Declan didn’t have to ask why. He understood—to some small extent—the implications of this newest attack. Ryn had left him with the yr’Essels under the impression Bonner’s wards would keep at bay whatever evils had followed them into the woods. The fact that they had failed brought to mind one simple, ringing truth.

  They were no longer safe there, in the serene expanse of the open glen.

  Swallowing his chagrin at the thought, Declan turned and hurried towards the house, pulling the collar of his muddy shirt up over his nose and mouth as he did. The dragonfire’s lingering flames had largely abated with nothing but living wood and stone to feed on, but smoke lay thick all the same, and he had to watch his step as he vaulted over the ragged remnants of the east wall. Deftly he managed the smoldering rubble and ashes, kicking aside broken spruce limbs and cracked, seared rock. While he searched, he had to struggle to keep at bay the disappointment that followed him through the nearly-indistinguishable remainders of each room. Breakfasts with Bonner. Morning walks with Ester. All gone, now. Brought to a brutal end on the rush of a single monster’s wings.

  Ester.

  That sudden concern, Declan didn’t manage to hold back, and he paused in his one-handed rummaging through the ruins of what had been Bonner’s kitchen and larder to glance towards the nearest tree line. The woman would have heard the fight, certainly, and was probably on her way back. He felt a faint relief, considering it now, that she hadn't been present during the attack.

  Shaking his head of it all, he turned his attention back to his task.

  It took him less time than he would have liked to gather what he could according to Bonner’s instruction. The brevity of his undertaking, regrettably, had less to do with the ease of finding provisions and the like than it did with the fact that there was ultimately very little to be salvaged. Between the crushing chaos of the fallen trees and Ryn’s consuming flames, all Declan managed to procure in the way of foodstuffs were a few apples and a single charred loaf of bread. When it came to drink, there was hardly an intact tankard to be found amid the smoldering mess, much less a waterskin. In the end Declan made do with a large flask he found in the outlines of a broken cabinet, the pungent spirits within sparking and catching brightly in the flames when he upended it

  A drink for the Graces, he thought, offering a brief prayer to the Mother that she would see them through the coming trials he anticipated right along with Bonner.

  By some miracle, the most untouched sections of the home were the living quarters, and Declan managed—with some difficulty—to squeeze himself through the space that had been the doorway to Ester’s chambers, the roof only partially collapsed overhead. Ignoring the momentary flash of embarrassment as he pried open a half-collapsed dresser to gather some spare clothes for the woman, he was pleased to find a traveling satchel in one of the drawers, into which he promptly stuffed the meager rations and empty flask. Her sword, on the other hand, was nowhere to be found, and when the broken trees—already dangerously askew overhead—gave an ominous groan, Declan decided it was time to get clear of the wreckage.

  It was as he shoved himself back out into the open, standing among the smoke and fire once again, that he heard the shouting.

  Declan’s heart plunged into his stomach. His sword was out before he could think to stop himself, the collar of his shirt falling from his face. In the next moment he was scrambling over the shattered timber and stone, boots kicking up sparks as he paid no heed to the embers underfoot. Through the shimmer of the rising heat around him, he made out the shapes. Ryn’s great, dark form still limp on its side. Bonner beside him, on his feet now, shouting an incantation with a haggard resolve that betrayed his fatigue. And not far from them both, crawling towards the pair with agonizing determination…

  Declan cursing himself, tossing the satchel of clothes and provisions over the last wall before clearing it himself, sprinting full tilt over the field again with steel bared.

  The drey had survived its earthward plummet.

  It was pulling itself, four feet at a time with each clawful of earth and grass it took, in the direction of the mage and fallen dragon, snarling audibly as it moved. Both its legs were clearly broken, and it was yet missing a wing and arm, but still the thing appeared utterly uncaring of its own condition, the one bloodshot eye Declan could see fixed on the prey in front of it. He watched, horrified, as it reached the pair before he could close the distance, the drey launching itself with a wet screech that sounded like one or both of its lungs were punctured. He shouted, his boots pounding at the earth, seeing the claws come down, flashing towards Bonner’s clean-shaven head.

  There was a crack, followed by a sizzle like the sound of insects flying too close to the campfire, and the drey screeched in pain as it tumbled to the earth again, knocked back several yards in a jumble of singed, broken limbs.

  Declan didn’t allow himself to think too much about what he’d just witnessed, barely even noticing the fleeting sheen of blue-green light that hovered around Bonner for a second or so after the foiled blow, like a dome of faintly colored glass. Instead, he howled a war-cry as he beat a sprint over the last short distance between himself and the struggling form of the drey. He thought he heard someone else echo his shout, but couldn’t be sure, the entirety of his attention anchored on the twisted, ravaged horror before him. Demonstrating much of its earlier quickness, the drey righted itself with a nimble thrash of its body, awkwardly pressing up onto its one arm to face Declan with bared fangs.

  That was when he knew his mistake.

  He met its eyes, in that moment, both its eyes, one bloody and corrupt, the other a flattened, wet mess in a partially exposed skull. He saw the wolfish head, both horns cracked and broken. He saw the snout and lined, savage teeth, could smell the stench of rot and blood in its breath.

  And there, behind and above it, a shape rose, tensing and readying with deadly patience.

  The tail, he chided himself almost calmly, not slowing as he brought his blade up for a single, cleaving blow at the drey’s throat he knew he wouldn’t be given the opportunity to land. I forgot about the damn tail.

  Shtunk!

  Out of nowhere the drey jerked violently, head snapping back with an agonized squeal of pain. The barbed appendage that Declan was sure had been moments away from skewering him spasmed and flailed, and he had just enough time to make out the fletched end of an arrow buried into the beast’s one good eye. He didn’t care, didn’t have time to care. Adapting for the positional change, Declan still managed to find the angle, sword arching in a two-handed swing that would have cleaved any man’s head from his shoulders. In the drey’s case, the strike was barely enough to find and cut to the bone of its spine, but all the same Declan knew it was a killing blow, watching dark blood spray from the wound to douse his arms and chest in a great sheet.

  Then he heard Bonner’s shouted warning.

  “NO! The blood! Don’t touch the blood!”

  Too late.

  Pain, bone-deep and lancing like a dozen sword points grinding into his flesh, arched across Declan body. He howled in dismayed suffering, releasing his sword where it had gotten wedged into the spine of the dead drey as the beast fell, not seeing the hilt tumble from the wound, the steel of the blade bubbling and melting. Declan’s clothes hissed and smoked, tendrils of acrid fumes writhing about him as he felt the acetic ichor chew through to his skin, the leather and cloth garments offering no more protection than paper might have from a flame. It began to eat at him, digging into his arms and the muscles of his chest. In desperation he tried to fling the blackness from him, slapping at it with his hands, only to feel his palms and fingers begin to burn, hearing continued shrieks he knew to be his own.

  There was the crunch of breaking earth, and an instant later Declan felt himself lifted off his feet. Had he been in his right mind he might have wondered at the single lash of thickened root that had sprouted behind him, entwining itself into his belt with the speed of a whip. All he knew, however, was the heavy tug at his waist, then the sensation of flying through the air.

  Then, mercifully, the cool, dark relief of murky water as he was thrown headlong into the same sinkhole that still gaped, waiting like an open mouth not far away.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Of all the terrors of the Endless Queen’s army, the drey were always far and above the most fascinating to behold, and most horrifying to contest. Another of Sehranya’s stitched creations, they—like their less-imposing wereyn cousins—were pieced together from the sentient fleshes of man and animal and elf. Where the two diverge, however, is the addition of another beast to the weaves that bind together the bodies of the drey.

  One the Queen was only provided by the full, foolish force of man throwing himself against its home.

  -private journals of Elysia Enus al’Dyor, Queen of Viridian, c. 325p.f.

  Seated comfortably among the looped, gnarled roots of an elm, Gonin Whist felt fear trickle into him as the presence of the drey vanished from his split consciousness, winking out in an arching flash of pain. He gasped and opened his eyes, wizened hand jerking instinctively to the side of his neck where the final blow had claimed the beast’s life before he could separate himself from the last fading fragments of the creature’s mind.

  When his senses were firmly back within the tired bones of his own decrepit frame, he let the hand drop with a weary curse.

  The draugr had been one thing. A test. A prodding of defenses. He hadn't expected much from the shambling corpses, and had been thrilled when he’d felt them bring down the one of King’s blood, nearly ripping him to pieces and forcing the dragon into his natural form.

  But the drey…

  This was not how he had expected things to go. He’d spent the better part of the last four days imbuing the beast with his own magic, casting his weaves of strength and speed over its already powerful limbs and body in patient, meticulous layers. By the time he’d been done with his castings, Gonin would have staked his life that the thing should have been a match for any pair of dragons, much less a lone example of the beasts aided by some common hedge mage.

  The mage… Gonin considered in bitter frustration, pushing himself to his feet with a grunt.

  He was wrong, he knew. He had witnessed the fight through the drey’s eyes, had taken in the spellwork of that old man. His own magics, Gonin suspected, would pale in comparison were he not a bearer of the Queen’s charm. That was no “common” wizard, something he supposed he should have suspected given the careful assembly of wards about the clearing. It had been a barrier Gonin hadn't even known was there, until the auras of the dragon and his rider faded behind them, hidden almost even from the talisman around his neck.

  Gonin had miscalculated. Not by much, granted—the drey had downed the dragon, after all, and might even have overpowered the old mage had al’Dyor’s bastard and the half-elf not been there to interfere—but enough. The advantages he’d been handed, the element of surprise and the power he had borrowed to temper the drey’s strength, all wasted.

  With a swallow of trepidation, Gonin turned east, summoning his mount from the sky with a muttered incantation even as he reached into his fur-lined robes to grasp the speaker’s crystal, steeling himself for the imminent punishment his news would doubtless bring down upon him.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  “Of the common classifications of magic, auramancy has long been considered among the most trying schools to follow. The spellcrafting alone is initially more taxing than most other disciplines to begin with, as by the end of the third semester of study every student of the path is expected to be able to manipulate living flesh and bone, rather than simpler elements such as heat or light or water. Beyond that, however, is often overlooked the basic burden of anatomical knowledge required to be even competent in the field, much less a master of it. Auramancers are—when put plainly—arcane physicians, and I will personally attest that the understanding of the human body of the least among them is no less informed than that of royal surgeon.”

  -from a lecture by Archmagus Enton Da’Vor, c. 130p.f

  Bonner’s quick action, Declan knew, had very likely saved his life. The soaking coolness of the watery mud had washed away the drey’s blood, ending the consuming gnaw of his skin and flesh. At the time, he’d been grateful for it, and suspected there would be a point where he would be so again.

  For the present, on the other hand, all Declan could do was grind his teeth and curse the old man for not having let him drown in the sludge.

  The pain was endless. A constant, eating burn that convinced Declan more than once that the better part of his upper body was on fire. He was aware, for those hours in which the agony was greatest, of people hovering over him, but their passings were as insubstantial and unimportant as the lazy drift of the clouds high overhead. All that existed for him, for too long, was the torment of his flesh, the constant, sheering ache that had him crying out frequently, his exclamations ranging from hard, pitching moans to lancing squeals as the pain fluctuated and spiked. He begged the Mother for reprieve—aloud as often as in his own head—asking to be released from this, to be allowed to slip off into oblivion, if only briefly. Miserably, she had no such mercy for him that day, and Declan was forced to stay as he was, bound by the torture that simultaneously pushed him towards unconsciousness while tethering him mere inches from its glorious ledge.

  Eventually he realized that, at some point, night had fallen. The world was still bright around him, illuminated by what looked like a quartet of lazy, winged orbs drifting in an endless, formless circle above. He knew then, too, the outlines of Bonner and Ester on either side of him, the old man instructing his daughter in hushed tones as the pair applied what felt like cool, moist earth to his arms and torso. Declan was aware of Bonner’s fingers dragging their way through the covering soil, and knew distantly that the mage would be scrawling some runic script across the surface of his body.

  None of it mattered. The pain. The pain was what needed to end.

  In that respect, whatever gods actually overlooked the world laughed at him.

  Declan came to with a start, his vision blurred and spinning against the confusing loop of the unearthly, illuminating orbs that still danced over his head. He’d fallen away, he realized, finally dozing off, waking up in the dark. Every inch of him ached, like his muscles had torn themselves to shreds in his spasms. Moving was a mistake, the smallest shift of his body sending a throb of nausea through his chest.

  But the pain was largely gone, the stabbing sear of the blood reduced to a dull, thrumming discomfort.

  Declan let out a sobbing laugh, a short, empty bark of bottomless relief. The sound might have been accompanied by tears, but as he blinked he felt the salty stickiness around his eyes, and knew that there were no more to be shed.

  At his left, there was the faint crackle of dry, shifting grass.

  “Welcome back,” a woman’s tired voice said. “I was worried you were going to drift off too far for even Father to reach…”

  With some difficulty, Declan turned his head. Ester was there, easing herself up onto one elbow, loose strands of hair falling across her face. She’d been lying beside him on the ground, it appeared—sleeping, possibly?—but her green eyes were bright in the glow of the magical light that shined like a golden halo about her head. He graced her with as strong a smile as he could muster, which he suspected to be acutely lacking.

  “Almost did,” he muttered in response. His voice was hoarse from shouting, and all at once Declan realized he was parched, his throat dry and aching. He made to sit up, thinking of finding a stream in the woods in which he could quench his thirst, even if every step hurt along the way.

  Mercifully, Ester stopped him with a firm hand.

  “Don’t. Move.” She punctuated the words with fervent individuality. “You’re hardly done healing, and Father would be livid if he and I had to go through all this work again.”

  Declan, confused, glanced down at himself, tucking his chin against his chest to take in his body, ignoring the ache of his neck. What he saw made him laugh again, achieving at least the slightest bit of true amusement this time.

  He was buried, from collar to waist, in a mound of damp, dark earth. Sure enough, in the shifting light he made out shapes traced into the dirt by a careful finger, even recognizing one or two of the runes from the scrying wheel Bonner had cast earlier in the day. He decided it didn’t surprise him anymore.

  Somberly, letting his head fall back to the grass with a faint thump, he wondered if anything would ever surprise him again.

  “Did you want something?” Ester asked gently.

  “Water,” he croaked, his need outweighing his pride as absolutely as a brick might outweigh a feather. Without a word the half-elf got to her feet, fading for a minute or so into the dark beyond the dancing lights. While she was gone, Declan took the opportunity to look around as best he could.

  His sheathed knife was nearby, he saw first, obviously pulled from his hip as the earth had been piled over him. It lay in the flattened grass not far from Ester’s own weapons belt, as well as her bow and quiver. He felt a twinge of regret, noticing the hollow scabbard waiting by his dagger, recalling now the glimpse of the melting sword tumbling from the drey’s cleaved neck. The weapon had been a good one, having seen him through the last few years of his and Ryn’s adventures, and he would be hard-pressed to find another of its quality easily.

  At the thought, he shifted his head and was relieved when the dragon’s dark outline came into view, not having transitioned from his born form and still lying unconscious near the mouth of the sinkhole that had saved both their lives. It didn’t take more than a glance for Declan to see Ryn had been made whole again. More scars now marred the silken sheen of his scales, but they were thin—like the faint mark Declan himself carried over his left elbow—and far come from the gaping, gory lacerations that had been weeping blood last he’d seen them. Beyond Ryn, east of the dragon, the glow of what looked like dying coals could be made out against the night, the last hints of what remained of the yr’Essels’ woodland home.