hallway. The puddle of spilled potion had burned holes through Adelaide’s floor, something else he would have to apologize to her for later. If I could just get my own damn knife—

A hand grabbed Penn’s ankle and tugged him backwards. He scrabbled at the floor instinctively until his hand slammed into a puddle. The liquid sizzled against his flesh and his vision flashed white hot. He gritted his teeth against a scream. When his vision cleared, he saw the muddy potion had coated his hand from palm to fingertips.

In his distraction, Niall had successfully pulled Penn back within reach.

Niall grasped the handle of his knife with both hands, ready to plunge it down into Penn’s heart.

Penn surged up and pressed his burning hand to Niall’s face. An inhuman howl of pain poured from Niall’s mouth.

The smell of burnt flesh filled the room, Penn’s and Niall’s mixed together. When the pain became too much, Penn wrenched his hand away and slammed it down into the puddle of Valerian’s blood. The fiery burn cooled immediately, as if his lover’s blood was the one ingredient that could neutralize the pain.

Niall had dropped the knife to claw at his face, screaming the whole time. He stumbled to his feet, weaving heavily to each side as he blindly wandered the cottage.

He’s searching for the kitchen so he can also neutralize the potion. Penn snatched up the fallen knife, the fingers of his injured hand screaming in protest at the movement, and pushed himself to his feet.

Niall had dunked his head in a bucket of water and was vigorously scrubbing away the concoction with one of Adelaide’s hand cloths. At Penn’s approach, he startled and looked up. Raw burns marred his face in a swollen, misshapen handprint. The oozing pink flesh throbbed with every seething breath.

Penn drove the kitchen blade forward, right into Niall’s throat.

A swollen tongue pushed past his burned lips as Niall choked on the blade. His hands uselessly grabbed at the edge of the counter then reached for Penn, frantically searching for a way to save himself. Penn ripped the knife out of his throat, spraying blood everywhere with the motion.

The mage collapsed onto the floor, body spasming as he clawed at his own throat. Penn kicked his hands out of the way and stabbed down again and again, even after the body stopped moving. Panting, he stared down at the mage responsible for Valerian’s possession, the sliced up and burned flesh almost unrecognizable. He gladly spit on the corpse.

Penn turned and limped back to the workshop. The bottle with the yew berry powder rested on its side on the floor once again, as if it preferred that to the neat shelves. Penn scooped it up, pulled the cork out with his teeth, and dumped the whole thing into the mixing bowl.

The fight with Niall had wasted too much time. He poured the potion into a bottle, pressed a cork firmly into it, and shook it as he ran out the door, hoping he wasn’t too late to revive Valerian.

Chapter Forty-Nine

The harbor was in chaos, a battle stretching from the water to the shore. Moira’s ships had engaged Everett’s, cannons firing and sailors fighting on all decks. At the docks, uniformed soldiers clashed against Varro’s men. Dead and injured warriors scattered around the beach, and Silas was thankful to see very few blue or green uniforms among them.

He scanned the docks, searching for Emmaline, but there were too many people, too much noise and movement, for him to find her among the crowd. “Em!” he shouted, his voice barely rising above the cannon fire and clash of steel.

“Sir,” Langley panted as he caught up. “There are a lot of places you shouldn’t be right now, but this is probably the worst.” He tried to grab Silas’ arm, to physically pull him back to safety.

Silas wrenched out of his grip, using what he’d learned from Langley’s own general to naturally pinpoint the weak point of the fist. “I have to find Emmaline!”

“One of us can search for her!” Langley insisted.

What am I supposed to say? That a witch is magically compelling me to protect her daughter? Silas simply ignored Langley and continued scanning the beach and waters. A shrill scream of distress rose above the other noise, and Silas whipped his head toward the sound.

There, a flash of auburn hair, firelight illuminating her pale dress. She was high above the crowd, hefted onto an enormous man’s broad shoulders. She struggled and kicked, but she was no match for her opponent.

“Emmaline!” Silas shouted, slipping into the crowd. A sword flashed to his right, and he raised his hand instinctively to uselessly block, only for another sword to intercept it.

Langley snarled and kicked his opponent away before attacking with a series of quick jabs and slashes Silas could barely follow. “At least—”t—slash—“grab”—clang—“a fucking weapon!”

I don’t have time to—Silas almost tripped right over a prone body. The outstretched arm still had a shield strapped to it. “Sorry,” he muttered as he yanked it off. It was better than nothing and would hopefully keep him alive long enough to save Em.

He gripped the shield in one hand as he pushed through the crowd, using it to shove people out of his way.

Emmaline continued yelling the whole time, her voice guiding Silas through the chaos. Her shouting was as much anger as fear as she hurled abuse at her captor. None of it stopped the man from reaching the ramp and carrying her onto a ship.

The beat of Silas’ racing heart drowned out the rest of the noise. If Em gets on that ship, I’ll never see her again. I’ll have failed Adelaide.