Page 84 of On Brutal Thrones

Any plan is better than running blindly around this ring while the Vultures throw magic at us. We’re trapped, waiting for one of their attacks to finally land.

Talon grips my hand and we run.

We’ve barely taken three steps when the blue flames ahead of us part. Figures emerge through them. The Vultures.

For one strange second, we all freeze.

Surprise flashes across their faces.

They were probably expecting us to be groggy and slow with sleep. The realization hits me with sudden clarity. They expected the locating spell to lead them to sleeping targets. The ring of fire would trap anyone who survived their first attacks, leaving them free to bombard our camp from the safety of the trees.

They hadn’t counted on Thorian sensing their magic. If he hadn’t woken us when he did, that first fireball might have killed us in our sleep. A chill runs through me despite the suffocating heat.

Then one of the warlocks looks directly at me. “You!”

There’s so much hatred packed into that single word that my blood turns cold.

Talon growls and immediately steps in front of me, forcing me behind him with one arm while raising his golden sword with the other.

For a second, I can’t understand what I’m looking at. Blue and orange flames flicker across the warlock’s face, throwing his ruined features into shifting shadows. He looks so different that my exhausted mind refuses to connect this man to anyone I know.

Then he snarls again, and I recognize his voice. Magnus.

The acid hit him earlier, before he escaped the flower field, but I’d nearly forgotten about it. I was so close to depletion afterward, and then all I could think about was getting somewhere safe enough to collapse.

Now, the memory comes rushing back. The spray of acid. His screams. The sickening smell of burning flesh.

My stomach rolls.

His skin is a puckered patchwork of angry red, reminding me horribly of the uneven mud fields. In places, it clings so tightly to the bones of his face that he looks gaunt, his eyes sunken beneath a brow that juts out too far. His hair is gone. Parts of his purple robes have melted into his wounds, the fabric disappearing beneath slick patches of pus and blood.

Why hasn’t he healed himself?

The thought comes with a fresh stab of unease. Was he so determined to find us, so consumed with getting revenge on me, that he didn’t even stop long enough to save what he could of his own body?

Behind him, Antone and Halwin keep noticeably farther away. It’s hard to tell through the shifting firelight, but they seem almost repulsed by him. Whether it’s because of his appearance or what he’s become, I don’t know.

Magnus opens his mouth. His damaged lips stick together for a second before separating, and nausea clenches my stomach.

“Get her.”

One second my feet are beneath me, the next I’m half in Talon’s arms as magic slams into the ground at our heels. Dirt sprays against my legs. Another blast strikes close enough that I feel the heat of it against my back.

How are they still this powerful?

They’ve survived every trial we have. They should be exhausted. Depleted. Barely holding themselves together, just like us.

Valtor!

Anger cuts through my fear. He has to be helping them. Feeding them magic, giving them strength, tipping the scales whenever he can. They’ve made it this far with a cheating god at their backs while we’ve had to fight for every inch.

“Here!” Thorian bellows from across camp.

Talon and I race toward him and Fenric. A flash of pink light washes over us, bright enough to sting my eyes, and Talon’s sword suddenly hits the ground behind us, being dragged away by the pink light.

I twist toward it.

“Leave it!”