Page 76 of The Coven of Ruin
Facing her second again, Orna caressed her cheek before dropping her hand. The other witch clung to Orna’s dress, tormented by their fate. “I am already dead. Protect Asuri.” She kissed the panicked witch on each cheek before turning to face the crawling creatures.
Both leapt for her, swiping out with long black claws that seemed to harden at the last moment, suddenly corporal. Orna’s cry cut off as the creatures tore her throat out and slashed through her chest. The two forms disappeared with screeching hisses at the same time the Maja’s body hit the ground.
The Coven of Sand and Stone’s leader was dead, his other two members fighting off several of the creatures. Igen used a chair to block one from him and his two coven members. One hurtled itself at Elder Sarange while Eral grabbed Trista’s hand. The healer was silent as she was taken down, the warm, crimson mist of her blood spraying Trista. Her althea tugged her toward the front of the chamber, toward the Witch King. She tore her eyes away from the bleeding mass that had been someone she had known since she was a witchling.
After only a few steps, she pulled out of his grasp as a dark shape sprang at them. Trista reeled out of the way, one of its claws just catching her foot as she crashed to the ground. Kicking wildly, she backed away from the creature that had regained its footing. It had no distinguishable features. Its form pulsed, fading then darkening again, but she could tell it was staring at her, the shape of where its head would be tilting as it chuffed.
“Go to the king,” she yelled at her althea, who stood frozen. Her voice seemed to give him purpose as he staggered forward again, leaving her.
The creature pounced as she lifted her knee and kicked out as hard as she could. When her foot connected with its surprisingly dense mass, it went sprawling to the far side of her. Scrambling back up, she dodged another creature as she forced herself to put weight on her injured foot.
The few guards had already made a wide barrier around the prince and the Witch King, blocking them from any other creeping monsters the best they could, but she could just make out Eral’s form over the king. Trista hobbled toward him as his familiar magical signature filled the space. Turning, Eral lifted his bloody hand with what seemed like a great effort, shaking his head once. Lunging for his hand anyway, she hadn’t understood. He had been trying to warn her.
The drain on her magic was instantaneous. Groaning, Eral strained to remove his hand from the Witch King to no avail. Prince Roan was screaming something, but it was lost in the rushing sound of her and Eral’s magic being consumed. It was almost as if the magic held in the blade itself was feeding on theirs.
“Let go,” Eral struggled to say, “of my hand.”
“Come with me,” she panted, trying to pull him away, her body and magic protesting the extra effort it had to expend. Hadn’t enough witches died?
“Too,” he gritted his teeth, the pain engraved in every straining muscle, “late.” She felt it then. His magic had reached its limit.
“No,” she gasped, forcing her other hand around his wrist to try and pull him away. “Don’t.”
She had never truly witnessed the loss. His magic bled from every pore as he threw his head back. Her own essence faltered, and just as she thought she might follow Eral into death, the mage used the last of his energy to pull his hand from her grasp. And then he was falling away from her.
His magic was a dazzling gray light that crackled and exploded from his broken body. It sparked brighter than ever, as if it would be nothing less than breathtaking in its final display.
She wanted to tell him—how beautiful it was.
But he was dead.
Before she could fully comprehend what had occurred, the mage-like shadow reappeared between her and the Witch King, standing over Eral’s body. The remaining slinking creatures loped and leapt for the silhouette, their black forms joining with it until it stood like a featureless mage. But it wasn’t until it smiled, luminous white teeth appearing on its face, that she realized it was looking at her.
“Your magic.” A sniffing sound came from the mage-like shadow as if it was inhaling her magical signature. “It is lovely.”
A tongue darted out from the otherwise black hole to run along its upper teeth. It stalked forward, but she was met with the solid table as she backed away. A hand that shimmered like the night sky reached for her neck, drawn to her pulse. The touch was cold, and her weakened magic recoiled from it.
“Very lovely,” it purred.
A warm hand wrapped around her wrist and hauled her out of the icy grasp.
“Ah,” the shadow being’s head turned, tilting to take in the addition. “Now, isn’t this interesting. You’re no mage.” It was a whispered hiss as if it shared the secret.
Ares didn’t respond, even as it took a step toward them. Another too-white smile.“I’ll come back for her.”A promise.Turning, it stalked toward the Witch King.
The prince cradled his father’s head in his lap, the king having gone pale and still. The shadow mage crouched at the Witch King’s back, twisting and then pulling its jagged blade from him before blackness wrapped and bent in the space around it, and it was gone again. The Witch King’s lips quivered, his eyes widening before closing again. The prince yelled for a healer even still.
Screaming, she clawed against the arm that held her, trying to reach the Witch King and the crying prince. Eral had died trying to heal him, and she couldn’t let his death be for naught. She kicked and scratched, even as she was moved further away from the scene. Eventually, the war god slung her over his shoulder, her struggle in vain.
Powerless.
Chapter XXXIII
WhenAressetheron her feet again, she was determined to return to the chamber. “I have to go back—“
“And kill yourself trying to heal them?”
“That’s what a healer does!” Her hands curled into fists. “That is my only purpose,” she screamed at him, her hair bursting loose from the ribbons and pins that had held it out of her face.
