Commander Enys sent a regiment. They’d shaped up quite nicely once they got past the desire to scream, run, faint, or get themselves to the physician for fear of having consumed tainted ale.
The Dreckons needed only teeth, claws, and insatiable appetites for magic.
The priests hid most of the lower townspeople in caverns, all who’d come. The upper city still lived in ignorance of the evil in their midst and wouldn’t fight merely on a priest’s say-so.
“The wards are at their peak. We cannot delay further.” Dmitri sat at the head of the council table, wearing his brown cassock once again.
Martin, dressed in his black leathers, peered out over the assembled leaders. “Has there been any sign of Cere?”
“I’m afraid not.” Enys was dressed in simple brown leathers, with no markings to distinguish him as commander. His stance and authority were all he needed. “My spies made it as far as the temple gardens. A strange mist seems to have permeated the structure itself. None may pass.”
“It knows we are coming.” Xariel sat next to Dmitri at the table in their tent war room.
“There’s one more thing,” Enys said.
“What’s that?”
“We cannot find the tavernkeeper you sent us to find.”
“What?” Martin’s heart attempted to escape his chest. He reached out with his mind. Nothing. No traces of Peter. Martin rounded on Dmitri and Xariel. “I can’t feel him. Where is he?”
They exchanged baffled looks. Xariel acted as spokesman. Telling. “We’ve been so busy with preparations that we haven’t noted his whereabouts.”
Damnation.
The needed two were now one.
Campfires burned across the field, an odd mix of different peoples huddled around. Nothing united warring races like a common enemy.
Martin sat outside his tent alone, sharpening his blades, having turned down offers of company. As much as he cared for Enys, opening up about his deepest fears might strain the friendship. Why alienate one of his few friends if they might all die tomorrow?
Any serious conversation would have to include Martin’s magery. How would Enys take the news, having been told his whole life that mages were vile and deserved killing?
Besides, Martin had possibly already lost his reason for living. Where was Peter? Was he okay? What could Thomoth want with him?
The same thing Xariel had: as bait or for Martin’s magic. Why? Martin’s meager powers wouldn’t make much difference in the upcoming conflict.
Dmitri shuffled up beside Martin. “I do not sense Peter in danger. I had the priests scry for him.”
“I can’t reach him.” And Martin had tried most of the day.
“If he’s in the temple, the magical barrier keeps you out.” Dmitri dropped a hand to Martin’s shoulder. “You must keep a clear head. I can help you sleep if you’d like.”
“No. I’ll stay awake a while longer.” Martin continued sharpening his blades, the whetstone creating a gentle, scraping rhythm.
The familiar bob of Dmitri’s hood signaled a nod. “As you will.”
“He still cares for you, you know,” Martin said.
“Who?”
“Xariel.”
Dmitri sighed. “I know.”
“He’s my grandfather, isn’t he?”
Dmitri sank gracefully to the grass beside Martin. “As am I.”
