Page 113 of The Sea Witch
The four Redthorns charged, brandishing their maces. Stasia used her magic to flip two more tables onto their sides. She maneuvered them with the wood groaning across the floor, protecting them from the Redthorns’ maces.
A small book lay open on the floor. On the pages were illustrations of something that looked very familiar.
Ben’s markings. This tome contained diagrams of the markings on Ben’s skin. And this time, the language of the text was one she recognized. She couldn’t read it, but someone on her ship would be able to.
She snatched the book up.
Alys peered past the monks blocking the tall doors. TheSea Witchcontinued to sail through the strait. The monk with salt-and-pepper hair joined the mangled Redthorn at the cannon, and they began to prepare it for firing. The ship was still within range.
“We have to get to the gun,” she shouted to her crew.
The blond monk leapt, but instead of jumping toward Alys and her crew, he sprang up. Susannah dove out of his way as the Redthorn attached himself to the ceiling. Like an insect, the monk scuttled across the beams. The tables Stasia had used as a defensive wall were useless.
In a moment, the blond monk would be right over their heads. They had no means of holding him back, and no way of reaching the cannon.
A bird of prey’s screech sounded, and a falcon soared through the open doors. Still in midair, a glow surrounded it, then it transformed.
Into Luca Pasquale.
The mage smashed his body into the Redthorn on the ceiling. They dropped to the ground, landing on their feet in themidst of the library as the monk’s mace spun away from his hand.
Pasquale had changed his grimy clothing for an elaborately ornamented black coat, black braid and jet buttons decorating nearly every available surface. His shirt was spotless, with lace at the cuffs and throat. His dark hair, now clean, brushed his shoulders, and he’d trimmed his wild facial hair into a neat beard that framed a smiling mouth.
“My thanks for coming to our aid,” Alys said.
“My thanks toyou.” The mage stepped toward her. “Been waiting for you to attack these bastardos and distract them.”
“How’d you know we’d be here?”
“Following you is an easy thing from the air. And there was but one way for you to come, after that lovely skirmish with the navy.” He plucked the book from her hand.
“I need that!” Alys growled.
“I need it more,” Pasquale answered.
The broad monk moved forward to attack.
Pasquale gripped the wide Redthorn by his neck. As he clutched the monk, his hand transformed into massive talons. The mage snarled as he dug his claws into the monk’s flesh.
The monk scrabbled at the lace encircling Pasquale’s throat, uncovering the mage’s skin. Encircling Pasquale’s neck was a tattoo of a thorny vine.
Yet the monk’s attempts to grab him did nothing to stop Pasquale from tightening his talons.
Alys had seen her share of bloody, gruesome combat, from beheadings to limbs being hacked off, but even she winced at the scream and then gurgle as Pasquale’s talons ripped out the Redthorn’s throat.
Pasquale’s eyes blazed, his jaw locked tight. He watched the Redthorn fall to the ground, then kicked the body away with one gleaming boot. His talons transformed back into a human hand, now covered in blood.
Beyond, theSea Witchcontinued its navigation of the strait. The monks manning the gun loaded it with a glowing cannon ball. There was no time left.
“Bring it down,” she said lowly to her crew, glancing toward the stone that made up the back wall of the chamber.
She and the other witches rushed past the mage.
“Take wing, Pasquale,” Stasia snapped at him.
As they ran, Alys and her crew shot hurling spells at the stone wall. The entire monastery shook violently. Rumbling filled the air as massive cracks spread through the rocks. Stones and boulders, freed from the interior of the mountain, rolled in a slide through the chamber. The two Redthorns in the library tried to lunge for Alys and her crew, but were quickly pinned to the ground by falling rocks. Dust from the walls formed thick clouds to obscure their writhing forms.
The chaos seemed to wake Pasquale. He transformed once again into a falcon and flew out the closest door, the book in his talons.
