Page 25

25

Total Darkness

T he next few days are uncomfortable, to say the least. The monks are willing to feed us, but their food supplies dwindle much faster with a gryphon eating them, and the quarters are tight—again, not intended for a gryphon. Storm is restless, growing more irate by the day.

But the monks humor my idea. They help me prepare the death lilies I collected into a sleep potion. I’m unsure how to make use of this at first—perhaps poisoning their water supply with it? But the monks solve that problem themselves: they have blow darts. Yiorgos—the one who fetched us, and the informal leader—says they’re often used when the monks have trouble with jungle animals, or for hunting, and it’s common to dip them in poisons. They just didn’t have any poisons prepared—and the darts don’t do much without that.

It takes us two days. During that time, I split my attention between the potion and Daenn. He’s nearly as restless as Storm, but I insist he take the time to recuperate from his head injury. My suggestion that he remove the bracer is met with a firm, clipped ‘no,’ so I don’t force that issue. But I watch him closely, looking for any signs that he’s deteriorating. His head seems to improve after the first day, at least.

He’s weary, restless, but I don’t know if that can be attributed to the bracer or if it’s because he dislikes being trapped. No gryphon clansfolk likes being kept from the open sky for too long, and our king least of all.

I worry about him taking on these mercenaries. He’s a deadly warrior, but he can’t win if he’s weakened too much.

He’s not alone; this is my only consolation. We have the monks and their blow darts, and we have Storm at our sides. And I will do everything I can, drain every drop of my magic, to ensure Daenn survives this fight.

Finally, we are ready. Daenn and I collect our things into Storm’s saddlebags, and Daenn draws his sword. Around us, the monks prepare their blow darts; they each have two. I finger my dagger and tap into my magic. There’s a constant tug at the edges, like a thread being pulled under my fingers: the bracer eating away at Daenn.

But I have more than enough, and I can draw on it at a moment’s notice. I’ll let the monks use their darts first, as we planned, but if—or when—those fail, I’ll handle as many of the rest as I can.

If I do it right, maybe Daenn won’t even need to fight.

When we are all armed, Yiorgos lifts the magic barricading the door. He eases it open with a whining creak that echoes too loudly in the stillness, loud enough to bring Elyri running.

We quickly file out of the storeroom and make our way across the kitchen. No sign of life stirs yet. Daenn walks right in front of me, blocking my view. His wariness gnaws at my belly, threaded through with fear and… determination, I think. I wish I knew what he was thinking, what thoughts he’s having to cause such feelings. Is he even weaker than he’s let on ?

The thought causes a surge of panic in my chest, and Daenn shoots me a glance over his shoulder. I tamp down on the sharp fear and shake my head at him. Nothing to see here.

Yiorgos and a few other monks are at the front of our party. They lead the way through back halls of the temple. Everything is dark, winding, and narrow. Storm has to tuck his wings in tighter to fit, and his saddlebags scrape in the doorways.

We’ve been going for what feels like forever when there’s a shout ahead of us. I lean around Daenn to see—just as the cry cuts off and an Elyri, who looks much like the ones Daenn fought when we first came, crumples to the ground with a dart in his neck.

But his cry has alerted his comrades. The pounding of feet echoes against the stone walls. Daenn leans forward, like he wants to charge at our enemies. I grab his sword arm in silent warning; our plan is to take down as many with the sleeping poison as we can before he or I join the fray. His jaw works, but he stays put.

Two more Elyri men round the corner, and they quickly meet the same fate as the first. We move past them, and I sweep a glance over the fallen bodies.

Three down, fifteen to go.

We spill into a larger hall at the same time that a group of nine Elyri turn the corner at the far end. The monks let loose a volley of darts; most find their marks, and four Elyri drop; a few trip over their comrades before recovering. A few darts miss, clattering uselessly to the floor.

The monks who have shot their two rounds slide to the side and slip back past me and Daenn even as the rest of the monks shoot again, felling two more men .

Nine down—and we are out of darts. The rest of the monks hurry out of the way as the still-standing mercenaries close the gap.

I reach for my magic, and Daenn moves—graceful, deadly, sword rising and coming in for a swing at the first unfortunate Elyri.

Ten.

I concentrate on the Elyri farthest from Daenn—he’s already closing in on a second man, no point wasting my magic there—and funnel my magic to cocoon around him. He staggers drunkenly, and I feed a little more at him.

He drops.

Daenn pulls his sword from the last man’s chest a second later.

Twelve.

Six left.

Yiorgos collects one of the fallen Elyri’s swords and starts on ahead of us. The other monks collect the miss-shot darts. Storm rustles irritably. He wants to fight, I can tell, but the quarters are tight as it is, even without a gryphon thrashing around. I’m not sure if he’ll heed Daenn’s command to stay out of it forever, though. He’s a predator, and he’s fiercely loyal. I can imagine he’s even less pleased to watch Daenn fight than I am at the moment.

We make it through another narrow hallway, where Yiorgos leads us around the corner, right into an antechamber—full of Elyri warriors.

Far more than six. I freeze. My stomach wrings as my gaze skips over them, trying to count, but there are too many.

I guess their reinforcements arrived sometime in the last few days. We should have had Yiorgos scan with his magic again—that was a foolish oversight .

And even worse, there’s a giant hulking monster lurking near the treasury door.

It gleams in the dim lighting, with a hard carapace and a curved horn that rises well above the men around it—and two smaller horns framing it. I can see a glimpse of its mandibles through the crowd, and they look large enough to cut a man in half.

It’s a beetle. A monstrously huge beetle.

I really hate this jungle.

Daenn doesn’t hesitate like I do. He tears into them, a roar ripping from him. He spins and stabs and whirls with the ferocity of a crazed gryphon.

The sight fills me with even more terror—he’s tapped into some hidden well of adrenaline, but how long will it last him?

“Storm—” I say, eyes pinned on Daenn, but the gryphon is already moving. He shrieks, and the sound is ear-shattering in such a small enclosed space. The first man who has the misfortune of being in his path screams—but not for long. The gryphon plows through the crowd, aiming for that beetle monster like it personally insulted him.

I pull magic and throw it toward an Elyri who’s slipped past Daenn and Storm. It hits him as he’s swinging at Yiorgos, and he slumps. Yiorgos shoots me a grateful look, but I’m already searching for my next target: I find it in a man sneaking into Daenn’s blind spot.

We push farther into the room as we fight, slowly carving a path through our enemies to the great door centered on the far wall. It’s inscribed with dozens of runes, some of which glow dully.

The rest of the monks have found melee weapons, but they fight poorly with them. I focus my efforts on their attackers, putting as many to sleep as I can before they can hurt the monks. With each man I drop, fatigue digs its claws deeper into me. I’ve never used this much magic in one go. But I grit my teeth and press on, scraping out more magic, because I can’t stop, not when Daenn is still fighting. I can’t leave him to fight alone.

We reach the door, and I station myself in front, with Yiorgos and the other monks at my back. I can barely hear their murmuring to open the magical locks. Daenn fights a few feet in front of me, with Storm skirting the beetle and making short lunges at it. It’s fast, but it can’t turn quite as quickly as Storm, and the gryphon is using that to his full advantage.

“We’re through!” Yiorgos cries behind me. A gust hits my neck, and the scraping groan of stone on stone joins the sound of fighting as the door swings open. The monks halt it before it can swing all the way.

“Emana!” Yiorgos grabs at my arm to pull me into the room—but I jerk away.

I’m not going without Daenn.

But his unnatural awareness of his surroundings is as effective as ever. He’s already turning on the spot as his latest opponent falls—he sweeps out an arm and catches me as he runs past, tucking me against his chest and darting through the door. Storm is on our heels, snapping one more attack at the beetle’s legs before skidding through the doorway.

As soon as we’re all through, Yiorgos speaks an invocation, and the door slams shut behind us, cutting off the sounds of fighting, of everything but our own harsh breaths. And that’s all there is for a moment: breathing; cool, stale air; and total darkness. I press myself closer to Daenn without thinking.

Then the door flares with light, so bright I’m momentarily blinded, as the runes re-engage and lock.

Lock the Elyri out. Lock us in .

Even though this was our plan all along, I have to fight down the fear that wants to crawl up my throat. Daenn’s arms tighten around me in response, as if he thinks he can protect me from my own fears.

We’re trapped here.