From the Ashes (The Elder Blood Chronicles, #3)(62)
The gentle brush of magic washed over him once more and his breath seized in his chest. I’m so sorry I wasn’t strong enough, Finn. I tried, I really did. I am strong enough to help you with this, though. Jala’s voice was barely a whisper but he could hear the pain in her words as clearly as if she had screamed them aloud. Finn’s throat tightened and he forced himself to blink several times to keep his eyes from growing glassy. It took him several more breaths before he realized the implications of his actions. His body had responded; he had blinked. Until the moment of Jala’s words even that simple action had been beyond him.
Without daring to move a muscle he called on his Changeling blood as he had so many times before, and began to make minor adjustments to his body. First the reflexes. With careful precision he honed them enough to make a cat envious. He focused then on the muscles, tightening them and compacting them to bring his strength far beyond what his slight frame should have allowed. He wasn’t sure what had happened, but it was an opportunity that he didn’t intend to waste. When the moment came he would be prepared to strike.
Death reeled on her chair and staggered upright, her hands flying to her face as an explosion of white light rocked the throne room. The spirits that had been silently drifting by the walls began to wail and screech, and somewhere far above them Finn could hear the battle cry of a dragon. The palace rocked once more and stones fell from the ceiling as the Divine staggered again.
Without wasting another moment Finn seized the sword from the floor and drew it from its scabbard in one graceful motion. The faint torchlight flickered off the oiled blade as he charged the Divine. His blood sang as all of his fury coursed through his muscles and into the two-handed swing that he sent straight into Death. The blade connected with jarring force into the sweet spot where her neck and shoulder met. As Finn had expected, Valor’s sword was of exceptional quality. The blade bit deep, cutting through the Divine’s leathery flesh as if moving through hot butter. Death staggered back, with one clawed hand grasping frantically, trying to catch hold of him. Snarling, Finn pulled his sword back, amazed that the Divine was still on her feet. Her head hung limply on her shoulder connected only by a few scraps of flesh and muscle. Had she been a living creature, she would be on the floor with her lifeblood pooling around her. Her hands lashed out once more as she staggered. A ragged wheeze pulsed from the remains of her neck. Drawing the blade back once more Finn struck again his sword severing the remaining flesh sending the Divine’s head spinning to the floor. For good measure he spun the blade back around placing one hand firmly on the back of the hilt and shoved it through the chest of the falling body. Droplets of silver splashed across the dark floor as he wrenched the blade free and stepped back, satisfied that she wouldn’t be moving again.
The air around the room grew heavy and the palace shook once more as Death’s body twitched. Stepping back from the corpse, Finn searched the floor for the missing head and frowned. The chaos of moments before was gone and the room was entirely silent aside from a low droning sound. Turning, Finn searched for the spirits that had been wailing moments before but found the throne room empty aside from himself and the fallen Divine.
His gaze brushed across the corpse once more and paused as he noticed the shadows above it beginning to thicken and pulse. He took another hesitant step back as the droning noise grew and the shadows rose from the body in tendrils.
“What the hell,” Finn muttered as one of the tendrils dropped to the floor and began to slither toward his bare foot. Stepping back quickly he moved toward the door as the rest of the shadows twisted and writhed around him. Another tendril shot toward him and he barely dodged it only to feel two more latch onto his legs. Scrambling he tried to pull away as more wrapped his arms and chest. The shining silver sword fell from his numbed fingers and he opened his mouth to curse. With lightning speed one of the tendrils shoved its way into his open mouth and he gasped and choked as his entire body began to scream in agony. His eyes rolled in his head and his breath came in ragged gasps. Convulsions began to rip through his body as the dark magic invaded his flesh and he dropped, gasping to the floor. Head bowed and breath rasping, he stared down at the black flagstones. He could see his skin breaking and peeling away with dark shadows writhing just beneath.
“Oh, how I have waited for this day,” a man’s voice broke through the droning. Finn forced his head up to see the speaker and watched in agony as the tall red-haired man kicked Death’s remains with a booted foot. The armor he wore was mismatched, a chain shirt, plate mail pauldrons and leather gauntlets. Finn had seen militia among the commons garb themselves in that fashion after they had scavenged battlefields. There was nothing about this man that spoke of common however. Even the term Elder Blood seemed to fall short on describing him. “Well done my boy, well done indeed,” the man fairly crowed as he gathered Death’s head from the floor and held it up by the hair, leaning forward to look it directly in the face. “I told you not to f*ck with me, bitch,” the man chimed happily as he swung the head back and tossed it over by the body.
Finn gasped, trying to force his mouth to form words. His body quivered again as more skin peeled back. Feebly he stretched a hand toward the man in a mute cry for help but the strange visitor seemed entirely oblivious to his pain.
“To say that, implies that you killed her. It was in fact Sovaesh that killed her and I do believe her power is ripping him apart as you gloat over his victory.” The second voice was low and utterly devoid of emotion. The sound of metal clad boots rang through the stone room as the second speaker moved from the door to stop in front of Finn. He was clad entirely in black plate mail that made his pale skin seem almost translucent. His black hair was cut short in soldiers’ fashion and the expression on his face was grim.