reeled as he
looked back and forth between Asa and Danica, who lay motionless in the
distance, growing smaller with every passing second.
Elias tried to stand in the pitching carriage, but his legs
failed him and white pin-pricks of light danced across his field of vision. In
a final effort of strength he pulled Asa into the coach box with him and
cradled her in his lap. Tears slid from her eyes in lazy streams as she looked
up at her betrothed.
Elias would have ample time in the following days to brood
over precisely what Asa cried for. She cried for fear of death—that was
certain. Perhaps she cried also for Elias, and the life they would never get a
chance to share. Perhaps she cried for the children she would never mother with
the man she loved, or for the thousand little concerns and pleasures that
seemed so important in life but were now lost to her forever.
Asa tried to speak, but her words came out as a gurgle of
black blood. Her eyelids fluttered, but she could only keep them half open. Her
bottom lip trembled. “Shhh,” Elias said as he smiled around the salt of his own
tears. “You can close your eyes and rest if you like. The arrow didn’t hit any
major arteries,” he lied. “You’re going to be just fine. Phinneas will fix you up
right, you’ll see. We’ll be there soon.”
Asa smiled, and died.
Elias sobbed and pulled her to his breast, breathing in the
scent of her for the last time. He held his dead betrothed, and felt the
corners of his world darken. His vision blackened around the edges and he grew
faint. Despair crawled over him, and he surrendered to it. In a few surreal
moments everything had been taken from him. Soon, Elias thought, he would
follow his family into death.
He looked at Asa’s face, serene in death but bereft of the
cherubin exuberance that had illuminated it in life. As he continued to look upon
her, a black rage roiled within him. The darkness at the edge of his vision melted
into red, as that smoldering rage took to flame, and he knew that he could not
let himself die—not yet.
Elias took a deep breath and looked down at the arrow
protruding from his chest. The arrow had struck him not an inch below his left collarbone.
Blood soaked his shirt to the waist—a not insignificant amount of it from Asa—but
the wound bled now only in a trickle. He went to pull the arrow out, but then
thought better of it. He remembered someone telling him once that removing an
arrow without a healer at hand was a grave mistake. Instead he braced the arrow
between his index and middle fingers and pressed down his hand to staunch the
bleeding.
Elias screamed.
From the pain he drew resolve and focused on it to remain
conscious and with vehement curses urged the galloping horses onward, toward Phinneas
Crowe’s homestead.
†
Padraic Duana fought hard, and well. Despite this, his
situation proved impossible.
His foe, clearly an expert swordsman, fought with a strength
and agility that could only be possessed by a disciple of the arcane arts. Moreover,
his cane could not hold up against the steel of his enemy’s scimitar, which had
been enchanted, for it was the black steel of the Scarlet Hand.
Padraic sought to evade Slade’s attacks primarily, and if
blocking proved necessary he parried against the flat of Slade’s blade. He
brought as much of his magic to bear as he could, sending his will along his
cane to strengthen it. A pale blue energy enveloped his stave and turned back a
measure of Slade’s fell power, and his scimitar. He lacked sufficient power to
attempt a more intricate arcane working, for he had invested most of his magic
in Elias and Danica.
Padraic’s tactic worked for but a minute, yet it was long
enough to buy the spelled horses the time to pull the carriage to the relative
safety of the Lurkwood, which had been his intent, but when he needed to block a
blow aimed at his abdomen, his cane cut in two. Padraic Duana was all but
eviscerated, but he refused to fall
looked back and forth between Asa and Danica, who lay motionless in the
distance, growing smaller with every passing second.
Elias tried to stand in the pitching carriage, but his legs
failed him and white pin-pricks of light danced across his field of vision. In
a final effort of strength he pulled Asa into the coach box with him and
cradled her in his lap. Tears slid from her eyes in lazy streams as she looked
up at her betrothed.
Elias would have ample time in the following days to brood
over precisely what Asa cried for. She cried for fear of death—that was
certain. Perhaps she cried also for Elias, and the life they would never get a
chance to share. Perhaps she cried for the children she would never mother with
the man she loved, or for the thousand little concerns and pleasures that
seemed so important in life but were now lost to her forever.
Asa tried to speak, but her words came out as a gurgle of
black blood. Her eyelids fluttered, but she could only keep them half open. Her
bottom lip trembled. “Shhh,” Elias said as he smiled around the salt of his own
tears. “You can close your eyes and rest if you like. The arrow didn’t hit any
major arteries,” he lied. “You’re going to be just fine. Phinneas will fix you up
right, you’ll see. We’ll be there soon.”
Asa smiled, and died.
Elias sobbed and pulled her to his breast, breathing in the
scent of her for the last time. He held his dead betrothed, and felt the
corners of his world darken. His vision blackened around the edges and he grew
faint. Despair crawled over him, and he surrendered to it. In a few surreal
moments everything had been taken from him. Soon, Elias thought, he would
follow his family into death.
He looked at Asa’s face, serene in death but bereft of the
cherubin exuberance that had illuminated it in life. As he continued to look upon
her, a black rage roiled within him. The darkness at the edge of his vision melted
into red, as that smoldering rage took to flame, and he knew that he could not
let himself die—not yet.
Elias took a deep breath and looked down at the arrow
protruding from his chest. The arrow had struck him not an inch below his left collarbone.
Blood soaked his shirt to the waist—a not insignificant amount of it from Asa—but
the wound bled now only in a trickle. He went to pull the arrow out, but then
thought better of it. He remembered someone telling him once that removing an
arrow without a healer at hand was a grave mistake. Instead he braced the arrow
between his index and middle fingers and pressed down his hand to staunch the
bleeding.
Elias screamed.
From the pain he drew resolve and focused on it to remain
conscious and with vehement curses urged the galloping horses onward, toward Phinneas
Crowe’s homestead.
†
Padraic Duana fought hard, and well. Despite this, his
situation proved impossible.
His foe, clearly an expert swordsman, fought with a strength
and agility that could only be possessed by a disciple of the arcane arts. Moreover,
his cane could not hold up against the steel of his enemy’s scimitar, which had
been enchanted, for it was the black steel of the Scarlet Hand.
Padraic sought to evade Slade’s attacks primarily, and if
blocking proved necessary he parried against the flat of Slade’s blade. He
brought as much of his magic to bear as he could, sending his will along his
cane to strengthen it. A pale blue energy enveloped his stave and turned back a
measure of Slade’s fell power, and his scimitar. He lacked sufficient power to
attempt a more intricate arcane working, for he had invested most of his magic
in Elias and Danica.
Padraic’s tactic worked for but a minute, yet it was long
enough to buy the spelled horses the time to pull the carriage to the relative
safety of the Lurkwood, which had been his intent, but when he needed to block a
blow aimed at his abdomen, his cane cut in two. Padraic Duana was all but
eviscerated, but he refused to fall
Similar Books
