That she hadn’t sensed it until he’d manifested it was even more befuddling.
Elves were inherently magical. Her mother’s Wildling ran thick with magic as well and she was no green youth. What kind of power and skill did it take to hide from somebody like her?
And what could a man like Michan do with access to that level of power?
Not that it would happen.
Even if Tyriel wasn’t in the equation, Michan had no chance in hell of severing the bond she sensed between Aryn and the being bonded to his blade. Whoever he was, he’d said he chose Aryn. Chose.
As men moved in the shadows, Tyriel forced herself to focus. She could satisfy her curiosity later.
“You take the leader and these men,” she signed in the trader’s hand language, indicating the ones she wanted down. Hopefully, he’d learned that basic language as well as the others he seemed to have picked up from Aryn.
“I want the gray, as well,” he signed back, gesturing with one hand over his head to indicate the healer’s robe.
It was her instinct to argue. She knew her own skill, had no doubt she could bring down a human of perhaps four decades. But Michan had targeted Aryn.
She gave a grudging nod before continuing.
“I take the rest. Draw them out.” She beckoned for him to pull back with her, putting distance between them and the camp. When they were some distance back, she deliberately snapped a stick in two with the heel of her boot.
As expected, two of the fighters were sent into the woods. The one Tyriel came upon was just a boy, really, the unease in his eyes striking her in the gut. When she emerged from the darkness and he laid eyes on her, his mind went blank with terror.
“Idiot child,” she muttered as she made a decision.
Instead of killing him, she left him tied to a tree, unconscious and certain to sleep until dawn. The knots would be easy for him to deal with, given time. To insure his path didn’t stay on this road, she left a glamour spell that would trigger the moment he woke, and a warning. “Continue this path and you’ll die before you have your first woman. I’ll make certain of it.”
When she came upon Aryn/Ancient One with his victim, Tyriel wished she had taken more time. Both the Kin and the Wildlings tended to make their kills cleanly. She’d wager Aryn did too. When Aryn was in control.
But in ancient times, when this being actually was a living breathing…whatever he was, she imagined life was more savage, more brutal. And messy.
Tyriel imagined if she were to ever find any scrolls on the Jiupsu, she would learn they had been very creative and visceral warriors.
The eviscerated corpse slid to the ground while Tyriel turned away.
“Soft stomach?”
Tossing him a glance over her shoulder, she said, “Absolutely. That’s more meat than I care to see in a month, much less one night.”
Down to three—and the gray.
After another man sent out didn’t come back, those left remaining gathered around the campfire with Michan shooting fulminating looks into the darkness.
Finally, he shouted, “Come out, Aryn of Olsted. Must you hide in the shadows like a coward?”
When the being next to her tensed, Tyriel reached out and clasped his arm. “Don’t give him the satisfaction. We can take them easily but we’re not going to react to his stupid taunts.”
“He questions our honor. Our courage.”
Tyriel wondered at the ‘our’ but sighed. Men thousands of years ago were essentially just like men now, it appeared. Senseless. “He is baiting you, drawing you out to kill you—or rather Aryn—so he can take the sword and you. Is that how you want to prove your honor and courage?”
“Is this how the chieftain and your father raised you, Lady of the Jiupsu?” He loomed over her, his eyes narrowed and menacing, his body all but vibrating.
Tyriel cocked an eyebrow. “The chieftain is rather proud that I have a brain that I use. I’d bet he’d suggest you do the same. Let’s think—not kill each other and the body you are wearing.”
It took some convincing, but Tyriel was the one to leave the safety of the tree first, while her prehistoric counterpart made his way to the opposite side of the camp.
Tyriel simply sheathed her sword and walked out of the woods, well aware of the eyes drawn to her, one by one. When Michan turned and saw her, she smiled and waggled her fingers at him. “I decided I could use some of that moonwart.”
She saw the thoughts flickering through his eyes.
Lie or not? Play dumb or attack?
She gave him her best smirk, letting her amusement at the situation shine through in her eyes.
Michan decided on attack. Launching a volley of energy bursts at her, he shouted an order at the others.
A flickering shield rose from the earth, deflecting them easily.
Before they could work up the nerve to move on her, she glanced at the logs they sat on, the vines and weeds beneath and whispered the final words to complete the spell she’d laid in the earth only moments before entering the camp. Her right hand up, flaring bright as Michan flung another volley of wild energy at her, Tyriel squeezed her left fist, then opened it and flung the last drops of blood to the ground.
“No!” Michan screamed as he saw what she was doing.
But it was too late. Vines, roots and long grasses erupted from the earth. Between one heartbeat and the next, the vegetation had trapped the guards on the sidelines. Aryn and his magical parasite erupted from the darkness, bloody smears on his face. He wrapped both arms around Michan and heaved, wrenching Michan’s feet from the vines that had started to wind around the healer.
A guard exploded from a tent, bare-chested but wearing his boots and trousers. He was massive with a thick neck, arms thicker than Tyriel’s thighs and legs like tree trunks. He looked around, tired eyes clearing rapidly.
“They killed Elkir,” a thick, wet voice said from the perimeter of the camp.
Tyriel didn’t take her eyes from the giant but she could see the other in her peripheral vision—a woman, tall and stocky, with short red hair, wearing a sleeveless tunic under a leather jerkin. She was pale and the blood trickling from the corner of her lips looked almost garish. “Toma, they killed Elkir. I just…”
She collapsed without finishing.
Toma swung his head around and his eyes landed on Tyriel.
“Fuck,” she muttered.
A muffled shriek came from Michan.
She darted a look toward the gray practitioner and saw that Aryn held him in a bear hug from behind still, the muscles on his arms bulging, blood vessels prominent. And Michan’s face was an ugly red.
The giant bore down on her. Swinging her blade in front of her to loosen up her wrist, she curled the fingers of her other hand. “Come, giant. Let’s see what you’re made of.”
“I’ll rip your head from your shoulders,” he said, baring teeth gone black. “Then piss on your corpse.”
“Nice. Let’s see you try.”
He lunged, moving rather fast considering his size.
But not fast enough. She waited until he was too close to stop his own momentum then darted away. He stumbled and tried to turn. She was already whirling. Blade lifted, she slashed.
For a moment, nothing happened.
Then a thin red line appeared at his throat. His corpse tottered, then fell, going left, while his head went to the right.