The Knight and the Moth (The Stonewater Kingdom, #1)(80)

I allowed myself a glance at the shore. The others were there, hands on their weapons, feet practically in the water, watching with such furious intensity they had the effect of an army awaiting the war call. And Rory—

His face was remade by hate. His black hair caught the wind, painting him wraithlike, a dark smudge in the storm. Maude came up next to him, and Benji as well, Rory and he holding out their stolen objects—the Harried Scribe’s inkwell, the Artful Brigand’s coin—like they were the severed heads of their enemies.

The Oarsman’s knuckles cracked as he strangled the neck of his oar. He pivoted—pointing that oar once more at me. “You little fool.” He made a low, horrible noise. “This will be the end of you.”

I kept my jaw hewn shut.

His stone eyes fell to my hammer. “What will you do? Crack my skull? Do you imagine the truth of your lost Diviners will fall like blood from my brow?” The platform groaned as he took a step forward. “They are to the wind, consumed by this starving world. You should not have come here.” He dipped the blade of his oar over the side of the platform. “But I’m very glad you have.”

The water around the basin erupted. Two waves rose, crashing down on me like cantering horses, dropping me to my knees. I gasped—braced myself. The wind picked up, a ripping force, and the rain hardened to hail.

I understood then the full magic within the Omen’s oar. When he dipped the handle into the water, the magic transported him. When he dipped the blade of the oar in, it became a staff of destruction, the water itself bending to his will. He stirred it, calling forth waves that crashed over the platform, splashing me, making me fall.

I tried to stand—was knocked down by another wave. The platform tilted and I rolled to the lip—the Oarsman suddenly on top of me. I rolled again, and his oar crashed just shy of where my head had been.

I heard voices on the wind. I was too busy trying to hold my hammer and chisel, too busy trying to hold myself from toppling over the edge of the platform, to heed them.

The first time the oar struck me was in the chest. Wind screamed out of my lungs. I faltered, gasped. The second hit was just below the rim of my helmet. Right along the jaw. So hard I fell onto my back and saw stars.

The voices on the wind were louder. Six! Bartholomew!

Move your feet!

Waterlogged, heavy in my armor, I dragged myself up. The Oarsman made a low, mocking noise and swung once more.

My hammer met his oar, the crash rivaling thunder. The reverberation sent us both back a step, fleeting surprise slackening the Oarsman’s glare. He withdrew his oar. Showed me his teeth. I struck again, and he did not block in time. My hammer hit his leg—exactly where I’d stabbed him with my chisel three days ago.

The Omen bellowed, and then he was coming full force—oar in the water, appearing and disappearing and shaking the platform, giving his all to put me once more upon my knees.

Every movement I tended, every breath, was spent defending my stance, my body. I met oar with hammer, kept my balance, tried not to slip—

But it wasn’t enough.

The Oarsman vanished over water, then reappeared right before me. There was a sharp ring. A horrible pain as the oar crashed, full force, into my left hip.

I clattered belly-down onto the platform, waves pummeling over me, filling my mouth with water. I was gasping, choking, trying to haul in air.

The Oarsman stalked toward me. “How easily you fall.” His steps shook the platform. “You believe it is me who is nothing? Look at yourself, Diviner—a child in armor—an insect next to a god.”

He wrenched me up by the back of the neck. Tore at my armor with bruising fingers. “Your conviction in yourself is profane.” He was gasping, ripping away my pauldron and exposing my shoulder, the curve of my neck. “You disgust me.”

He sank his teeth into my skin.

I screamed.

Out on the shore, four figures were a dark blur, a mess of limbs, tangling, struggling. Not against the storm, but one another. Benji, holding back the gargoyle.

Maude, holding back Rory.

The Oarsman made a low noise of pleasure in my ear. “Yes.” He ran his tongue over the bite in my neck, lapping up blood. “You’ve swallowed so much more of Aisling’s water than the other one. I can practically taste the spring.”

Another scream ripped up my throat. I bared my teeth against excruciating pain—

And slammed the back of my head into the Omen’s face.

He staggered back, grasping his oar for support. His face was painted with my blood, and so were his teeth. He opened his mouth, let out a vicious shout that came back a bellow, a chorus and fury over the water.

“What other one?” I was wet, trembling, blood in my mouth. Just like a Divination. “You’ve seen another Diviner?”

“She came as they always do. Utterly still.” The Omen came closer, his steps crashing over the platform. “Every ten years, they come.” He took another step. “It’s the only spring water I’m given—their blood.” Another step. “I have my strength to keep up. My hunger to sate. And so”—he was upon me now—“I take my fill.”

His oar collided with the side of my face.

Maude’s helmet was knocked clean off my head. With it came a desperate ripping sound. A sensation of wetness, like skin, sloughing off. I raised a hand to my eyes—but not fast enough. My shroud tore away. Caught the vicious wind.