The shaking went on and on.
“That…” Jaren said, raising his voice to be heard above the earth’s protestations. Abruptly, everything stilled. “Should do it. The sorcerer’s circle is broken. We can enter.”
Aryn’s ears popped, the pressure changing yet again, and although muffled, he could hear beyond the door just in front of Tyriel now.
Voices. Men shouting and curses, a few quiet cries.
“We go now,” Tyriel said.
They rushed in. In the flickering light of the fire, Aryn saw Tyriel fling one hand to the fire—the flames rose as if reaching for her—then died, gone in a blink, not even embers glowing in the hearth of the massive fireplace dominating the north wall.
Candles guttered and lanterns went dark.
In just a few heartbeats, the small temple was as dark as a tomb, only a few beams of moonlight falling through the gaps in window coverings offering any illumination. People went still. Others crashed into tables or benches or companions while cries of alarm and cursing rent the air.
“My turn…our turn,” Irian said, reminding Aryn of the plan they’d put together in the inn’s room earlier.
Aryn let Irian guide him, yielding to the experienced enchanter as the scent of blood, swear and fear painted the air.
Irian had laid the groundwork for the enchantment before they left the inn and now, pulling a small strip of paper from its place inside Aryn’s vest, he lifted it upward and Irian—he—they blew on it.
It caught flame.
Again, Aryn saw sigils. These had been written by his own hand and as the flames touched them, they burned bright, then disappeared.
Before the first was gone, a man had started to scream.
Fear spread out from them, a magical illusion set to affect anybody and everybody who’d come to this place seeking the worst of foul vices.
“Lets show these monsters what it is like to be the prey, my brother.”
Irian settled behind Aryn’s eyes, almost like Aryn was drawing on a set of protective gloves—a useful tool, not a blindfold. Somebody fell into him and through the enchantment, he knew it was one of the abusers.
“Yes,” Aryn said simply, replying to Irian’s comment. Then he drove his sword into the man’s gut, sight unseen.
Someone—a man—began to chant.
Jaren shouted out in high elvish.
“He’s found the girl…no, several girls…one is wounded.” Irian translated, speaking in a practical tone as Aryn drove his blade into another stomach, turned, hacked, sliced, turned, sliced. More high elvish, this time in a husky feminine voice. “She wants the other long-ear to find –” Jaren again. “Never mind, he’s a fast fucker, even if he is a bloody ass.”
The chanting continued.
“Irian? Hear that?”
He felt Irian’s focus sharpen and they both moved toward the unfamiliar masculine voice.
Tyriel spoke again, answering something from Jaren. A door flew open. Fresh air rushed in as some of the men fled, seeking to escape before being identified.
Aryn went still as a small form crashed into him. Before the youth could dart away, he reached out, snagged the arm. With Irian’s spectral eyesight, he could see the young woman, and the other two she tried to hide behind her slim form. “It’s alright,” Aryn said. “We’re here to help.”
But the girl jerked against his hold, likely too scared to believe in anything.
He didn’t blame her. But he didn’t let go, either. Some of the men had started fighting back and while they were no threat to Tyriel or her fae friend, these scared lasses here were a different matter.
Once they were within arm’s length of the door, he let them go. “Just wait—”
The rest of the words died as the girls disappeared out the door, fleeing.
With a sigh, he turned.
His gaze locked on a collection of swirling dark clouds and the man who hid behind them.
The chanting rose again to fill Aryn’s head and Irian’s presence rose with it.
“We’ll kill him,” Irian said, the thirst for blood so hot and thick, Aryn could all but taste the hot, rich iron.
But Tyriel blocked him, just a few feet before Aryn could have run the bastard through with his sword.
“This one is mine, enchanter.” She stared at Aryn and he knew she meant those words for both him and Irian. “Guard my back.”
The scrape of a booted foot over the floor had Aryn turning, blade up to catch the downward stroke of a guard’s sword. Metal clanged against metal.
Magic flooded the room.
One of the guards pulled something from his belt, opened it and tossed what looked like sand at Aryn—it scattered, the air going dense and black.
But then the spell touched Aryn’s sword and the blade all but drank the hex up, swallowing the darkness into itself until it no longer existed.
“I don’t think that worked,” Aryn said with a taunting smile as the guard stared in stunned disbelief.
The other guard rushed him, one hand drawn back, a sickly yellow orange glow swirling in his palm.
Mist rose up from the ground, separating them, completely wrapping around Aryn’s would-be attacker for a span of heartbeats.
When it fell, the man was on his knees, hands at his throat as his tails tore bloody gouges into his skin. He choked and gasped for air.
In seconds, he fell over.
Tyriel knew her two companions had everything under control, so she smiled as she closed on the dark enchanter. He stank of blood power, dark sorcery and evil and as she came closer, he sneered at her, flinging one hand in her direction.
She batted the magic aside with a laugh.
“Mecaro, you sick monster.” Be still. His eyes widened as the command locked him into place. “Esiyencio, before I cut your tongue out myself.”
Stalking closer, she pulled a blade from her belt. She released the fire she’d called to her, letting it returned to the hearth and candles and lamps, lighting the room and the beautiful destruction the three of them had wrought in just moments.
The loveliest thing of all, though, was the flicker of fear in the eyes of the man she now knew to be one of the wandering priests who visited this town, a revered one who had been given the trust of nearly everybody in town, invited to spend a night in many a home, share a meal.
And he repaid that kindness by stealing the town’s sons and daughters.
Pressing the tip of her blade to his chin, she murmured, “Now…what am I going to do with you?”
“Mind, I wasn’t asking you,” she said, giving him a sweet smile when he went to speak. “I’m just thinking out loud. Not that you could answer anyway…I think the elf caught your tongue.”
Rage burned in his eyes and he fought to take control of his mouth.
Curious, she eased her hold.
He snarled something in a language she didn’t know. A wind whipped through the temple, blowing his hood back and revealing a pale face and long hair of a deep dark red, almost skin to a ruby.
He spat at her feet and hissed something else.
The wind sharpened and Tyriel felt its punch, then incredibly, a sharp, thin pain sliced her cheek.
“Is that the best you can do?” she asked, touching the bloody spot with the back of her hand. “How boring. And since you didn’t do anything interesting with those few seconds…I won’t waste any more on you. Ceano mora fovan.”