Death & Magic (The Barefoot Healer, volume I)

Death & Magic chapter 44

“I found Zorian,” said Shendar, “and restored Him to His power. For that, He made me His first lieutenant, above all others, answering only to Him. Bow to me, Kreztalin! Bow to me, lest He destroy you for such an insult.”

“Zorian does not need to be found, mayfly.” Now, the Kreztalin’s voice resembled a swarm of wasps. “We know exactly where He is, and He is a long way from here.”

“Impossible!” said Shendar. “I’ve spent half my life looking for Him, and all my research, all my struggles, all my sacrifices, have led me here — to this girl. Zorian rides in her.”

The creature raised a claw-like hand — demanding silence, or preparing to attack? “This... girl does not carry Zorian. We would have sensed His approach as soon as He crossed the river.”

Shendar turned to Adramal. “Master, how much longer must we listen to this insolence? In Your absence, Your servants have forgotten how to behave.”

“We do not forget,” said the creature.

“Master, this servant must be disciplined. I’ve seen it before. If you let one get away with insubordination, the rest stop obeying you and before you know it, you have a full-scale mutiny on your hands.”

“Enough.” The word came from all around, loud enough to hurt Adramal’s ears. The creature pointed at Shendar and formed a fist.

For a moment, nothing happened. Shendar opened her mouth as if to speak, and then bent over, clutching her stomach. She stared at Adramal and staggered backwards. Blood trickled from the corner of her mouth. She lifted one hand, reaching for Adramal.

“Run,” she croaked.

Then she vanished.

Where Shendar had stood, motes of dust twinkled. Some went into Adramal’s eyes and nose, stinging them.

Adramal blinked, surprised to find herself fully in charge of her body once more — and all the pain Lelsarin had been saving for her. There was no time to make an inventory or wonder if everything still worked. She sprinted for the exit.

“Stop!” said the creature. Her heart hammered. Tears blurred her vision. Her feet slid and skidded over the floor.

Massive doors on either side of the exit drew closer together as she approached it. In desperation, she threw herself through the gap, crying out as her upper arm caught on a sharp edge. She landed heavily and, unable to slow herself, rolled down the steps.

Pain shredded her right arm as she pushed herself onto her hands and knees. Blood had already soaked into her tunic. She forced herself to stand. Behind her, there was no sign of a door. It looked like just another part of the wall. Shaking, she descended the steps and hobbled into the forest.

Morning had broken. Yellow-orange sky to her left contrasted with purple to her right. Goldcrests and siskins sang, the way they did every summer morning, as if nothing had changed.

After a few hundred yards, Adramal sheltered behind a large tree and put her hand over the wound on her upper arm. The stinging brought tears to her eyes. She tried to heal herself, but shock and exhaustion tangled her thoughts, and she couldn’t hold the spell together.

She had to get back to the city — to warn them of the danger from the temple, and to save Lorgrim and Rakbanorath. She crouched to tear a strip off her skirt for a bandage, and baulked at all the cuts and bruises on her shins and calves. Lelsarin had been even more careless than she’d thought. She folded the strip of cloth and pressed it over her arm. She winced again as she realised the bottom of her skirt was dirty, and that dirt was likely to enter the wound. She’d worry about cleaning it when she reached the river — if she reached the river.