Page 150 of Turncloak

Levan bellowed, his wand drawn, but what curse or counter spell could he fire?

Miret slumped to the ground, though he was not dead. He was simply…changed. Duller, emptier. Like Segal after he had Risen.

“Levan,” Saffron screamed. “What does Sordai mean in Ancient Sarthi?”

“Soul death,” Levan murmured, coming to the same terrible realization as Saffron.

The Sordai swooped and swirled through the air above, brighter now, stronger.

“Don’t let it touch you,” Miret whispered, the words echoing around the towering cave, then muttered the Saints’ Prayer in guttural, fearful Eqoran.

“Sen ammorten,” Saffron yelled, aiming her wand at the floating Sordai.

Thanks to half a decade of shooting practice at the Academy, her aim was true. But it didn’t matter. The killing curse sailed straight through the Sordai’s belly, ineffectual, meaningless.

It turned to stare at her, through her, and then dove again.

Saffron ducked and rolled away just in time, but it changed course at the last minute, plunging toward Levan, who took two staggering steps backward.

“Ans clyptus,” Saffron roared, and a shimmering spellshield leapt from the tip of her wand into the air between Levan and the Sordai.

The Sordai slammed straight into it, and though Saffron shuddered from the impact, the shield held.

Levan regained his composure and quickly sidestepped, jump-twirling around the side of the shield and incanting, “Sen debilitan.”

A curse without honorable intentions, though hopefully the self-preservatory nature would encourage magic to heed his command.

The curse leapt from his wand, sharp and true, driving into the skull of the Sordai. But again the spell had no impact on the monster; it simply drank the magic like a tonic, its form shining brighter and sharper still.

Worse—it was stealing her shield.

Whorls of the glowing bronze-gold matter drifted into the Sordai, like iron filings drawn to a magnet. Horrified, Saffron let the shield drop, breathless with fear. Her lungs burned like coals behind her ribs.

How could they defeat a foe that gained strength from killing curses?

She chastised herself for never paying attention to Parlin the Great lore in school, although she wasn’t certain anyone truly remembered how he’d beaten the Sordai a thousand years ago. Something about a wand from the Elm of Eternity, but…no. All she recalled, all anyone recalled, was the impressive length and girth of his famous vock.

In magekind’s defense, the Sordai were supposed to be long extinct. Yet Sarcane had left one here to guard the Fifth Prophecy. Had left bones for the monster to reanimate. It was smart, effective. Too much so. It was invincible, unvanquishable.

Had Sarcane assumed the right mage would know how to best such a beast? Had he assumed that Parlin’s knowledge of the ancient foe would endure through the centuries?

If so, he had woefully underestimated the tendency humans had to forget the distant past. Auria had often tiraded about societal decline and the hallmarks of decadence. If the Vallish had given history the weight it deserved, if they hadn’t been so distracted by wine and sex and gambling and chariot races and all the empty pleasures of their hedonistic land…

These thoughts happened instantly, simultaneously, as the Sordai chased Levan around the cave. Saffron pursued the Sordai itself, throwing up spellshields over and over again as it lunged for her lover, but while the initial collision of monster with magic bought Levan time to flee, every time the Sordai would end up drinking the shield, gaining more power.

Saffron’s well was emptying by the second—and her enemy was strengthening. Fear guillotined through her as she wondered how exponential said strength might be.

Miret was limp, lame, on the rocky platform. Levan was a single lapsed spellshield from meeting the same soul death. Cold sweat poured from Saffron’s shoulder blades with the effort of keeping him safe.

Harrow entered the cave, wand raised, hand trembling, as though coming to see what all the fuss was about, but at the sight of the dark flying skeleton with glowing eyes and a malevolent smoke billowing from its body, he muttered, “Oh fuck no,” and promptly ran back in the direction of the rope.

Did he have the right idea?

Should they somehow try to flee?

Miret wasn’t in any fit state—soul-dead, whatever that meant. And without the prophecy, it would all be for naught.

Where was the prophecy? At the bottom of the chest?