Page 267 of The Cradle of Ice
They reached the tunnel and moved down it, but Graylin refused to go too far, knowing Nyx must be out there somewhere.
Jace knelt next to Daal, who was propped up against the wall. Daal murmured and swiped his arms, slowly coming around.
Jace looked out into the dome. “What about Krysh and Rhaif?”
“I spotted them huddled by Shiya’s cocoon.”
Jace stared with concern, plainly worried, too—and not just for Nyx. “I caught a few glimpses of the huge sphere. It’s still quaking, but not any worse. Maybe Shiya is making headway at reining in the damage.”
Graylin nodded. “We can only hope.”
Daal finally stirred enough to grow panicked. He battered wildly while Jace tried to console and calm him. Finally, he shoved Jace away.
“I’m all right.” His gaze swept between the two of them. “Where’s Nyx?”
“We hoped you knew,” Graylin answered with a sinking sense of defeat.
Daal shook his head, his eyes widening with fear.
Before Graylin could question him further, an agonized scream rose from deeper down the tunnel, rife with pain and terror, echoing louder as it reached them.
They all looked at each other, but they were not the only ones to hear that cry.
It drew down a monster.
Winds slammed into them as a huge shadow swept to the threshold, landing outside the tunnel. With black wings held wide and head low, the bat screamed at the three inside—then stalked toward them.
* * *
NYX CLUTCHED HER belt knife in both hands. She leaned her head against the wall and stared up at the distant light. She prayed to all the gods. She squeezed her heart, trying to find the will.
Don’t make me do this.
She closed her eyes and gathered all the strength that was in her. She stared down into the black abyss inside her, trying to hold the gaze of that cold, implacable eye. She would need to be that steely.
Don’t make me do this.
She drew all the fire that Daal had left her, meager though it was. She drew it to her heart, sang it brighter.
Don’t make me do this.
She reached out to the frayed remains of the horde-mind and shared what she knew, what she remembered. It needed to understand. Part of her wished it would not, but it did. The raash’ke and Mýr had diverged down different paths, but at their core, they were much the same, communal and eternal. She asked the horde-mind to help her, to show her what she needed to do. She wanted it to refuse. It did not.
Don’t make me do this.
She huddled over Daal’s fire and stirred it with as much song as she could muster. Bashaliia tried to join her, keening in harmony, but she closed him off. This was a song he could not share—not if her efforts had any chance of working.
Don’t make me do this.
The horde-mind watched with the immensity of ages, waiting, ready.
Don’t make me do this.
But she had done it before.
Before she could balk, she swung to the side, rolled Bashaliia’s head over, and plunged her knife deep into his throat. This was not the merciful sting of before, where she had cradled the small spark of Bashaliia and delivered him to the greater Mýr.
This was a merciless slaughter.
