She suddenly stops sliding away from me, planting her feet and looking me in the eyes, the terror in her face seeming to fade, and I’m not sure why.
“I’m sorry he’s dying,” she says.
My helpless rage has nowhere to go but into my fists.
I smack my left hand against the stone again, and it occurs to me to wonder why Gliss has abandoned her efforts to escape. Why she’s suddenly facing me with a look of sadness in her eyes.
Is it compassion or is it pity?
I’m not sure why she would have either for me now that I’ve certainly killed one of her friends and left the other to die.
Memories are playing havoc with my mind, because once again, I’m transported back to the moment when I first met the Vandawolf and he demanded to know if I pitied him.
I told him:“I have no pity for you.”
Now I have to ask myself: Will I kill Gliss even if she doesn’t try to fight me? Even though I don’t know who she is or what she’s doing here or how she knows my name?
Will I kill her simply because I can?
Isn’t that what a real beast would do?
Isn’t that what the Vandawolf should have done to me all those years ago if he really was the animal my people thought? If he didn’t have a heart and a mind and the capacity to love?
All I wanted was the chance to know: Would he still be my enemy if we were both free to make our own choices?
All I wanted was the answer to that question.
Another scream rises to my lips and my fingernails scrape down the stone. I don’t care that I’m drawing my own blood, only that the pain feeds the malice in the medallion and it halts my memories in their tracks.
“Go,” I whisper, stepping back from Gliss and letting my bloodied hand drop to my side. I hate that I stumble a little now that the stab wounds in my side are taking a toll. “Go before I change my mind.”
She hesitates and I don’t understand why she hasn’t darted away from me.
“Go!” I roar at her, making her flinch. “Leave!”
I squeeze my eyes closed as the memory of the Vandawolf’s earlier cry echoes within my mind.“You were meant to leave me.”
Still, Gliss stays where she is. “But he’s dying and I can?—”
Her voice is cut off by the sound of running footfalls.
Many footfalls.
At least eleven women converge on the mouth of the cave, maybe more.
They’re all dressed in that same black armor that, despite the moonlight pouring across the path outside the cave, makes their silhouettes more difficult to distinguish from each other.
The magical energy rising off each of them sends a shiver down my spine.
One woman surges ahead of the others, shouting, “Halt, Blacksmith!”
As she moves, the other women quickly spread out to fill the space between the sides of the cave at its entrance, blocking all escape.
Well, maybe if I were someone else.
I picture the smoke they will become and the ease with which I will walk through it.
Provided I make it that far.
