No one bothered any longer.
Kanthe gazed at the swath of flames burning through a section of Brayk. Smoke roiled into the sky, chasing embers upward, only to be churned by the flurry of wings above.
He had come to one firm conclusion about all of this.
I should’ve tried harder. He pictured his mad flight down the steps atop the wagon. Maybe I should’ve argued for the beast’s release, instead of running. But he knew that was his usual nature: to flee what was difficult rather than stand his ground.
A hard voice broke through his despair. “There you are!”
He turned to find the head of the Vyrllian detachment stomping toward him. Anskar carried a broad-ax in one hand, his arm bloody to the shoulder. Gore spattered his skull and drenched his light armor. His face was a storm of fury. He came straight at Kanthe—then pulled the prince into a fierce one-armed hug.
“Thank the Father Above, you’re still breathing.” Anskar pushed him back and held him at arm’s length, his gaze sweeping up and down. “And unscathed as best I can tell.”
“I’ll live,” Kanthe admitted, baffled by the Vyrllian’s greeting. He had expected to be reproached and castigated, maybe even restrained for his earlier actions. Instead, from the relieved grin splitting the hard man’s face, Kanthe suspected the Vyrllian’s concern was genuine.
Anskar’s crimson brow wrinkled. “But what were you thinking before, lad? Running off with that accursed bat?”
Kanthe sighed. Clearly my plan had not been well thought out. Still, he swept an arm to encompass the dead and dying. “I was trying to prevent all of this. I knew if the bat was sacrificed that the town would be attacked.”
Anskar’s wrinkles deepened. “How could you possibly know—？”
The inquiry was cut off as Frell coughed and rose from beside a young knight whose face was shredded. Since wading out of the swamp, the alchymist had been attending to the wounded alongside two harried physiks. Frell looked like he had aged a decade. His black robe hung heavy with soaked blood. As he stood, he shook loose a coat of black flies and waved them away with an arm.
“We received word of bats massing in great numbers to the south,” Frell explained, lying to the vy-knight. “It was not hard to surmise that such a horde might be coming to the aid of one of their own.”
Anskar turned to the school. From the third tier, a huge shadow rose with a heavy beat of wings, drawing up a broken form in its claws. “If only we’d known. Plainly there be a noble savagery to their nature.”
Frell’s gaze followed the rise of those dark wings. “Is it any wonder that no one ever returned with one of their kind—alive or dead?”
Kanthe had a more important question and asked it of Anskar. “What now? Where do we go from here?”
Anskar shouldered his ax, balancing it there. “Don’t know for sure, but we’re definitely done with hunting bats.” He scowled over at a clutch of men, all from Fiskur, who stood outside the ring of bonfires. “We should have never appeased that bloated cur.”
In the middle of the group, Highmayor Goren was planning something. He and his men had their heads bent together.
“That bastard got his sacrifice,” Anskar rasped, “but it cost us a quarter of our force. It’s clear now we’d never survive bringing the fight to the swamps, let alone to their steaming mountain home.”
Frell drew closer. “What about the king’s desire to gather the beasts’ venom, to distill it into a malignant weapon?”
The Vyrllian shrugged. “King Toranth will have to be satisfied with the glands we already collected.”
Kanthe frowned. “What glands? From where?”
Anskar clapped him on the shoulder. “From that bastard you so finely shot, my young prince. Shrive Vythaas cut free a pair of glands, each the size of my fist, from that beastie before its body was tossed into the flames.”
Despite the heat from the bonfires, Kanthe felt a cold chill. He remembered the Shrive and Gyn sneaking away before the attack. Where are they now?
Anskar continued, “Hopefully with that prize in hand, we can pack up and haul out of here once and for all. ’Course, we still have one last task to complete. We can’t return to Highmount without one final trophy.”
“What’s that?” Kanthe asked.
Loud voices, rife with triumph, erupted from the group gathered around the highmayor. Goren shoved his way clear of his men and lifted an arm and hollered toward the swamp, “About time you got here, Krask, you quaggy ort!”
Kanthe spotted a wide raft being poled toward shore. Atop it, a bedraggled band of bearded men brandished hooks and spears. One of them was pissing off the back.
Anskar nodded toward the highmayor. “The only reason I escorted that bastard down to our camp was that he promised he could fetch us that lass your father wants so badly, the one who survived the poison and regained her sight.”
Kanthe shared a glance with Frell.
Nyx …
Goren crossed toward the water’s edge with his men.
Anskar pushed for Kanthe to follow. “Let’s see if that rangy lot of fisherfolk caught anything worthwhile. Word is that the girl was spotted leaving the school and heading across Brayk with some fat lad.”
Kanthe dragged his feet, letting Anskar take the lead. He drew next to Frell. “What are we going to do?”
Frell grabbed his elbow. “Stay silent. That’s all we can do. We’ll have to see how this plays out.”
By the time they reached Goren’s men, the raft bumped into shore and was poled farther aground. A broad-shouldered ruffian in clothes that looked like they’d been woven from old nets pushed to the front. He hopped off the raft, ran a hand down a knotted beard to clean the filth from his palm, then grasped Goren’s forearm.
The highmayor returned the greeting, while eyeing the others on the raft. “Well?”
Krask stepped to the side. “Got a little something for ya.”
Behind him, the clot of swampers shoved two men into view. One looked like an older version of Bastan, only with an eye swollen shut. The other elbowed his way forward and stepped onto shore, his face blustery and red.
It was Nyx’s father.
Holding his breath, Kanthe searched the raft but saw no sign of the girl.
The old man stalked forward to confront the highmayor. “What’s this all about, Goren?”
The highmayor faced the anger in the other’s face without balking. “Where be your daughter, Polder?”
The old man ignored him for the moment. His gaze swept the sprawl of dead and dying. His face paled, likely only now recognizing the bloody magnitude of the attack.
Goren got nose to nose with Nyx’s father, drawing back his attention. “Your daughter, Polder.”
The old man gave a small shake of his head. His answer was dulled by shock and horror. “Up … Up at the school.”
Goren lunged and snatched Polder by the collar. “No, she ain’t. And you know it. Your little fen-whore was eyeballed running through Brayk. No doubt going home.”
Polder knocked the man’s arm down with surprising force. “Then look for her there, you bastard. My boys and I been out working the paddocks all day.”