Page 23 of The Sundered Blade

In the end, he waited. The night seemed to last for an eternity as he shook with cold, gritting his teeth against the pain in his shoulder and listening for the sound of claws on the rocks, unable to see even his hands in front of his face.

He did not dare move up or down the mountainside, but could only inch towards the nearest tree and huddle against its trunk, hoping to live long enough to see the morning.

And indeed, morning did come. Just when it seemed the night would never lift, a soft gray light bled into the edges of the sky, illuminating enough of the surroundings for Vaniell’s heart to quail.

The mountain was not as steep as he’d feared, but it was rocky and treacherous, with unsteady footing and small trees clinging to life in the cracks. Not far below where he’d fallen, the ground was less steep, and the trees grew thicker as the slope descended.

And it was somewhere in that dense vegetation that Kyrion had landed. Along with two wild wyverns, who seemed to believe their territory had been violated.

Of all Vaniell’s many fears, this might possibly be the one that terrified him the most. Lost. Alone.Outside. Surrounded by nature. Where he had no idea what to do or how to control his own fate.

But it wasn’t as if sitting still would affect whether he was eventually eaten by some unspeakable horror, and he couldn’t stay on the mountainside forever. As frightening as it was to be lost in a trackless wilderness, the only way out of this nightmare was to move. Find Kyrion. Trust that they could find the path back to civilization together.

And along the way, try to appreciate the irony of hoping desperately to find the one man he had always been terrified of seeing again.

Alternating between stepping and falling and sliding on his backside, Vaniell inched down the steepest part of the slope until he was on firmer, more level ground. It was still an incline, but not so treacherous. He thought about calling out for Kyrion, but caution held him silent. If the wild wyverns had survived, he would be practically inviting them to treat him as a snack.

And so he searched as the sky brightened, not even quite sure whether he was looking in the right place, but growing steadily hungrier and thirstier. One of his steel marbles was clenched in a sweaty fist—probably useless against a wyvern, but it made him feel better to have some form of defense ready.

Broken branches were his first clue that he was approaching the crash site. Beneath the damaged trees, he found gouges in the shallow dirt. Dark stains that could only be blood.

And try as he might, Vaniell could not prevent his heart from pounding with dread. He did not want to find Kyrion dead. Did not want to feel the weight of guilt for one more death. Did not want to be responsible for carrying this news to all of those people who loved and respected the enigmatic king of the night elves.

“How unexpected,” a deep voice rumbled from behind his left shoulder. “The wastrel prince actually looks worried. Did you think to find me dead?”

Vaniell’s eyes squeezed shut. Out of sheer relief, of course, andnotto hide his wayward emotions.

“I thought I would at least check your corpse for money before I moved on,” he replied with forced casualness before turning around.

Kyrion stood behind him, wearing a slight smirk along with copious amounts of blood and several visible bruises. His right arm hung limp, and he seemed to be hunched over in pain.

“What were you going to do if you found I’d lost the fight?” the night elf asked, as if genuinely curious.

Vaniell scratched his head and looked thoughtfully at the marble in his palm. “Die, probably. But that sounds less terrifying than telling all of your relatives that I let you be eaten by wyverns.”

“Letme?” One of those silver brows rose in addition to the smirk. “No one thinks of you as a warrior, Vaniell of Garimore. Even your worst enemy would hesitate before blaming you for losing to a pair of wyverns.”

His worst enemy…

He’d once thought that role would be filled by the night elf standing in front of him.

“Thank you,” he said earnestly. “I would be dead if you hadn’t intervened.”

“You might still be dead,” Kyrion admitted, his expression flattening as he looked around at the dawn-lit forest. “These mountains are inhospitable at best, and I must heal before I can shift or fly again. My magic should be fully recovered by tonight, but until then…”

Not to mention, their packs were gone, and Vaniell was no hunter. But even as he confronted the truth that they were still lost, still hungry, and in considerable danger, he felt decidedly more cheerful than he had only a few moments before.

And not only because he need not feel responsible for Kyrion’s death.

“Then I suppose we’ll have to muddle through with a bit of enchanting and a great deal of unfounded optimism.” Vaniell allowed a crooked grin to steal across his face. “And I’m not terrible at improvisation. Provided you can find us a safer place to camp, I can magic up some protection until you’re ready to travel again.”

“And can you hunt?” Kyrion rumbled, expression unreadable.

Vaniell grimaced at the thought. “I hunted once, when I was around ten, and I believe I threw up twice. But I suppose if I’m hungry enough…” He shrugged, and then winced when his shoulder reminded him of his crash landing. “I suspect we’d be better off hoping that you recoververyquickly.”

* * *

There was not much to making camp when they had no baggage. With Vaniell’s help, Kyrion was able to make his way downslope until he judged that the taller, thicker vegetation would discourage the wyverns from making another attempt.

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