Page 23 of Heir of Autumn
Splat. Splat. The disgusting little creatures squelched as they struck the grimoire, the exertion of my arcane essence allowing me to use it as a shield, but also keeping it waterproof. Yes, my actual magical specialty was summoning, but every Wispwood summoner was also taught to infuse their personal arms with essence, something to use as a last resort.
I clenched my teeth as I blocked the gooey assault, deliberating whether I should call on my doves to launch a counterattack. They’d probably hate me for it in the end, sending them up against this hail of fleshy, repugnant, gelatinous — just what the hell were these things?
And then it happened. One of the creatures made it past Evander Skink’s butterfly barrier, somehow sneaking through a gap between the many, many pairs of wings he’d conjured. That was all it took. The thing struck his cheek with a wet slap. Every last butterfly disappeared all at once, and down he went like a ton of bricks.
My heart clenched, then thumped a panicked tattoo. Damn it to hell. This was where Evander’s arrogance got him, too overconfident in his innate magics, too good to keep his own grimoire. Namirah raced toward him, crouching at his side.
“Oh gods, oh gods. Is he dead?”
“No,” she shouted back, a hand on his chest. “He’s breathing. Just stunned. Those things must have drained his energy.”
As much as I hated the guy, as much as I joked about shoving him into an active volcano, I didn’t actually want Evander Skink snuffed out. Who would I snipe with at the Wispwood? Who would motivate me with vengeance and anger on a daily basis? Besides, he was a person, almost kind enough to be human, presumably with a family who loved him.
Presumably.
But back to the battle — I couldn’t very well sacrifice my doves against these things, could I? Evander collapsing, the sudden and simultaneous dismissal of his butterflies even before he fell unconscious? I’d read about this before, somewhere in one of Ermengarde Frost’s books. It all made sense now.
“Essence leeches,” I shouted at the others, still swiveling my book around me, deflecting as many as I could. “Don’t let them touch your skin, or it’s over!”
The others responded in the affirmative, Sylvain looking completely horrified despite mercilessly shredding the leeches with his leaves. I mean, he had to put those back on his body at some point. Maybe he could rinse them out in seawater first.
And when the hell was the guardian going to run out of its limitless supply of essence leeches? I couldn’t even tell where they were coming from. Was it pulling them out of its ass?
More importantly: I’d somehow forgotten that the guardian had many more tentacles to spare.
It bunched them all together, braiding them and lifting them above its head so that they resembled a fist. I yelled at the others, warned them to brace for impact. But the guardian wasn’t aiming for us. It was aiming for open water.
The enormous tentacle-fist whistled as it fell like a hammer and struck the sea with a colossal splash. Again and again the guardian smashed, churning the waters, generating waves as tall as men, as quick as horses.
And they were all heading straight for Sylvain’s boat.
“Sylvain, look out!”
A scream tore from my throat as the waves struck Sylvain’s vessel. Instead of capsizing, the boat went hurtling back across the water, buffeted by impossible force.
Something about this place made the ocean yet more dangerous, the waves far more powerful, defying the laws of physics. In the oriels, the elements were at their strongest. Here, water was in its purest form, the sea roiled and whipped into fury. Turbulent. Violent. Deadly.
I looked on helplessly as the waves carried Sylvain’s boat further and further. At first I saw his lips moving, his voice drowned by the churning of the waters. I thought he could be mouthing my name.
And smaller and smaller Sylvain went as the kraken continued its relentless onslaught, until both he and his boat were only a speck on the horizon. Even at their strongest, my doves would never help close the distance.
“Satchel, go to him,” I said. “Please.”
“But I can’t just leave you,” he said, worried, afraid. “The others are down, and you’d be alone.”
“Please, Satchel. Just go to him.”
He swallowed thickly, looking at me with pity, but within an instant his face hardened with determination. Satchel zipped out of view and reappeared a few meters away, again and again, until he was gone.
“Namirah,” I shouted. “Stay put! I’ll come and — ”
Oh, gods. She was down, too, slumped on the ground next to Evander. When did that even happen? This kraken and its fucking leeches. No choice now. Evander and Namirah were totally defenseless. I had to do something.
The words of the summoning spell left my lips, memorized at last after so many long years at the Wispwood. No need to consult my grimoire for this one basic conjuration. The air burst with feathers and fluttering as my doves answered my summons.
I took a running start and leapt from my tiny island, the cloud of doves buoying me forward. Just a little more to the left, and we would make it. My pulse pounded in my ears as grotesque noises squelched from somewhere to my side, more of the leeches hitting us, but the empowered, silvery-gold wings of my doves repelled them.
“Almost there,” I said, my teeth clenched. My foot struck the ground, and then the other. “Yes!” I shouted, racing toward Namirah and Evander.
