Vessik, who would’ve offered shelter to a shrieking banshee wielding a butcher’s knife if he saw one standing outside in the rain. He almost had once, until Sikras had stopped him.“Her screams were so sad,”Vessik had said, his expression crestfallen.“What kind of heartless monster would leave her out there?”
Vessik, who had kindly welcomed Sikras into his and his parents’ home and had treated him like a brother since they were nine and ten years old.“I’m sure your parents don’t mean to be cruel,”Vessik would say as he invited young, starving Sikras into his humble house.“Everyone’s fighting battles we can’t see. Until they feel better though, I’ll share my parents with you.”
That man. That sweet, gentle, forgiving spirit. That was the man who had to die.
Repeating it in his head didn’t accelerate the acceptance process. Normally, an unplanned adventure into a nearby city would’ve been cause for celebration, but Sikras dragged a hand down his face as he walked, the faint sound of Benjamin and Helspira rustling through the tall grasses an arm’s length behind him.
The Red Sentinel had faded from view hours ago. At first, he had found it odd that only the three of them parted from the company of the R.S., but why question a good thing? The more distance he put between himself and Rowan, the better both of their survival rates became. Alas, Vessik did not share the same survival rate.
Because Vessik had to die.
They had been walking toward this mysterious wizard’s hometown for so long that the mantra Sikras repeated in his head matched up with the sound of the swishing grass they marched through.
Vessik. Had to. Die.
Vessik. Had to. Die.
It should’ve been easy. So fucking easy. Vessik had killed Imri, after all. Killed Benjamin. In a roundabout and cruel way, he was also responsible for Sikras’s first death as well. So, why was it this hard? It wasn’t as if murder made him squeamish. He had killed plenty of people with and without the help of undead minions.
Vessik. Had to. Die.
Vessik. Had to. Die.
“Enough!” Sikras shouted, hands balling into fists.
“Enough what?” came Benjamin’s concerned inquiry.
Embarrassment squeezed his guts, and by the time Sikras pivoted, he ensured a believable smile and a calm, not-at-all-psychotic tone replaced all outward traces of his anguish. “Enough walking. For now, anyway.”
“That’s not a bad idea,” Helspira said, turning her gaze skyward. “It’ll be nightfall soon, and you humans can’t see in the dark. Theodore’s castle is still half a day’s walk away.”
“The man has a collection of rare, arcane artifactsanda castle? Well, la-dee-dah.” With the aid of his scythe, Sikras collapsed onto a thick, gnarled root that crawled up from the grassy thicket like a well-placed chair.
Benjamin proffered a hand. “Pass me the pack. I’ll set up our tent.”
Sikras waved him off. “I can do it. Rest those bones of yours.”
“Bones don’t get sore, my friend.” Benjamin finagled the pack off Sikras’s back. “That flaw belongs specifically to muscles, of which I have none.”
“Yet another thing we have in common. At least let me help.”
“Please.” Benjamin knelt. “This is a standard-issue R.S. tent. I could erect this thing with my eyes closed, if I still had any.”
As Benjamin separated the canvas from the poles, Sikras faced Helspira. She had settled into a cross-legged position atop the tall grass, smiling at a delicate wastrus plant that managed to thrive despite competing for resources with far more substantial florae. It was good to see her smile. She had been quiet for much of the walk. Sikras tilted his head as he assessed her for supplies. No pack. Unless she had managed to squeeze a bedroll into the same scabbard that housed her sword, it appeared they only had two beds for three people. “You can take my bed roll tonight if you’d like.”
She lifted her mismatched gaze to meet his. “Pardon?”
“My bedroll. Couldn’t help but notice you don’t have one. I know for some folks that creates an earthshattering dilemma, but I’ll be honest, I’m in my thirties. My back will hurt whether I sleep on the ground or a thin piece of padded cloth.”
“Oh, no, that’s very generous, but”—she shook her head—“if I slept in your tent, I’d miss the sky.”
“I can say with a marginal degree of certainty that it’ll still be there in the morning.”
Helspira only smiled and returned to admiring her plant.
The gurgle of a growling stomach pulled Sikras’s focus in another direction. They would need a fire. He slapped his knees, and with the aid of the scythe, he stood.
An expansive field flanked by thick forest surrounded them on all sides, a veritable graveyard for Siaphara’s feral beasts over the centuries. He felt them through his boots, in the soles of his feet, all the bones nestled below the soil. So many slumbering in their dirt and loam beds. Sikras leaned the scythe against his shoulder, closed his eyes, and positioned his hands.
