Of Mortal Dreams: Chapter XI

Adevan

Adevan knew that the mage would be gone.

Even so, he still made his way back to where he had seen her last. Her comrade was unconscious but alive, lying at the base of a tree, half covered in a gruesome hash of bodies and severed limbs. A quick but thorough look told him that she had climbed the tree but wasn’t hiding among the branches overhead. Adevan pulled the helpless warrior from the mire then continued on, searching for the mage’s footprints and finding none in the muddy, trampled earth. He couldn’t even catch her scent on the blood-spoiled breeze.

Why didn’t she just stay hidden?

Something screeched, far overhead. His blood ran cold as he looked up, knowing what he was going to see. Even from the forest floor, Adevan recognized the bone-white hair and glinting iron breastplate. On instinct, his feet pulled him into the nearest shadows he could find, among the feathered boughs of a great pine.

The graven beast screeched again, much closer this time. A pair of powerful, black wings cut the sky then disappeared beyond the treeline just south of him. The earth shook perceptibly as the creature landed. The wind brought with it the gagging stench of dark magic, overpowering even that of the blood below. Adevan held his breath, expecting to feel the irresistible pull of the dreaded bloodbond.

But it never came.

Mere moments later, the graven lifted once more into the sky with great effort, and began flying east into the dawn. Adevan couldn’t believe his luck. In fact, he didn’t. He could believe that Revon Evershade didn’t know he was here, but no ravenrider would risk flying during the day and certainly would never land unless they were after something they wanted, and had a good chance of getting it. This was doubly true of Revon, a mage known for his vigilance, who had not even left the fortress of Arysdur in decades. Between the rustling pine branches, Adevan peered at the shrinking graven until his keen eyes found their answer.

A woman, draped across the saddle, her arms swinging limply as the winged beast pulled higher into the sky.

Unruly black hair, a dark grey dress, leather plating.

The mage.

Adevan released the trunk and crashed down through the tree limbs, running almost before he hit the ground. Already bathed in blood and gore from head to foot from the earlier fight, he tore through the remaining attackers at full speed, ripping the underbrush up at the root in some places, until he charged into a wide but shallow stream. The air still smelled strangely of light and dark magic.

Vara. She had been there. His stomach twisted sickly.

Adevan looked to the sky. The graven was not as far off as he would have expected—good. He took up the largest river stone he knew he could hurl with deadly speed and power. If he struck the graven at its current height and if his plan worked, the fall would certainly kill the girl. This was not how he had hoped things would go. He gritted his teeth against the weakness of his mortal flesh.

It had to be done. It had to be done.

Arras cannot afford another Evershade.

But the stone never left his hand. As he pulled back, something struck the back of his head with surprising force. He dropped the stone. His legs buckled. Vision swimming and ears ringing, he turned to see what—or who—had attacked him. Downwind of him, an old woman stood at a respectful distance, holding in her knotted hands a mighty staff. He fell to one knee. Then to the other. Her voice reached him, over the rush of the water.

“Nizhe basz le’epho, sar’ne?” Not very nice is it?

He was on the edge of darkness and had not heard it since childhood, but he still knew the halfblood tongue. He fell back into the stream then, probably not far from where Vara had just been. The old woman came to stand over him. Her peering eyes glinted as only a halfblood’s could.

“Sar’ne b’ya trebal dazhi mortov?” Aren’t you supposed to be dead?

Adevan scoffed. His tongue felt like paper, but he managed to speak.

“Do’je vogatho, dolazhi oth’zene kotha dje u’prafo pho’gsla da me’bithe—sar’ne?” That’s rich, coming from the woman who just tried to kill me—no?

She laughed at the bitter accusation, a fearless sound.

“Da’zham tre zjele mortov,” she quipped, waving a gnarled hand. “B’ya bje.”

If I had wanted you dead, you would be.

“Dragar’an.”