Bloodfire Quest (The Dark Legacy of Shannara, #2)(108)

He watched with grim acceptance as the man began to drag his broken body across the clearing to reach him, the knife gleaming.





28





Aphenglow raced through the forest toward the sounds of the battle, knowing that she would never forgive herself if Cymrian’s efforts on her behalf cost him his life. She shouldn’t have let him go. She should have made him wait until she was finished working on Arling. There would have been time enough then. Their enemies wouldn’t have reached them that quickly.

But he had felt otherwise, and his judgment in such matters was final. His experience was deeper, and the decision had not been hers to make.

She ran faster, the sounds ahead all gasps and grunts and cries of pain and rage. She was doing nothing to hide her coming, unwilling to slow down to mask her approach, certain that time was not something she could afford to waste—not even a second of it. Mist and shadows swirled about her, creating a confusing miasma that threatened to lead her astray. But the sounds were close now, and she could track her destination by that alone.

Abruptly she burst into a clearing in which bodies lay everywhere and blood soaked the greenery in bright patches.

Movement caught her eye, and that was when she saw the man who had tried to kill her during the battle for Paranor, the assassin who had thought to catch her unawares and strike her down from behind. She would never forget his face, and on seeing it now she bared her teeth and rushed at him. He was dragging himself toward Cymrian, a knife gripped in his hand. Even now, as she raced to stop him, he tried to use it, stretching out his arm toward her protector, slashing and stabbing wildly in an effort to finish the job.

But Cymrian was just out of reach, and Aphen was on top of the assassin before he could crawl closer. She stripped him of his weapon and pinned his arms against the earth so that he could not reach for another. She could feel him struggling beneath her, could hear the harsh labor of his breathing.

“You’re … crushing me!” he gasped.

She stayed where she was. “Who are you?”

“No … one.”

He could barely speak now, his strength ebbing. His wounds were terrible, and she could tell at a glance he would not survive them. “Why are you trying to kill us? You don’t even know us!”

He laughed, a terrible rattling in his throat. “I … don’t have to … know you … to kill you.”

She took a chance. “Is it the Elfstones? Is that what you are after?”

He nodded once. “She … wants to …”

He couldn’t finish, blood spilling from his mouth.

“Wants to what? Tell me.”

“Wants … to know.”

She was getting nowhere, and she needed to go to Cymrian. She glanced over. He was lying on his side, watching her through pain-fogged eyes, listening to what was being said. She could see the blood on his body and the blade buried in his back. But she needed to continue with what she was doing.

She bent close to the dying man. “You said ‘she’ wants to know? Who? Give me a name!”

The assassin laughed.

“Don’t die and leave her safe! Tell me who she is!”

His eyes found hers, and she could see death clouding them. “Why … not? She’s … killed me. Maybe she will … kill you … as well.”

He was racked by a sudden fit of coughing, and for a moment Aphen was certain she had lost him and would never know the name of the one who had sent him.

But then he gathered himself and whispered, “Edinja … Orle. Now, you …”

But then his voice faded, and his eyes fixed in a vacant stare. The life went out of him with a soft sigh, and he was gone.

She stared down at him a moment longer, then got up and went over to Cymrian, kneeling beside him, her hand on his cheek.

He smiled up at her. “You got here … just in time.”

“Don’t talk.” She bent close to him, searching for his wounds. She found the worst of them quickly enough. The knife that had caused the first was still buried in his back. A deep penetration to his chest marked the second, although the blade was no longer there. Both were bleeding freely, the rents ragged and gaping. She reached for his hands, gripping them in her own. “Close your eyes. Keep them closed.”

She sent a wave of numbing magic all through his body to ease the pain, and then followed it with an infusion of sleep magic that put him under completely. When that was done, she began work. She stanched the flow of blood to the chest wound, searching for internal injuries to his vital organs. Finding none, she pinched the edges of the torn skin and muscle together and sealed it with a fusing of tissue. It took a long time and deep concentration, and she worried all through it that she was sacrificing the back wound in the effort. But she knew this injury was the more serious, and that the loss of blood from the other wound was not as severe.

While she worked, Cymrian made small noises, but was otherwise still. She stroked his brow once and kissed it afterward, anguished by what had been done to him. He had defended Arling and herself against all three of these creatures, mutants and assassin alike. He had sacrificed himself for them, and she would never doubt again what her sister had told her about his reason for taking on the job of protector.

That he loved her.

That he had always loved her.