30

Jake

Knife to my throat or not, they weren’t taking me without a fight. Fury raced through me with one quick gasp for air, and my muscles tightened.

“Hold!” The command from a familiar voice stopped me. The Kahlareans froze. The assassin’s grip loosened enough for me to turn my head.

Arland stormed into the clearing. He spared a glance at Ian’s body, and something dark flickered in his eyes but disappeared. “Sorry, Jake. I can’t let you do this.”

I gaped at him, completely confused.

He strode closer, hands lifted away from his sword hilt. “I know I agreed to Ian’s plan, but I can’t let you make this sacrifice in my place.” He gave me a warning look before turning to the assassins and pasting on a face of devout solemnity. “It’s not what the One would want me to do. I’m the Restorer. I’ll go with you.”

This was crazy. They’d kill him trying to see if he would heal. I couldn’t let him do this. “No—”

“I know you wanted to prevent this.” His eyes burned into me and he spoke slowly. “Our people need the Restorer”—he faced the assassins—“but there have been enough deaths. I’ll come with you.”

Two of the Kahlareans exchanged angry whispers. The one behind me released his grip and stepped toward Arland. “Easy enough to discover the truth.”

“Wait!” I leapt forward. Too late again.

The assassin’s curved blade sliced across Arland’s belly. The head guardian fell to his knees, fresh blood darkening the already saturated tunic. I reached him a second after his gasp of pain and caught him, easing him to the ground.

What kind of stupid plan was this? How could he have offered himself to them? What was he thinking? The Kahlareans watched from a distance, expecting to witness an unnatural recovery, but I focused all my attention on Arland. “Why?” The word tore from my throat.

The corner of his mouth quirked upward. Then his face contorted in a grimace. He drew a rough and wheezing breath. One hand pulled my head closer. “They’ll want you alive. Fight them, Jake.” The words were barely audible.

I couldn’t pull my gaze away. He squinted with pain. When his eyes opened again, they were clouding. My grip on his shoulders tightened. I wanted to shake life back into him.

God, heal him! Do something.

Arland’s body arched. He struggled to control the pain and focused on me with all the power of a leader of men giving his last command. “I’ve seen enough Restorers come and go.” He gasped and fought to get the words out. The next words were whispered for me alone but were every bit as strong as a shout. “Stay around for more than one battle.”

He was dying. My reluctant ally, the leader of the guardians. I wanted to scream, make time stop, make this not be real. His eyes held me, demanding an answer.

I leaned closer. “I promise.”

His hand lifted, and I grasped it. He guided it to rest over his sword hilt. One more grimace flashed across his face. Could have been pain, or a triumphant grin. “Fight them, Jake.” Then he closed his eyes.

Behind me, one of the assassins whispered to his colleague, “Is he healing?”

“I didn’t try for a mortal wound. He must have already been damaged.” They studied my friend’s body like he was a formaldehyde-soaked cat in biology class.

Rage erased conscious thought. My hand closed over Arland’s sword, and I drew it in one smooth movement, lifting from my crouch and swinging it wide. I took out one Kahlarean with the first swing.

The others hissed and fell back.

A roar sprang from my throat, and I charged straight for one who wielded a drawn sword. I engaged him, and our swords crashed and scraped. I circled to keep from turning my back on the other two. Speed was my only chance.

With reckless fury, I knocked aside my opponent’s blade and lunged forward. The move left me open, but I didn’t care. I barely felt his sword score my leg as I moved in tight and killed him.

I shoved his body aside and faced the last two elite killers, one of whom had drawn a sword. I met his downward swing, instincts reacting with no time to spare. I countered strike after strike, looking for an opening and worrying about the second assassin who had drifted out of my sight line.

Every bit of training from the guardian tower months ago, each move I’d learned from my dad, every new trick I’d picked up from Arland—it all surged from my memory to serve me now. The assassin seemed to move in slow motion. His blade arced in a lateral swing, and I blocked, spun, and sliced deep into his sword arm. He fell back, and I charged forward to finish him.

As my feet carried me forward, something sharp pricked my left shoulder. Ignoring it, I stormed forward and managed to kill my opponent in a few more clumsy strokes.

I tossed back my sweat-soaked hair. My dad would have scolded me on my lack of finesse, but hey, it worked. I felt a grim satisfaction and none of the repulsion I’d labored under during the morning’s attack on Rendor.

Now I could spare a second to turn.

The last assassin had grabbed a sword from one of the dead Kahlareans and stood with eerie stillness, watching me. My shoulder throbbed, and I craned my head to check it. Silver gleamed from the narrow venblade wedged deep into my flesh.

My breathing kicked into frantic panting. I passed my sword over to my left hand so I could reach back to tug the dagger free. It fell from my nerveless fingers even as the sword slipped from my hand.

The assassin kept his distance, allowing his poison to do all the work. He would wait until I was completely paralyzed and then drag me away.

I stumbled to pick up Arland’s sword from the dust at my feet. His lifeless body shouted silently to me from its crumpled shape across the clearing. He had finally let himself believe in a new Restorer for his people. He had given his life so that I could defend the clans. I wouldn’t let him down.

Months ago—it felt like lifetimes ago—I had raised a can of soda in our kitchen on Ridgeview Drive and toasted, “To those who serve the One.”

On legs clumsy with creeping paralysis, I ran at the last assassin. “For the One!” I shouted the words, my throat raw with anguish and determination. He raised his sword to meet mine, his oversized eyes bulging. For precious seconds, sheer will held back the deadening toxin in my bloodstream.

It was long enough. If my earlier sword fighting was less than elegant, now it must have appeared comic. I drew wide, frantic curves through the air. The assassin was forced to block. We locked blades, and I squeezed upward, trapping his guard against mine and forcing our bodies close. I snarled into his face with my last bit of strength.

I released my sword.

His eyes squinted in a grin as he assumed my right hand was succumbing. I let him believe it and doubled over. My hand found my boot knife, safe in the sheath against my right ankle.

It was in my palm and thrusting up into the Kahlarean’s chest almost of its own volition. I don’t know where the strength came from, but the dagger did its work.

The hooded assassin clawed at the handle and fell back. My own body sank to the ground like melting wax.

I had a few seconds to relish my victory. I’d done it. The assassins were dead. Arland’s sacrifice wouldn’t be useless. I’d stopped them from taking the Restorer.

Paralysis advanced from my limbs toward my chest. Terror took over when my lungs refused to obey my demand to breathe. Grey shards of darkness jammed into my vision from all directions. A metallic tang filled my mouth like the aftertaste of penicillin.

God, don’t let any more of them come until I’m awake.

My body died by inches, and I felt it happen with hideous awareness—until the darkness won.