each ring of teeth slapped forward, devouring the white creature and everything around it. The pit wyrm
pulled back, shaking dirt and roots and dead leaves through the air. Satisfied, it began to slide back into whatever hell
it had been called from.
Then it shivered.
Feir was still striking the creature. For some reason, he wasn’t using magic. The mountainous mage struck again, a mighty
hammer blow—with no effect.
By the time Kylar’s eyes found the real reason the pit wyrm had shivered, Lantano Garuwashi was halfway through its body.
He was hacking at it near the hole in reality. But he wasn’t hacking. Wherever Garuwashi cut with Ceur’caelestos, the pit wyrm’s flesh sprang apart, smoking. The look on the sa’ceurai’s face
told Kylar that the man was enrapt—he was the world’s best swordsman, wielding the world’s best sword, facing a monster out
of legend. Lantano Garuwashi was living his purpose.
Garuwashi’s sword moved with Garuwashi’s speed. In two seconds, he had cut through the entire pit wyrm. The thirty-foot section
of wyrm crashed to the forest floor, thrashed once, and then broke apart in quivering red and black clumps, dissolving in
putrid green smoke until nothing was left. The stump writhed bloodlessly until Garuwashi slashed it with six slices in blinding
succession and whatever was controlling it yanked it back into hell.
Kylar sprang off the tree and landed ten paces from Lantano Garuwashi. Having never fought a pit wyrm, the sa’ceurai couldn’t
have known that they didn’t just appear; they had to be called. He let down his guard.
The big-nosed Vürdmeister acted before Kylar could, stepping out from behind a tree and unleashing a ball of green flame.
Garuwashi brought Ceur’caelestos up, but he wasn’t prepared for what happened when that sword came into contact with that
magic.
When Ceur’caelestos met the vir, a dull thump shook the gold needles off the tamaracks. The morning mists blew outward in
a visible globe, the moss shriveled and smoked on the trees, and the concussion blasted Feir and Garuwashi and the Vürdmeister
from their feet.
Only Kylar was still standing, shielded from the magical explosion by the ka’kari covering his skin. The men fell in all directions,
but Ceur’caelestos stayed in the center of its own storm. It spun once in the air and stuck in the forest floor.
Kylar swept Ceur’caelestos into his hand. The fallen Vürdmeister didn’t try to stand. He gathered power, the vir on his arms
wriggling in slow motion, their undulations becoming a movement that Kylar could strangely read—the magic would be a gout
of flame three feet wide and fifteen feet long.
Before the Vürdmeister could release the flame, Kylar ran him through.
The Vürdmeister’s cool blue eyes widened in pain, and then widened again in sheer terror as every inky rose-thorn tracing
of vir in his entire body filled with white light. Light exploded from his skin. The Vürdmeister’s body bucked and thrashed,
then went limp. The vir was gone without a trace, leaving the dead man’s skin the normal pasty hue of a northerner. Even the
air felt clean.
In the distance, to the northeast, a Lae’knaught trumpet blasted the command to charge. It was far away—within the Dark Hunter’s
Wood.
“The bloody fools,” Kylar murmured. He’d lured them in, but it was still hard to believe they’d fallen for it. He looked at
Curoch. The things I do for my king.
~You’re not really going to throw it away, are you?~
I gave my word.
~You have the Talent and the lifetimes it would take to become that sword’s master.~
I can’t exactly go out in public with a black metal hand, can I?
~Wear gloves.~
“We need to leave—right now,” Feir Cousat said. “Using magic this close to the wood is like begging the Dark Hunter to come.
And there’s some kind of magic beacon on the Vürdmeister’s horse. I chased it away, but it’s
pulled back, shaking dirt and roots and dead leaves through the air. Satisfied, it began to slide back into whatever hell
it had been called from.
Then it shivered.
Feir was still striking the creature. For some reason, he wasn’t using magic. The mountainous mage struck again, a mighty
hammer blow—with no effect.
By the time Kylar’s eyes found the real reason the pit wyrm had shivered, Lantano Garuwashi was halfway through its body.
He was hacking at it near the hole in reality. But he wasn’t hacking. Wherever Garuwashi cut with Ceur’caelestos, the pit wyrm’s flesh sprang apart, smoking. The look on the sa’ceurai’s face
told Kylar that the man was enrapt—he was the world’s best swordsman, wielding the world’s best sword, facing a monster out
of legend. Lantano Garuwashi was living his purpose.
Garuwashi’s sword moved with Garuwashi’s speed. In two seconds, he had cut through the entire pit wyrm. The thirty-foot section
of wyrm crashed to the forest floor, thrashed once, and then broke apart in quivering red and black clumps, dissolving in
putrid green smoke until nothing was left. The stump writhed bloodlessly until Garuwashi slashed it with six slices in blinding
succession and whatever was controlling it yanked it back into hell.
Kylar sprang off the tree and landed ten paces from Lantano Garuwashi. Having never fought a pit wyrm, the sa’ceurai couldn’t
have known that they didn’t just appear; they had to be called. He let down his guard.
The big-nosed Vürdmeister acted before Kylar could, stepping out from behind a tree and unleashing a ball of green flame.
Garuwashi brought Ceur’caelestos up, but he wasn’t prepared for what happened when that sword came into contact with that
magic.
When Ceur’caelestos met the vir, a dull thump shook the gold needles off the tamaracks. The morning mists blew outward in
a visible globe, the moss shriveled and smoked on the trees, and the concussion blasted Feir and Garuwashi and the Vürdmeister
from their feet.
Only Kylar was still standing, shielded from the magical explosion by the ka’kari covering his skin. The men fell in all directions,
but Ceur’caelestos stayed in the center of its own storm. It spun once in the air and stuck in the forest floor.
Kylar swept Ceur’caelestos into his hand. The fallen Vürdmeister didn’t try to stand. He gathered power, the vir on his arms
wriggling in slow motion, their undulations becoming a movement that Kylar could strangely read—the magic would be a gout
of flame three feet wide and fifteen feet long.
Before the Vürdmeister could release the flame, Kylar ran him through.
The Vürdmeister’s cool blue eyes widened in pain, and then widened again in sheer terror as every inky rose-thorn tracing
of vir in his entire body filled with white light. Light exploded from his skin. The Vürdmeister’s body bucked and thrashed,
then went limp. The vir was gone without a trace, leaving the dead man’s skin the normal pasty hue of a northerner. Even the
air felt clean.
In the distance, to the northeast, a Lae’knaught trumpet blasted the command to charge. It was far away—within the Dark Hunter’s
Wood.
“The bloody fools,” Kylar murmured. He’d lured them in, but it was still hard to believe they’d fallen for it. He looked at
Curoch. The things I do for my king.
~You’re not really going to throw it away, are you?~
I gave my word.
~You have the Talent and the lifetimes it would take to become that sword’s master.~
I can’t exactly go out in public with a black metal hand, can I?
~Wear gloves.~
“We need to leave—right now,” Feir Cousat said. “Using magic this close to the wood is like begging the Dark Hunter to come.
And there’s some kind of magic beacon on the Vürdmeister’s horse. I chased it away, but it’s
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