You’re a powerful man, Isaiah,” said the One. “A god. A being many thousands of years old.” He was relaxed, almost happy. It was time to have his fun with Isaiah.
From the corner of his eye Isaiah saw Hereward blink out of her fugue of shock at that piece of information.
“How would you feel,” continued the One, “if you lost that power, and became as any ordinary mortal? If you became as…Hereward is.”
“The only means to remove my power is to kill me,” Isaiah said.
“Not necessarily,” said the One. “You can also relinquish that power of your own free will. That won’t kill you.” He paused. “Well, not physically.”
“Destroy that curse,” said Isaiah, “and I will agree to give up my power.”
“I was thinking of something a little more challenging for you.”
The One raised his finger, and Isaiah tensed, thinking he was going to draw another curse.
But at the One’s signal there was a movement, and two Skraelings appeared out of nowhere behind Hereward. Isaiah started to rise, but found himself suddenly in the grip of two more Skraelings who had appeared behind him.
“You may not interfere,” said the One.
Hereward was staring at Isaiah; she was hyperventilating, terrified. Each of the Skraelings had one clawed hand on a shoulder, the other gripping one of her arms.
She struggled, but the Skraelings held Hereward so tight she had no hope of escape.
Now the One nodded at one of the Skraelings, and it shifted its grip on her shoulder a little so that one taloned finger slid up her collarbone.
Then, without any warning, it sunk the talon deep into her neck so that blood spurted forth and flowed down her neck.
“Keep your power and she dies,” said the One to Isaiah. “Relinquish your power and she lives.”
Isaiah struggled against the two Skraelings who held him. He was a powerful man, but the Skraelings held him easily.
Hereward’s chest and belly were now soaked in blood. She stared pleadingly at Isaiah, who still struggled futilely.
There were many people for whom Isaiah would not have hesitated.
Axis.
Maximilian.
Ishbel.
But Hereward? She was but just one woman, when already so many had died.
A kitchen steward.
A servant.
And Isaiah would need his power to travel quickly on his way back to Maximilian. Or to contact him, through power. To let him know that whatever else, a sexual or marital reconciliation with Ishbel was not a good idea…not in the current circumstances.
And it was going to happen, Isaiah knew that. Ishbel and Maximilian might currently be estranged, but Isaiah knew that it was only a matter of time before the inevitable occurred.
Gods, gods, if he had to walk north, then it might take him months.
“Hereward…” Isaiah said.
“Please,” she whispered. The Skraeling’s claw had now sunk deep into her neck and blood was gurgling out.
Isaiah could literally hear it pumping from her body.
“Not enough to kill her,” said the One. “Not quite, not yet, but if you hesitate much longer, Isaiah, she is going to be so weakened she will be a serious hindrance to you on your way north to Maximilian and Ishbel.”
No, thought Isaiah.
“Her life for your power,” said the One. “Will you give it, Isaiah? Will you become a mere mortal, just for Hereward’s pathetic little life?”
No, thought Isaiah.
“Will you agree to relinquish all your god abilities, Isaiah, for the life of a servant?”
No, thought Isaiah.
“Yes,” he said.
The One laughed, and clapped his hands. “Yes!” he said, and suddenly a vast emptiness consumed Isaiah as all of his power drained away.
Gone.
“Good,” said the One, and he waved back the Skraelings.
The instant Isaiah felt himself free, he sprang across to Hereward and clamped a hand down hard on her neck. Her blood was warm and thick, and Isaiah could feel the blood vessel pumping under his hand, but at least the flow of blood had stemmed.
“Feed the pretty kitty,” said the One, and he reached over, scooped a finger through the coagulating blood on Hereward’s breast, and held the finger out for the kitten to lick.
Everything went bad from the moment the first Lealfast arrow sped down from the sky.
Firstly, Armat completely disappeared. One heartbeat he was there, the next he was gone.
Secondly, the column of Isembaardian soldiers, apparently relaxed, unaware, and vulnerable, instantly swung large oblong shields from their backs and either raised them above their heads or to one side. Within moments each unit of soldiers was encased within the protection of their shields, which formed both a roof and walls about them.
The Lealfast arrows bounced away harmlessly.
Then a third and far more deadly surprise hit the Lealfast.
Arrows. Tens of thousands of them, fired from bowmen hidden in the rocks at the sides of the gully.
The entire force became visible as Lealfast started to fall from the sky.
Eleanon made certain he received at least one arrow—to a limb where a wound was not critical—then retreated, sick to his stomach at the slaughter.
It was for the best of the Lealfast Nation, he said to himself. For the best.
“I will take the book,” the One said. “It belongs to me.”
He rose, tucking the Book of the Soulenai under one arm, and regarded Isaiah and Hereward.
“I wish you joy in your journey,” the One said. “Please don’t forget the message.”
He took a step away, then stopped and looked back. “Your journey north will be as uneventful as I can make it. The Skraelings will not bother you, but neither will you receive much aid. At least not while you are in Isembaard.”
Again he paused. “Enjoy your mortality, Isaiah. I am sure Hereward is worth what you have lost.”
And then he was gone, the red kitten gamboling along behind him.
Far to the north, Bingaleal had just lifted off in order to fly into the Salamaan Pass to check on the refugees streaming through, when he heard a shout from behind him.
It was one of the other Lealfast, flying toward Hairekeep.
Behind the Lealfast, perhaps three or four hundred paces distant, was a massive rolling wave of darkness that stretched hundreds of paces into the sky.
It moved at supernatural speed.
Then, twenty paces from Bingaleal, it stopped. One instant it was hurtling forward, the next instant it hung still in the air, towering above all before it.
Bingaleal took a deep breath. He gestured to the other Lealfast to stay where they were, then he flew forward slowly, dropping to the ground before the great wave as it hung in the air.
This close Bingaleal could see that it was made of tens of millions of tiny shards of black glass.
He stood watching.
Then, after a time, Bingaleal walked forward and stepped into the cloud.
“Isaiah!” Lister jerked his horse to a halt, not caring that Vorstus, and every soldier in the vicinity, was staring at him.
“Wait here,” Lister snapped to Vorstus, then kicked his horse into a gallop to catch up with Maximilian near the head of the convoy.
Maximilian had already pulled his horse to one side, waiting for Lister. “You felt it,” he said, as Lister pulled up.
“Isaiah is dead,” Lister said.
“It might be that—”
“Isaiah is dead.”
Maximilian lapsed into silence. His connection with both Isaiah and Lister was a deep, semiconscious thing. He could feel their presence, their life force, but little else about them.
Now his sense of Isaiah was gone. It had abruptly winked out of existence a few minutes ago.
He looked at Lister. He had avoided the man as much as possible since he’d joined the convoy, disliking and distrusting him.
Lister didn’t feel any better to him now, either.
If only it had been Lister he’d sent south, not Isaiah!
“We need to talk, Maximilian,” Lister said.
“If we must,” Maximilian said.