Page 109 of Witchshadow
And there was the beast itself. A shadow wyrm, unlike anything Iseult had imagined, made of pure shadow. Her eyes couldn’t land on it. Each glance made the creature waver and morph, as if it had no solid shape. As if it were all a trick that would vanish on the next blink.
Its Threads shone too brightly, and only when she let it move in her periphery did it finally seem to gain a solid shape with hundreds of centipedal legs off a body serpentine and glassy. Wherever it moved, hoarfrost crackled.
And right now, it scuttled Iseult’s way. It had spotted her. It was screaming, and unlike all those hours it had lurked out of sight in the forest,nowit was ready to come for her.Nowit was ready to claim.
“Move,” Aeduan roared beside her, and she did, pumping instantly back into a run. There were no tents now, no campfires to block her way. It was a straight shot aiming for the fighting, frantic Threads clumped fifty paces away. Too far for Iseult to make out Gretchya’s or Alma’s faces within the mass.
She charged the Purists closing in around the Nomatsis—not with her body, but with her magic. With her fangs.
At the nearest man, Iseult grabbed his Threads.Yank and bite.He cleaved in an instant. So easily, his Threads already weakened by a Cursewitch’s control. But just as she’d done with the Cartorran soldiers, Iseult didn’t release him. She simply wound his Threads, electric and alive, around her hand and commanded.
He attacked another Purist, giving the Nomatsis the moment they needed. Hunters charged against their captors while the untrained ran. Blades clashed and bows loosed. Fletching of all shades ripped atop Threads of violence and pain.
No time to watch, no time to celebrate. Iseult latched on to a second Purist. Then a third, yanking and biting, yanking and biting. Where she commanded them, they moved, and all while more Nomatsis escaped for the trees.
But not her mother, not Alma. They were nowhere to be seen, and already Iseult was losing her poise. So many Threads were leashed to her, but she had no staff or tree to lean against.
Worse, the silver Threads cycloned toward her. Pummeling and cold. She released all the Cleaved Purists. Her body swayed. She was going to fall before it even reached her.
Hands caught her. Strong arms steadied her. And birds floated across her vision. “Aeduan,” she said, trying and failing to pull free. Cold beat against her. Cleaved oil sprayed and bodies fell.
“This way.” His voice was near her ear, his grip firm as he hauled her back the way she’d come.
She resisted. Now that she had released the Severed Threads, dregs of power pulsed through her. Bolstered her muscles, sharpened her eyes, and sent her instincts charging back to life. “Not yet.”
Mother, Mother—she needed to find her mother. As she dug her feet into the ground, hoarfrost gathered around her. Threads blared. The ground trembled. “Mother!” she shouted at Aeduan. “Where is she?”
This time Aeduan heard her question. “There.” He pointed.
Iseult spun right as purple Threads coagulated into her senses. They pooled with scarlet rage and exuded Cursewitch power. Most shocking of all, they glimmered with sunset family and the warmth of amaranth Threads that bind.
The wyrm paused its advance at Corlant’s arrival. Then it skittered sideways, like a dog obeying its master. And the Purists—what few remained—also drew back, revealing their priest. The top half of his face was bandaged, his eyes covered by blood-soaked cloths. His Purist robe whipped around him on an unnatural breeze.
He clearly couldn’t see, yet he also didn’t need to. Just as Iseult had escaped the Pragan palace without her sight, Corlant could navigate the world by feeling Threads.
At his side, her head bowed, stood Gretchya.
“Mother,” Iseult repeated, and had Aeduan not held her back, she would have bolted forward. It was good Aeduan was there. Good she had that half-second pause for logic to serrate in.
Gretchya, unbound and demure. Mother, head bent and willing.It was a pose Iseult had seen her mother wear most of her life, whenever Corlant was near. Whenever he’d come around and forced her to unbolt the rusted lock above the door. Iseult never understood why she’d done it, or fully understood why Corlant had always been there.
Even now, as an answer cemented in her belly—in that secret corner beneath her left lung—she couldn’t look at it. She couldn’t face it.
“Mother?” Iseult said again, but this time it was a question. And this time, it was so, so loud. A single word to split a newly silenced world. Iseult’s Cleaved were dead, the remaining Nomatsis subdued, and the Purists kneeling upon the hard earth. The monster had retreated into darkness cast by ruined stone, and were it not for its silver Threads—dampened once more—Iseult would never have seen it there.
There were no footsteps, no jangling belts or weaponry. It was as if the day itself held its breath. Everyone, everything was transfixed by Corlant. His Threads shone above all others, the purple hunger practically lighting up the sky.
Iseult reached for her sword. Then patted empty air because of course there was no sword. She was afool.Always a fool.
But she still had her fangs and her magic. She would kill Corlant—and kill his monster too, if she had to. They could not have Gretchya, not now that Iseultwasa Weaverwitch who could fight back.
Threadwitches might not harm, but Puppeteers did.
Iseult sank into her stance. Stretched out one hand, fingers clawed and ready to grab, to yank. Her teeth were ready too, her jaw creaking wide.
Corlant must have sensed her plan, though, for he smiled. The cloths on his face wrinkled, made the bloodstains shrink like red eyes. Meanwhile pink joy spread across his Threads, a disturbing contrast against the muted gray weave of death and shadow.
Iseult had been here before. She had watched as Corlant had pinned her with that same ravenous attention. Then watched as he had lifted his hands with deliberate slowness and crossed his thumbs in the sign to ward off evil.
