Brexan nodded. ‘It’s worse.’
‘What could be worse?’
‘He has the almor with him.’
Versen held his breath. ‘Can O’Reilly-’
‘He says he’ll try.’
‘Right.’ Versen swallowed, fighting the dryness in his throat. He hugged Brexan hard, then pointed through the trees. ‘Let’s go.’
Neither was surprised to see the Seron was Haden. ‘I knew that horsecock would never give up,’ Versen muttered. The Seron was standing alone in the centre of the meadow. He didn’t move as they left the woods and came towards him: his ruined face grim, he seemed to stand even more rigidly, as if preparing himself for the coming battle.
‘Him again,’ Brexan groaned. ‘I was hoping it was Karn or Rala. Where do you suppose the almor is waiting?’
‘We’ve got enough on our plate; let’s leave the almor to O’Reilly and hope to all the gods of the Northern Forest he’s powerful enough to keep it off us while we deal with this one.’
‘He’s got no weapons,’ Brexan observed as they emerged onto the meadow. Thick morning dew coated the knee-deep brush and her feet were quickly soaked wet and growing cold.
‘Gilmour said they sometimes like to attack with their hands, feet and teeth. The ones who attacked us in the foothills didn’t have weapons.’
‘So you had the advantage?’ Brexan asked hopefully.
‘Not exactly. Sallax and I managed to kill one each, but he had a rapier and I had an axe. Steven Taylor dealt with the rest. A friend of ours was killed, beaten to death, before Steven could save him.’
Despite her cold feet, Brexan felt herself begin to sweat. Suddenly, she wanted to let the battle begin. ‘C’mon Ox, let’s go. It’s two of us against him, and I have a knife. Let’s get started.’
‘I hope O’Reilly’s dealing with the demon, otherwise this might end up being a very short engagement.’
Brexan blanched as her feet slipped on the wet grass. ‘It could be anywhere out here.’
Gabriel O’Reilly moved like autumn wind. He could sense the almor’s presence everywhere: it felt as if it had blanketed the entire meadow. The wraith couldn’t decide where to engage – he wasn’t even sure the monster would be vulnerable to his assault – but he knew he would have to act quickly, if only to distract the demon while his friends battled the Seron. His friends. Were they his friends? He had almost forgotten what it meant to have friends, but a recollection of Milly and Jake Harmon, and Lawrence Chapman, and his friends from Idaho Springs brought him up short. Versen and Brexan were weak and essentially unarmed, ill-equipped to survive the season, never mind an attack on Welstar Palace. Yes, they were friends, like Mark, and there wasn’t much he could do to help them in their mission, but he was determined to see them safely past the Seron. That’s what friends did. He spiralled up into the morning sky. As he cleared the tops of the tallest trees he caught a glimpse of the Ravenian Sea and the Falkan countryside. It was beautiful in the bright gold of the rising sun, though not nearly as breathtaking as Clear Creek Canyon. The former bank manager readied himself for battle and plunged headlong into the meadow.
Versen stumbled as the ground beneath his feet seemed to shift suddenly. ‘That was O’Reilly,’ he said with a burgeoning sense of confidence. ‘He has the almor.’
‘How can-?’ Brexan’s question was interrupted by a desperate wail that shattered the morning; she could feel its resonant vibration underneath her bare toes. If they survived to reach the opposite side of this meadow, they would owe their lives to the wraith once again.
She looked up to see the Seron had lost his balance as well. As a look of surprise passed over his face, Brexan seized the moment and rushed forward, crying, ‘C’mon Ox, he wasn’t expecting that!’
‘I’ll go low,’ he whispered, hoping she’d heard him.
Ahead, the Seron stripped off his tunic and threw it to one side. ‘Smart,’ Brexan mumbled: less for his assailants to grip. Haden’s upper body was a mass of lean muscle tissue crisscrossed with thin, pink scars.
Brexan felt adrenalin warring with terror inside her and she forced herself to continue running. She was a soldier. It wasn’t right to let Versen lead the way. She was still embarrassed that she had hoped he would be first to drown so he could be a comfort for her in death. Now they’d face the Seron together. As she and Versen pounded along, side by side, a coldness filled her mind and washed over her body. Her vision narrowed down to encompass the Seron alone as Versen dropped from her peripheral sight.
Haden crouched, awaiting them stoically, a low growl in his throat and rage on his face. Versen had a plan; it was too late to discuss it with Brexan so he’d just have to hope she would pick it up as he went along. This was it: he’d have just one chance to disable the giant Malakasian. Using the wet grass as an impromptu slide, he threw himself feet-first towards Haden, slipping beneath the Seron’s outstretched arms, and swung his cedar staff in a vicious blow that shattered one kneecap.
The Seron bellowed in rage as he felt his leg buckle beneath him and lashed out as he fell, catching Brexan solidly in the ribs.
As Haden collapsed under Versen’s bone-crushing swing, Brexan went into action, but she misjudged how quickly Haden was toppling over and instead of driving Karn’s knife deep in the Seron’s neck, her thrust ran into his shoulder. It was a painful cut, but Brexan had over-extended her arm, which allowed Haden the opportunity to land a vicious punch that sent her tumbling.
Rolling to a stop, Brexan winced as she struggled to draw breath. She pulled herself onto her hands and knees, then collapsed face-first into the grass as agonising pain gripped her side: she recognised broken ribs. Get up, her voice commanded from somewhere deep inside, there’s no time for this. She stumbled to her feet and turned back to the fray, the bloodied knife clenched in her hand.
Versen had suffered badly in those few moments she was down. Haden rained blows down on him, but the woodsman was fighting back, repeatedly punching the Seron’s fractured knee. Haden cried out, an unnerving mixture of agony and rage, but still the scarred warrior continued to pummel the Ronan.
Now Versen was hanging onto the Seron’s leg with one arm and punching with the other; though he was causing the enemy soldier almost unendurable pain, his own face and neck were receiving vicious blows from the Seron’s massive fists. Versen was clinging on in pure desperation, praying he could last long enough for Brexan to come back and finish off the Seron with her knife. As he watched her rise awkwardly from the grass he realised she had been injured herself; for a moment he forgot his own pain and worried about the young woman instead, until a solid kick to his chin brought him back to the present.
A primitive survival instinct was all that was keeping Versen going, but he was exhausted, and fading fast. In a final burst of energy he violently twisted Haden’s broken leg, causing the Seron to throw his head back and bellow in agony.
The Seron, momentarily paralysed, had just realised that irreparable damage had been done to his knee by the irksome Ronan when the equally aggravating woman came at him from above, landing hard on his chest and driving her blade deep into his left lung. The meadow began to tilt back on itself, leaning as if to discard the three combatants into the Ravenian Sea. Haden knew he was about to lose consciousness, and in a final act of vicious rage, he raised one arm above his head and brought his elbow down against the woman’s already damaged cheek. The blow tapped nearly all his strength, but it was worth it as he felt the woman go limp and slide off his chest onto the ground.
Versen nearly released the Seron’s mangled leg to applaud as Brexan drove the knife into Haden’s chest. He grinned despite a crack in his jaw, a broken nose and a swollen, maybe even ruptured eye socket: they were going to win. They were bloody and battered, and they might not survive the journey to Welstar Palace, but at least there would be one less Seron to terrorise Eldarn.