Page 7 of Fate Promised

The hooded man sauntered over, and the tip of a nose and thin lips peeked out from under the hood. “We can’t kill a vulk without a silver blade.”

“All we need is to keep them out of our way. Injure this one badly enough, and the pack will swarm here in Coromesto. And we’ll be far away.”

Juri’s throat flexed; he couldn’t even snarl. He struggled and managed a swallow. The magic holding him relaxed another fraction. His clawed toes curled. Whatever spell he’d breathed in wasn’t holding. All he needed was to howl. One deep inhale.

The image of Triska walking along the streets of Ryba flashed in front of him. He needed to make sure she remained safe. In one motion, Juri jerked his head up, drew in a great breath, and howled. The sound reverberated through the sewers. Rats squeaked in fear and scurried away.

There was a soft thump as Kyril leaped onto the beach and stood at the sewer exit. He roared and lunged forward.

Hoyt swore and waved his hand, but the puff of green smoke didn’t stop Kyril. He charged right through. Hoyt screamed arcane words, and the air churned into a dark swirling mass—a portal.

Juri summoned all his strength and lurched forward, his legs barely holding him. He smashed into the necromancer, hurling him to the ground. The necromancer screamed and rolled free, leaping to his feet. Juri still couldn’t school his limbs to obey as he strained forward. He swung his arms, his claws trailing down Hoyt’s calf, but the necromancer grabbed his scrying bowl and jumped into the still-swirling portal, the hooded man at his side.

The portal snapped closed behind them.

Juri gasped for breath and sagged to the floor. He’d failed.

Kyril grasped his wrist, tugging to get Juri to his feet. “What the shit is wrong with you?” But Juri’s legs wouldn’t support him.

“He … sprayed some kind of magic. I dunno.” The words came out sluggish and slow, his throat still not working right.

Kyril leaned forward and sniffed, then sneezed. “All right.” Still holding Juri’s wrist, he dragged Juri out the sewer, over the strip of beach, the sand scratching along his side, and hauled him into the water.

“Hey, what are you—”

Kyril pulled him all the way in. Icy water closed over Juri’s head, so sudden his breath caught in his lungs. But the fogginess cleared. He swung his feet down and stood in the waist high water. He shook himself and bared his teeth. “You’re an asshole. I could barely move, what if I drowned?”

“Worked, didn’t it? What the uit just happened? What kind of magic was that?”

Juri shook his head. “I don’t know. It was some kind of sniffable magic, but it didn’t bother you, only me.”

Juri paced along the beach, seaweed squishing underfoot. Hoyt peering at the image of Ryba kept replaying in his head. The one where Triska walked along the sleepy road. “We need to go.” He turned to the north.

“What? Where?”

Juri’s hands fisted, his claws still out an inch, nicking his palms. Hot blood welled up. “Ryba. They’re going to Ryba.”

3

Triska scanned the grassy field on either side of the road leading into town and pulled her sou-wester hat more firmly down on her head. With the crowd too large to gather in Ryba’s small dockside market, this was the only place in town with enough room to hold the entire village and the visitors.

Dribs and drabs of the fence that once penned in the mayor’s prized horses remained, even though years ago the mayor moved them to higher ground so he could cut this field for salt marsh hay. There was enough room for people to walk easily from the road to gather in a half-circle around the newly erected stage in the middle of the field. A string quartet played the town song, the energetic notes punching through the air.

Well, the song the mayor was touting as the town song. Considering one line was, “I return to your loving bosom over and over,” Triska was certain the song was originally a romantic ballad.

Standing in the middle of the stage, the mayor rocked back and forth on his heels, apparently not too bothered at having his hay destroyed. A lean man, he stood with one hand stuffed in the pocket of his vest, fiddling with his pocket watch as he was apt to do when excited. Or soused.

A fog blurred the woods and the homes on the outskirts of town, but its tendrils didn’t extend into the field. This wasn’t a fog that burned off as the suns rose, like most did; instead, it remained as the suns reached its zenith. It was a fog that rolled so thick a sailor couldn’t see their hand waving in front of their face. One spelling doom if they couldn’t hear the lighthouse bell tolling a deep note to guide sailors safely to shore.

A brief slap of wind gusted across her face as an albatross flapped its expansive wings and landed rather ungracefully next to her, bobbing his head up and down. “Hi, Al.” Triska put the mug of coffee she held down on the ground and fished out a chunk of hardtack from her pocket.

A woman walking by with her son gasped and stared. Triska smiled. She supposed a three-foot-tall bird was a bit intimidating.

She tossed Al the hardtack, and he snagged it out of the air. Al spread his wings their full eleven feet as if to show off, and the woman yelped and scuttled away, clutching her son’s hand.

They definitely weren’t from Ryba. Everyone in town loved Al and knew albatrosses were good luck. Although Triska was worried about Al. It had been three years since she’d found him as an injured fledgling, and since then, he’d become as much a Ryban as anyone else—hanging around town chasing the seagulls away from his patch of boardwalk—but so far, Al hadn’t gone to find his kind.

Al brayed a short staccato caw and bobbed his head again.

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