Oh, Harvest Mother, I’ve got to do something. But my feet are rooted to the ground, paralyzed in terror.
The Kilandrar grows larger as it consumes him. Dietan’s face turns pallid, his lips blue. His eyes, bloodshot, roll up. It’s choking him—choking the life out of him like the marquis’s man once did to me—
Suddenly, I’m full of rage, and without thinking I grab the nearest thing I can find—my iron skillet. I rush out from behind the bar, wielding it high. I lunge forward and swing, aiming for the creature’s head, and am taken aback when it doesn’t pass through the wind. Instead, the iron skillet makes a sound like a hollow gong as I strike the creature hard.
It drops Dietan. I hit it again, with another satisfactorygong!
Dietan coughs, choking on his own breath as it returns to him. He rolls over, eyes closed, and pants as color returns to his face.
I run to stand in front of the fallen prince, holding my frying pan before me like a sword, my entire body trembling as the Kilandrar gathers itself up and turns to face me, its fathomless black eyes glittering.
What in Albion am I doing?
I should run, get the hell out of here. But even though my entire body is vibrating in fear, I can’t—I won’t—let it harm Dietan again.
I’m standing in front of death itself. It screams at me with the rage of a thousand screeching winds, but I don’t dare drop the skillet to cover my ears. I don’t understand what it’s saying, but I know it’s angry.
Well, you know what? I’m angry, too. I’m furious. What the hell is it doing—destroying my bar and attacking my guest?
“Leave him alone!” I shout over its howling. My hair has fallen from my bun in the roaring storm, whipping my cheeks. My eyes water in the wind, but I force myself to keep them open, never taking them off the Kilandrar hissing and circling before me.
I look down at my iron skillet, then back at the Kilandrar, my mind racing.How did I hit it? Could I hit it again?
The Kilandrar lunges. I swing the skillet once more, batting its limb away, and the force of the impact reverberates up the frying pan all the way up my hand and arm, making my very bones vibrate like a bell.That hurts like a bitch.
It rears back and strikes. I try to deflect it again, but I miss. This time the Kilandrar knocks me down.
I crumple when my shoulder hits the floor of the tavern, screaming at the pain. The Kilandrar twirls, moving as fast as smoke in the wind toward Dietan, but I push through the fire racing through my arm and back. I rush at it again, swinging the skillet into the Kilandrar’s head before it can touch Dietan.
The Kilandrar pounces, pinning me to the floor with a furious blast. Its wind-formed mouth opens wide right in front of my face, a tornado of hate and fury, and Harvest Mother, I can feel it sucking the very life right out of my lungs. I drop the frying pan—I can’t breathe—I’m going to die—when suddenly the foul creature is the one howling.
A sword point emerges through its dark mass, piercing right through its middle. Dietan’s blade.
One slash. Another.
The prince is on his feet, cutting the Kilandrar apart, his blade driving furrows through the elemental, carving it up piece by piece.
The Kilandrar turns its back to me as it bears down on Dietan, lashing him with ferocious wind, but the prince stands his ground. He plants his feet on the tavern floor and wields his sword like a dancer. With each blow, the ferocious winds seem to deflate.
Dietan is relentless, striking one blow after another. His eyes are wide with fury, his brow beading with sweat.
But the Kilandrar raises itself up like a snake and calls forth a screeching, angry gale.
I flatten myself against the floorboards while the windstorm rages around the tavern. All the tables and chairs are upended. Mugs and plates fly through the air, but the winds aren’t half as strong as they were a moment ago. Dietan’s sword is a blur, a silvery slash of light as he advances relentlessly behind.
With each blow Dietan lands, the creature fades, its power diminishing.
He drives the Kilandrar against a wall, pinning the wind against brick and timber. He leaps on top of the bar and raises the blade high above his head, then strikes the finishing blow. With a great crack, the creature swoops once around the tavern like a ghost before vanishing out the door and into the rain, just one more gust of air that disappears into the howling winds.
Dietan lowers his sword, and his eyes meet mine. “You alright?” he asks.
“I think so,” I say.
“Good.”
I slump back in relief just as the door to the tavern bursts open again, voices shouting over the storm. Dietan’s guards rush in, with Jared and Marcus at the helm.
“What the hell is going on!” Marcus thunders, unsheathing his sword.
