Page 56 of Storm to Victory
Then agony stabbed downward through those points of pain and clawed deep and sharp within his chest, as if determined to rip his heart out of his body.
No, not his heart. His magic.
His magic lurched within him, wanting to attack. But some deep-seated instinct told him to cling to his magic, pulling it back and locking it within his chest. It washismagic. This thing couldn’t have it.
But that pain was still digging and clawing like a cat caught beneath his ribs.
Fieran snapped his eyes open. Brightness blared down at him. He blinked rapidly, gasping in pain and grappling to keep hold of his magic.
The brightness solidified into lights set directly above him, the rest of the room a stark white. Even the two men standing on either side of him wore white lab coats, white caps, and white masks tied over their faces. Even their gloves were white, although one was stained with fresh, red blood.
“He’s awake.” The white-garbed man on the right looked at the other rather than at Fieran.
“Ramp up the power.” The man on the left said the words with an utterly flat, unbothered voice.
The other man leapt to obey the orders, pushing a lever forward on a machine next to him.
A large cable of wire extended from that machine, suspended over where Fieran lay, before branching into many smaller wires directly above him. These were stabbed into various points on his chest, taped into place like hypodermic needles transfusing blood.
Except these wires were trying to take instead of give.
The machine whirred louder, and the digging increased, as if that strange something was trying to carve Fieran’s magic out of his chest.
He bit down on a cry of pain, arching his back as he fought to hold his magic inside of himself. He was pinned down, restraints tight around his wrists, ankles, and even a strap across his upper chest. The cold metal of a surgical table pressed against his bare back.
This was just like that magic-stealing machine he’d fought under that airship, except this machine wasn’t trying to take magic he’d already unleashed. No, it was trying to steal the very essence of his power straight from his body.
And if it succeeded, he’d never survive it.
He glanced around, searching for any way he could escape, and his gaze caught on a figure lying on the next table over.
Dacha was still unconscious, his eyes closed and his hair trailing over the side of the table. Strapped down at his wrists, ankles, and across his shoulders, he’d been stripped of his clothes except for his underwear, and a mess of wires was attached to his chest. But the machine next to him was dark, not yet on.
No. Dacha couldn’t die too. Fieran wouldn’t let it happen.
“Dacha.” Fieran’s voice was a croak between his groans of pain. He struggled to hold on to his magic, as if in a tug-of-war with the machine trying to tear it from him.
“He’s still fighting us. The machine can’t get a grip on his magic.” The man on the right shifted, fiddling with the dials and levers on the machine next to him.
The man on the left turned to a tray, then picked up a scalpel. He inspected it for just a moment before, without any kind of flicker in his eyes to signal his intent, he swiped that scalpel across Fieran’s ribs.
Fieran cried out and yanked on the restraints, his magic lashing out to protect him. The machine snatched his magic, sucking it along the wires, greedily tearing it from him. Something shredded within him, and hescreamed.
One of Dacha’s fingers twitched, but he didn’t wake.
“I told you it would work.” The man’s voice was no longer merely flat. Instead, a self-satisfied note rang in his tone. “Even the magic of the great elven warriors is no match for our invention.”
The other man glanced from Fieran to the dials on the machine, as if worried the magic would be too much.
Fieran gritted his teeth around another scream. That was it. His magic was too much. His only chance—Dacha’s onlychance—was for Fieran to stop fighting and give the machine everything it wanted.
With as deep a breath as he could manage past the agony, he released his magic and instead shoved it outward with a yell. “Dacha!”
The wires glowed white-blue with the force of his magic, the machine whining instead of whirring.
On the other table, Dacha stirred, his head tilting. But his eyes remained closed.
“He’s waking up!”
