All the best. Your friend,
- Sikras
Helspira bit her bottom lip and tucked the note into her leather armor. Not that she would need it. Sikras Nikabod would not die today. At least, not more than eight times.
She would ensure that, in addition to guarding Ben’s remains.
The bodies came with a clash, and Helspira dug her sword into an older man’s chest. She kicked him off her blade and severed an undead’s head in another quick swipe.
One woman against this many. She snarled and detached the leg from another.
No. Not one woman. One demon and whatever minions Sikras spared her.
Some enemies ran past her, clamoring for Vinepool’s gate. Barred by Sikras’s undead, they warred.
All they could do now was their best.
She brought down a fourth, a fifth attacker, heart pounding, never straying far from Ben’s bones. Undead animals and manipulated townsfolk didn’t put up much of a fight, but when her sword met the steel of a turned sentinel, a ripple of fear pulsed through her.
Helspira grappled against her aggressor’s skill, snarling. Vacant eyes stared back at her as she awaited an opportunity to strike, but her opponent didn’t leave an opening. Her mind scrambled for an alternative when steel suddenly poked through her opponent’s chest, and he crumpled to the ground.
Shock rippled through her, and Helspira gasped when the fallen corpse revealed its killer. “Banneret? Y—you survived?”
Ragged and red with lacerations on his face, armor dented, Rowan scoffed and spat. “The fuck are you still doing here?” he grumbled, gaze flitting to the pile of bones near Helspira’s feet.
Helspira spied the flicker of recognition in the banneret’s tired, determined eyes. The scarf. The lute. It didn’t take a scholar to know those were the remains of Sentinel Champion Benjamin Reese.
As chaos reigned around them, Helspira positioned her sword before her. “Banneret, I fled Chthonia because my kind are monsters. That’s not who I am. That’s not who I want to be. I’ve repressed every demonic impulse since I set foot on this soil, because Ilovethis kingdom, and I will not watch it devolve into the same violent pit I left behind. But if you touch him, you will see the full force of a demon.” She peeled back her upper lip to bare her fangs. “And it will be thelastthing you see.”
Chest heaving from labored breaths, Rowan readjusted his grip on his sword. He raised his weapon, spun, and gutted another enemy who had entered their proximity. As the body fell to the ground, Rowan stepped in line beside her, erecting a barrier between Ben’s bones and the remaining assailants. “If that sonofabitch fails again ...”
Relief came with a force that nearly buckled her knees. “He won’t. He can’t.”
There was no time for delays. No more bargaining chips in the form of scythes or lives or lucky dice rolls. This was Sikras’s last chance, and it wasn’t just his life on the line; it was Ben’s and the kingdom of Nyllmas.
For Ben’s life alone, Helspira knew he would give everything he had to come out victorious, no matter how much it gutted him to do what needed to be done.
Sikras
BLOOD AND BONE, HOWdid front linesmen do this every battle? Charging into the fray seemed all well and good, and it certainly made for great bard-song fodder, but even with the full power of the Cat’s Eye, Sikras had somehow managed to die two more times—much to Death’s joy. This wasn’t at all like the wars he had fought for Saelihn. They had strategy on their side then, and long, long distances separating Sikras from impending doom. Little good all the power of Enos did him if he didn’t start focusing on his defense. Five lives to go, and his legs burned from running, his back ached from twisting to avoid oncoming attacks, and his knees—ugh, his knees.
Slaughtering people had been so much easier in his twenties.
A line of men and women formed a blockade before him—some peasants, some undead sentinels. Sikras stopped to lean over, one hand raised, as he tried to catch his breath. “Okay, okay, just give me a second here—”
They charged in unison, war cries filling the sky.
“Gone gods. Have it your way.” He wiped the sweat from his forehead as they advanced. Shadow blades? No. Corroding organs had no effect on the undead. If he couldn’t go through them, he would simply clear them away like debris. “Vehemenus ventus.”
Gale-force winds twisted into a tight, focused cyclone. With the flick of his wrist, the tornado plowed through his enemies, ripping bone fragments from the undead, scattering bodies, and silencing the screams of the living. When the path cleared, the cyclone dissipated, dispersing the corpses of those it had swallowed. Having earned access to pass, Sikras ran toward Vessik and found him standing alone on the edge of the forest—same long brown hair, same short well-trimmed beard. But his eyes ... Gone was the soft compassionate gaze of the man he had known since he was a young boy. The man who had taught him good from bad. It was nearly enough to paralyze him.
“You know”—Sikras paused to catch his breath—“the old Vessik was a gentleman. He’d have at least met me halfway.”
“The old Vessik was naïve,” came a detached reply.
“I prefer naïve to huge fucking asshole.” Sikras bristled. He should’ve just got it over with. But he still had five lives left. Enough for one final try. “This isn’t you. Is there any chance at all the Vessik I knew is still in there? I ... I miss him. Terribly. Every day.”
“This is the Vessik you knew.” Vessik’s hands spread. “I always wanted to help people.”
