Page 127 of Sword & Sacrifice

Pain rippled across the man’s face as he fell to the ground, the stump of his arm slipping free of its cage. For a moment, he clutched his empty, bleeding wrist to his chest. And then he fell forward, showing two more arrows buried in his back.

The thorny barrier crumbled away as Emmaline slumped. Silas caught her, lowering her carefully onto the dock. Sweat coated her face and she gave Silas an embarrassed smile. “I’m fine,” she panted. “Just tired.”

“You did great, Em,” he whispered, returning her smile.

But he knew they couldn’t afford to let their guard down. He peered out at the battlefield, searching for an opening. Immediately, his eyes found Griselda, still locked in a fight with Varro.

If she wasn’t injured, she would have won by now, Silas thought, worrying about the old general.

As if Griselda could hear his doubt, she roared and swung her axe with all her might, breaking past Varro’s guard.

Varro froze, his sword arm falling limp to his side, and looked down at the axe buried deep in his chest.

Still not satisfied, Griselda wrenched the axe out, spraying blood everywhere, and chopped down on Varro’s neck. The disgraced general shuddered and collapsed to his knees.

Her third swing cut his head clean from his neck.

Griselda grabbed the head and held it aloft by the short gray hair. “Is this the man you want to fight for?” she shouted over the battlefield. She tossed the head aside like it was nothing more than garbage and smacked the handle of her axe against her bloodstained hand. “Surrender, or you can die with him.”

The threat moved slowly through the fighters. A few were reenergized by their general’s death, screaming obscenities as they threw themselves at the soldiers, both their lifelong enemies and their former friends. Others dropped their weapons and knelt on the ground, putting their hands on their heads.

One by one, the traitors either died or surrendered, until the fighting ceased.

As the adrenaline faded, Griselda spotted Silas. She stomped toward them, covered in blood, one of the most terrifying warriors Silas had ever seen. She stopped in front of him, dark eyes narrowed as she glared down at him. “Next time, just let your guards do the fighting. You’re shit at it,” she said frankly before offering him a hand up.

Even though it was covered in blood, Silas accepted her hand, and she yanked him to his feet. “I will be very happy if I never get into another fight in my life.”

Chapter Fifty-One

The peak of Mount Bastepe was cold and barren. Wind howled around Penn, drowning out the fighting below. Normally from this vantage point, he would have been able to see all of Casselarn, but the dark night obscured the city.

Yet the figure before him glowed brighter than the stars. Valerian stood with his head tilted back, eyes closed, hands spread at his sides. Even with the mountain still rumbling beneath him, he stood firm, not moving an inch. As if the surrounding world could not affect him.

“Val!” Penn called, rushing forward. Cold wind buffeted his face and his foot slipped over a patch of ice. He caught himself on a protruding rock, heart pounding as he pictured himself tumbling all the way back down the mountain.

He looked down at the ice and his stomach clenched with dread. Frozen blood glimmered up at him. In some places it created thick, swirling pools, while in others it had frozen in thin lines. Tracking those lines, Penn realized they were symbols, like the wards protecting Valerian’s shop. The intricate, bloody lines connected in a circle surrounding the mage.

“The mercenary can’t hear you,” the mage said, his raspy voice somehow carrying over the wind.

Penn swallowed roughly and searched the mage’s face, afraid of what it might reveal. For the first time, he was relieved to see those mismatched eyes. If they weren’t fully ice blue, Val was still holding on. “Alistair, please stop. At this rate, you’ll bring the whole mountain down.”

Alistair cocked his head to the side, sweat-dampened blond hair sticking to his forehead. “That’s the point.”

Penn’s heart stuck in his throat. “But … you’ll kill yourself too! I thought you wanted to be a king! You can’t rule over a kingdom if you’re dead!”

Alistair scoffed softly. “I’m already dead. It’s only fair I take the man responsible with me.”

What does he mean? Is he talking about Archer? Did he and Silas destroy Alistair’s body?

Dismissing Penn, Alistair tilted his head back once again. Another rumble shook the mountain. Penn imagined more creatures crawling out of the ground, hunting and killing the Arnsveldian citizens.

He clutched the potion bottle in his hand. He could only use it after Valerian died. With the blood still pouring out of him, Penn hoped Alistair would simply drop dead on his own, but it seemed Penn might have to help him along.

A dagger lay on the ground near Valerian’s feet. Apparently, the blood he’d already shed hadn’t been enough to feed the circle. Penn could barely see the edges of fresh cuts on the mage’s palm, the blood dripping from his fingertips to join the magic circle.

Penn took a deep breath and stepped over the edge of the circle.

Alistair’s brow furrowed as he watched Penn’s slow approach. “What are you doing?”