“Forgotten the way already?” she called back without so much as glancing over her shoulder.
He rolled his eyes even though she couldn’t see it. “I took a different route then.”
“And how is the unconscionable bastard who gave you the map?”
“Commodore Darius is enjoying the sweet taste of victory and the privileges of his new rank, I imagine.”
Why did he say things like this, things he knew would serve only to antagonize her further? She slowed her pace long enough to glower at him and he thought that he might have an answer in the way her brown eyes flashed in the sunlight, in the way her freckled olive skin was framed against all this jungle green and gold.
With a huff, she turned back to the path and continued stamping ahead, and he trailed after her, trying to derive some satisfaction from having gotten the last word.
Talasyn spent the entire morning wishing for a tree to fall on the Night Emperor.
She was also unbelievably exhausted. The trek to the ruins of the Lightweaver shrine would have been grueling even for someone who’d had a good night’s sleep, and she’d only managed four hours on her and Surakwel’s journey back to the Roof of Heaven. She was lightheaded as she hiked, the world around her taking on a parchment-thin quality.
But a curious thing happened as she and Alaric ventured deeper into the jungle, climbed further up the slope. Perhaps it was the fresh air seeping into her lungs, the smell of earth and nectar and damp leaves, the way that the physical exertion was making her heart race, or the verdant wilderness—whatever the case, Talasyn felt lighter than she had in ages. She hadn’t been able to appreciate it properly last night, pressed for time and urgency nipping at her heels as she crossed the mangrove swamps of the Storm God’s Eye, but here and now, with entire days stretching ahead, she realized how much she needed to get away from the stifling atmosphere of the Nenavarene court, even if it was just for a little while. Even if it was with Alaric Ossinast. Though she had no faith in her ability to not stab him before it was over.
Talasyn’s stomach began growling. “We’ll stop for lunch after we clear this pond,” she announced to the empty space in front of her. There was a grunt of agreement from behind, and she snickered as she pictured Alaric huffing and puffing in the sweltering tropical climate in his black clothes.
The pond was deep and muddy from recent rains and a narrow plank bridge had been built across it. It was half submerged, but it would do. Talasyn crossed without incident, careful not to slip on the slimy wood.
Alaric wasn’t so fortunate. A great splash echoed throughout the jungle stillness and she whirled around to see him disappearing beneath the brown water. She made to hurry back onto the bridge, but stopped when his head popped up again. He was sputtering, his drenched black hair clinging to a face coated in grime.
“Master of the Shadowforged Legion but can’t cross a pond!” Talasyn exclaimed.
Alaric scowled, spitting out a mouthful of dirt as he paddled in the direction of the bridge. “Lightweaver but can’t make a shield.”
His retort barely carried across the water, but it reached her ears well enough. She flashed him a rude gesture, palm up and thumb stretched out and index finger curling inward. He blinked, and it seemed to her that he was more surprised than outright offended.
To Alaric’s credit, though, not everyone could be as poised as he was while struggling to extricate themselves from what was more or less liquefied earth. He moved with assurance, almost as though he’d meant to fall into the pond. Talasyn watched with one eyebrow raised as he scrambled onto what looked like an overturned tree trunk, with the clear intention of using it as a foothold to hop back to the bridge.
Except that it wasn’t a tree trunk. The moment Alaric’s full weight pressed down on it, it . . . stirred.
He careened into the water once again, with another mighty splash, just as the hulking visage of a swamp buffalo broke the surface. It was thrice the size of a full-grown man, red gills fluttering in grooves on the sides of its thick neck. Its tough hide was the color of charcoal and its scarlet eyes, set between enormous sickle-shaped horns, focused on Alaric with a mindless, primal fury.
Not only had its territory been invaded, but it had also been trodden on.
It let out a bellow that shook the treetops, and it charged, through the pond water, as gracefully as a fish. Talasyn spun a radiant spear and flung it with all her strength, but the swamp buffalo wove away from it with shocking swiftness before ducking beneath the arc of Alaric’s own shadow-smithed lance.
Talasyn waded into the pond to help—she was not about to explain to the host of Kesathese warships waiting beyond the archipelago that she’d let their sovereign get gored to death—but the water had barely reached her ankles when Alaric’s hoarse command stopped her in her tracks.
“Stay there.”
He summoned the Shadowgate in the form of a crescent blade, which he threw toward the muddy banks. As the blade sailed through the air, its handle sprouted a chain of crackling, inky magic, the other end coiled around his gauntleted fist. The blade sank into the earth behind Talasyn and then the chain’s links began folding in on themselves and Alaric was propelled along by the decreasing length. The swamp buffalo gave chase with enraged huffs and snorts, horns lowered, as it stampeded after its prey, all the way to the shallows.
Talasyn prepared to spin another weapon, to engage the creature at close quarters, but once the shadowy blade and its midnight-black chain vanished and Alaric scrambled to his feet, he grabbed her by the wrist, and before she knew it, they were running, the swamp buffalo in hot pursuit. It crashed through the undergrowth, the ground trembling beneath its heavy hooves, every toss of its horned head knocking aside young trees as though they were mere kindling.
This is how I’m going to die, Talasyn thought, blood pounding in her ears, legs pumping frantically, the brown and green of the jungle blurring past the corners of her vision. In the woods. Killed by the world’s angriest cow.
Alaric had let go of her wrist, but he was keeping pace beside her. He conjured a war axe to hack at the low-hanging branches blocking their path, occasionally transmuting it into a spear to hurl at their pursuer and then replacing it with a new axe. It was a display of concentration, timing, and magical ability that Talasyn had never before witnessed, had never been capable of.
Not to be outdone, she conjured spears of her own and hurled them at the pursuing beast as well, one after the other. Light and shadow sang through the air, side by side. But the swamp buffalo was as agile on land as it was in water, and it made dodging the barrage look like an effortless task.
And just when they had been running so long and so hard that a stitch welled up her side and her thighs were on the verge of collapse and her heart was about to give out—
—the minor earthquake and the awful sounds of the dread beast’s charge came to an abrupt halt.
Talasyn dared a glance over her shoulder. In the distance, the swamp buffalo had turned around and was disappearing into the bushes, content to have chased the intruders away. Sheer relief made her knees go weak and she sagged against a tree trunk, chest heaving while sweat pooled on her skin and she sucked in one huge lungful of air after another.