away from the Saghred, nine hundred years’ worth. But as far as these Reapers were concerned, I was the Saghred.
And his idea of fighting them was to sing them a children’s song.
It was a nursery rhyme sung by children at bedtime to chase away things that hid in closets and under beds. Those were imaginary monsters; these were real.
These were hungry.
My dad, Eamaliel Anguis, was a master spellsinger. Arlyn Ravide, the young Guardian whose body his soul occupied, was not.
His first note confirmed that with sickening certainty.
Arlyn Ravide couldn’t carry a tune in a bucket. The Reapers were getting closer but Arlyn’s off- key tenor kept right on singing. It wasn’t just awful to hear; it was going to get us killed.
Then magic spun from that note-cracking voice. He was doing more than singing the words; he was believing them, and that belief gave them life and substance, but most of all it gave them power, pitch be damned. I could feel it and so could the Reapers. This actually might work. Arlyn repeated the verse again, and then again, and each time the words took on a new certainty, a defiance. The Reapers didn’t back off, but they didn’t come any closer. At this point, I considered that a victory.
Until the souls inside the Saghred began to struggle.
“Stop them!”
Dad’s urgent plea came inside my head. I wanted to answer him, I wanted to stop the souls that were surging up inside of me, but I couldn’t. I couldn’t speak; I couldn’t breathe. The Saghred was in a guarded and warded chamber five floors below, yet I felt it as if I were holding it in my hands, feeling the souls writhe inside. Their terror was mine and so was their desperation.
One soul broke away, then another, and yet another, trembling with eagerness. They weren’t inside the Saghred.
They were inside of me.
Inside of me and struggling to get out, to go to the Reapers, to embrace and be embraced by Death. They wanted it with an intensity that stole my breath and froze my body. They were coming out; the Reapers were drawing them out.
Through me.
I gasped with shallow breaths, the shouts and screams of the men around me dying away until my own panting breath was all I heard. I looked down in horror as a twisting, curling ribbon of light as thick as my arm emerged from my chest, the cold vapor of a wraith, a captive soul that was captive no longer. In a flash of light it was gone, snatched by the nearest Reaper. Another wraith followed the first, then a third, and a fourth.
I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t scream, and I desperately needed to do both. I was blacking out. Pain dug with white- hot claws into the center of my chest. It felt like my insides were being ripped out, and I was helpless to stop it.
I raggedly dragged air into my lungs and screamed, an agonized wail of unbearable pain.
The wraiths inside of me stopped.
And the Reapers rushed us.
Vidor Kalta shouted something and ran forward, a spell spreading a black nimbus over his long- fingered hands like a shield. He used it like a battering ram between two Reapers. The things jerked away from him as if burned and he closed the distance to us. The nachtmagus turned his back to me, putting himself squarely between us and any Reaper who tried to get past him.
Vidor Kalta was defending us.
Three Reapers darted back and forth mere inches from the nachtmagus’s extended hands, looking for a weakness, determined to find a way to get past him. Kalta’s already pale face blanched further under the invisible onslaught, beads of sweat forming at his temples and running down his face, his breath harsh and ragged. He couldn’t hold on for much longer.
What felt like a whip made of ice lashed itself around my wrist, jerking my hand from Dad’s grasp. He disappeared into a knot of Reapers.
“No!” I screamed.
A roar tore its way out of my throat as I shielded myself and charged into the Reapers. Tendrils that a moment before had looked thin and filmy lashed at
And his idea of fighting them was to sing them a children’s song.
It was a nursery rhyme sung by children at bedtime to chase away things that hid in closets and under beds. Those were imaginary monsters; these were real.
These were hungry.
My dad, Eamaliel Anguis, was a master spellsinger. Arlyn Ravide, the young Guardian whose body his soul occupied, was not.
His first note confirmed that with sickening certainty.
Arlyn Ravide couldn’t carry a tune in a bucket. The Reapers were getting closer but Arlyn’s off- key tenor kept right on singing. It wasn’t just awful to hear; it was going to get us killed.
Then magic spun from that note-cracking voice. He was doing more than singing the words; he was believing them, and that belief gave them life and substance, but most of all it gave them power, pitch be damned. I could feel it and so could the Reapers. This actually might work. Arlyn repeated the verse again, and then again, and each time the words took on a new certainty, a defiance. The Reapers didn’t back off, but they didn’t come any closer. At this point, I considered that a victory.
Until the souls inside the Saghred began to struggle.
“Stop them!”
Dad’s urgent plea came inside my head. I wanted to answer him, I wanted to stop the souls that were surging up inside of me, but I couldn’t. I couldn’t speak; I couldn’t breathe. The Saghred was in a guarded and warded chamber five floors below, yet I felt it as if I were holding it in my hands, feeling the souls writhe inside. Their terror was mine and so was their desperation.
One soul broke away, then another, and yet another, trembling with eagerness. They weren’t inside the Saghred.
They were inside of me.
Inside of me and struggling to get out, to go to the Reapers, to embrace and be embraced by Death. They wanted it with an intensity that stole my breath and froze my body. They were coming out; the Reapers were drawing them out.
Through me.
I gasped with shallow breaths, the shouts and screams of the men around me dying away until my own panting breath was all I heard. I looked down in horror as a twisting, curling ribbon of light as thick as my arm emerged from my chest, the cold vapor of a wraith, a captive soul that was captive no longer. In a flash of light it was gone, snatched by the nearest Reaper. Another wraith followed the first, then a third, and a fourth.
I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t scream, and I desperately needed to do both. I was blacking out. Pain dug with white- hot claws into the center of my chest. It felt like my insides were being ripped out, and I was helpless to stop it.
I raggedly dragged air into my lungs and screamed, an agonized wail of unbearable pain.
The wraiths inside of me stopped.
And the Reapers rushed us.
Vidor Kalta shouted something and ran forward, a spell spreading a black nimbus over his long- fingered hands like a shield. He used it like a battering ram between two Reapers. The things jerked away from him as if burned and he closed the distance to us. The nachtmagus turned his back to me, putting himself squarely between us and any Reaper who tried to get past him.
Vidor Kalta was defending us.
Three Reapers darted back and forth mere inches from the nachtmagus’s extended hands, looking for a weakness, determined to find a way to get past him. Kalta’s already pale face blanched further under the invisible onslaught, beads of sweat forming at his temples and running down his face, his breath harsh and ragged. He couldn’t hold on for much longer.
What felt like a whip made of ice lashed itself around my wrist, jerking my hand from Dad’s grasp. He disappeared into a knot of Reapers.
“No!” I screamed.
A roar tore its way out of my throat as I shielded myself and charged into the Reapers. Tendrils that a moment before had looked thin and filmy lashed at
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