What else can I do about it?
He stared down at the Cruithne, hearing his little moan of pain. Baylen’s body trembled with shudders of agony. The thought came into Paedrin’s mind that it would be most merciful to end his suffering. Don’t leave him to die. Kill him. Death will be a mercy.
The compulsion stunned him. Paedrin stared down at Baylen, saw the open flesh of his neck. A quick slice and the pain would end. But he realized that it would haunt him for the rest of his life. It would disavow every Bhikhu oath.
You’re not a Bhikhu now. You’re really just a Kishion. A killer.
Paedrin stared down at his hands, trying to hold against the tide of feelings sweeping over him.
“Go,” Baylen said darkly. “Just go.”
Paedrin prepared to summon the blade’s power. He took a breath and started to float, rising from the ground. But something compelled him to let it out again and drop to the forest floor. Tyrus had said that he had failed the Scourgelands when he had quit. He had always regretted leaving Declan behind. The failure had taught him about himself, had taught him about his enemy, and had inspired his heart to continue the quest. Tyrus never knew what would have happened if he had only pressed forward instead of quitting. How could Paedrin know?
Something began to spark alive inside of Paedrin’s chest. It was difficult to describe. Stubbornness? Determination? Courage? All his life, Paedrin had compared himself to Aboujaoude, the mightiest Bhikhu of his generation. When Aboujaoude had found a beaten Cruithne on the ground in the streets of Kenatos, he had intervened and saved him.
Paedrin swallowed, mustering everything inside himself.
He would not abandon Baylen.
At that moment, the floods of Cockatrice began to fall from the tree limbs, screeching and hissing. Paedrin sensed the wave and he leapt into the air to meet them, swinging his blade in reckless fury, striking at the mass as they came at him.
A single thought struck his mind, an idea that bloomed from the far recesses of his memory. He invoked the blade’s power to fly, but it also contained another power. The hilt stone had magic of its own.
“Shut your eyes!” Paedrin yelled to Baylen, flipping the blade upside down. He held the sword by the blade and invoked the stone embedded in the hilt. A searing flash of green light erupted from the pommel, and suddenly the air was full of commotion. He watched, using his blind vision, as the Cockatrice flailed and batted away from the relic in his hands, rending the air with their screeches of pain. All of their gazes had been fixed on him and the magic of the stone had caught them, rendering each of them blind and full of searing agony.
A thrill went through Paedrin as he realized what was happening. The Cockatrice’s magic was in their eyes! The Sword neutralized their power by blinding them. They would not be able to turn him or anyone else to stone. Their power had been broken.
Some of the Cockatrice pummeled into him as they desperately sought to escape the maelstrom of pain. Many flapped helplessly to the ground, writhing and hissing in debilitating agony. Others rose for the trees, seeking their roosts for safety.
Paedrin lowered himself back to the ground and then sheathed the sword. He grinned with triumph, watching the remnants of the creatures scuttle away or twist wildly with pain.
He walked back to Baylen’s side and knelt next to him. “I’m not leaving you.”
Baylen coughed with a gurgle. “I’m not going to last much longer.”
“I’ll stay with you then.”
Baylen whimpered. “While I appreciate the gesture . . . it’s not going to work.”
“Don’t argue with me,” Paedrin snapped. “I’m not abandoning you.”
“Is the Fear Liath . . . dead?”
“No, it went back to its lair.”
Baylen started to choke. He struggled to catch his breath. “We both know that we can’t beat it.”
“I’ll think of something. Maybe I can get you into one of these trees with the Sword. If we’re high enough, it won’t be able to climb.”
“No!” Baylen barked. “It hurts just lying here. If you move me, it’ll kill me.”
“Let me think of something. Quiet and be still. I need to think.” He gazed up at the mesh of trees and the shadowy Cockatrice writhing up there.
He sat down, setting the blade in his lap. He closed his eyes and began to meditate, focusing on his breathing, trying to clear his thoughts. He felt better already. Yes, he had made a terrible mistake in going after Kiranrao, but he had saved Baylen from the serpent-birds. Saving a life brought a flush of warmth to his bruised heart. Good. Savor the feeling. Think. How do you move someone this large? What are the options?
He stared down at the Cruithne, hearing his little moan of pain. Baylen’s body trembled with shudders of agony. The thought came into Paedrin’s mind that it would be most merciful to end his suffering. Don’t leave him to die. Kill him. Death will be a mercy.
The compulsion stunned him. Paedrin stared down at Baylen, saw the open flesh of his neck. A quick slice and the pain would end. But he realized that it would haunt him for the rest of his life. It would disavow every Bhikhu oath.
You’re not a Bhikhu now. You’re really just a Kishion. A killer.
Paedrin stared down at his hands, trying to hold against the tide of feelings sweeping over him.
“Go,” Baylen said darkly. “Just go.”
Paedrin prepared to summon the blade’s power. He took a breath and started to float, rising from the ground. But something compelled him to let it out again and drop to the forest floor. Tyrus had said that he had failed the Scourgelands when he had quit. He had always regretted leaving Declan behind. The failure had taught him about himself, had taught him about his enemy, and had inspired his heart to continue the quest. Tyrus never knew what would have happened if he had only pressed forward instead of quitting. How could Paedrin know?
Something began to spark alive inside of Paedrin’s chest. It was difficult to describe. Stubbornness? Determination? Courage? All his life, Paedrin had compared himself to Aboujaoude, the mightiest Bhikhu of his generation. When Aboujaoude had found a beaten Cruithne on the ground in the streets of Kenatos, he had intervened and saved him.
Paedrin swallowed, mustering everything inside himself.
He would not abandon Baylen.
At that moment, the floods of Cockatrice began to fall from the tree limbs, screeching and hissing. Paedrin sensed the wave and he leapt into the air to meet them, swinging his blade in reckless fury, striking at the mass as they came at him.
A single thought struck his mind, an idea that bloomed from the far recesses of his memory. He invoked the blade’s power to fly, but it also contained another power. The hilt stone had magic of its own.
“Shut your eyes!” Paedrin yelled to Baylen, flipping the blade upside down. He held the sword by the blade and invoked the stone embedded in the hilt. A searing flash of green light erupted from the pommel, and suddenly the air was full of commotion. He watched, using his blind vision, as the Cockatrice flailed and batted away from the relic in his hands, rending the air with their screeches of pain. All of their gazes had been fixed on him and the magic of the stone had caught them, rendering each of them blind and full of searing agony.
A thrill went through Paedrin as he realized what was happening. The Cockatrice’s magic was in their eyes! The Sword neutralized their power by blinding them. They would not be able to turn him or anyone else to stone. Their power had been broken.
Some of the Cockatrice pummeled into him as they desperately sought to escape the maelstrom of pain. Many flapped helplessly to the ground, writhing and hissing in debilitating agony. Others rose for the trees, seeking their roosts for safety.
Paedrin lowered himself back to the ground and then sheathed the sword. He grinned with triumph, watching the remnants of the creatures scuttle away or twist wildly with pain.
He walked back to Baylen’s side and knelt next to him. “I’m not leaving you.”
Baylen coughed with a gurgle. “I’m not going to last much longer.”
“I’ll stay with you then.”
Baylen whimpered. “While I appreciate the gesture . . . it’s not going to work.”
“Don’t argue with me,” Paedrin snapped. “I’m not abandoning you.”
“Is the Fear Liath . . . dead?”
“No, it went back to its lair.”
Baylen started to choke. He struggled to catch his breath. “We both know that we can’t beat it.”
“I’ll think of something. Maybe I can get you into one of these trees with the Sword. If we’re high enough, it won’t be able to climb.”
“No!” Baylen barked. “It hurts just lying here. If you move me, it’ll kill me.”
“Let me think of something. Quiet and be still. I need to think.” He gazed up at the mesh of trees and the shadowy Cockatrice writhing up there.
He sat down, setting the blade in his lap. He closed his eyes and began to meditate, focusing on his breathing, trying to clear his thoughts. He felt better already. Yes, he had made a terrible mistake in going after Kiranrao, but he had saved Baylen from the serpent-birds. Saving a life brought a flush of warmth to his bruised heart. Good. Savor the feeling. Think. How do you move someone this large? What are the options?
