The Demigod Proving (32 page)

Chapter 36: Running from god

The first rule of survival in any situation involving Ichor is to protect your soul.

-Leenda

The air trembled with Athanaric’s shouts as Leenda careened up the hill, away from the city. She felt like a wagon out of control, pulled by spooked horses. She couldn’t stop. From the moment she’d encountered the paladins, things had just gotten worse and worse. She should’ve acted with more care.

With Rashel slung over her shoulder and one hand securing the legs, she could hardly keep her feet. Every leap ended in a stumble or off-balance stutter step. As often as not, she caught herself with her free hand. It wasn’t so much Rashel’s weight—the Thew strengthened Leenda plenty—it was Rashel’s size and shape coupled with Leenda’s speed. It was just awkward to leap along, carrying something so floppy and large over the shoulder.

Rashel’s arms dangled low, past Leenda’s rear end, so Leenda kicked them frequently. Her head bounced off of Leenda’s back over and over. It was like one of those ridiculous games humans played for fun, when they would burden themselves with sacks of potatoes, spin around several times to make themselves dizzy, and run a short race.

Only, her race was going to be much longer, and falling over and getting laughed at wasn’t the worst that could happen. An eighteen-foot god pursued her, roaring for her to stop.

From the place of sacrifice, she’d skirted the edge of the city, heading for the hills along the western edge. She’d left Krack about two miles up there, on the opposite side of the tallest nearby hill. If she could reach him, she might have a chance to live through this encounter.

She leapt forward in bounds magnified with Ichor. She almost flew, using Flux created by her leap to push herself further and higher. It couldn’t keep her airborne forever, but each leap lasted a hundred feet or more. Yucca trees and jagged red rocks passed beneath her, and she had to aim her landings—adjusting her trajectory with Flux—to ensure she didn’t skewer herself on a tree and could leap into another clear path.

Behind her, a constant rhythm of massive pounding feet kept her apprised of Athanaric’s distance. Periodically, there would come an extended silence and she would look back just in time to see him land a great jump. Dirt would spray up before him, and he would continue running after her, taking a dozen steps for every one of her leaps. He shouted constantly, sometimes roaring, at others calling out a threat or demand: “Give me Rashel.” Or “Put her down.” Even “I’ll crush you if you harm her.”

He would kill her, anyway, if he caught up with her—the most likely way the encounter would end. Her Thew was draining quickly. Once it gave out, she wouldn’t be able to withstand the force of her landing and wouldn’t be able to carry Rashel. She could only hope that his Ichor gave out before hers.

How goat-gutting stupid of her to even try to get Rashel. She should’ve waited for a better time.

Not that it mattered anymore. She’d made her decision and needed to live with it. Reaching Krack seemed like her best option for survival. She could also drop Rashel, and that might make it easier to escape, but Athanaric still might pursue her.

Even despite the Thew strengthening her body, her muscles ached. Her feet and legs burned from the repeated impacts in the dirt or on the rocks. Her breath came in great heaves. As she neared the top of the ridge, searching for any sign of Krack, little purple flowers covered the area, so that she leapt over great swaths of lavender broken by the green and brown yucca trees and red rocks. The air whistled warm and dry in her face.

Her Thew wouldn’t last much longer.

“By thunder, woman,” Athanaric said from behind. The power of his voice shook Leenda’s bones—he was only a few dozen feet behind her. “Put her down!”

He was close enough for her to see the rage in his eyes. He bent down and scooped up a rock at least twice the size of her head, and cocked his arm to throw. She was in mid-flight at that moment, descending toward a steep clearing of purple, and prepared to push herself to either side to dodge the projectile.

But he didn’t throw the rock. He held it over his head as he stepped over five-foot boulders with ease. He seemed to reconsider throwing the rock at her. Instead, with a roar of frustration, he tossed it far over her head. It soared over the top of the ridge, and she didn’t even hear it strike the ground.

Maybe he’d seen Krack and wanted to knock him out.

She landed in the clearing. Thorns on the stalks of the purple flowers tore at her legs and undershorts as she took three steps and launched herself again. It would be her last leap. Her Thew would expire; she could feel it: her soul sagged within her, limp, like a flower thirsty for water.

Her jump carried her higher than the top of the ridge, and her hope faded as, at least two miles away, Krack’s unmistakable red shape painted itself against the blue sky for a moment, and descended out of sight beneath a ridge.

Cursing, she focused on her landing spot. A flat rock at the top of the hill would have to do, and she applied Flux in that direction. Her flow of Thew began to dry, and as the rock sped upward toward her, she had to cut the flow of Thew off for just a moment in order to save the last bit for the impact.

And the rock was there. She re-applied the last of her Thew into her legs. As she hit and absorbed the impact, her Thew expired. Her body grew weaker and her legs gave out. With a cry, she collapsed under Rashel’s weight. They both rolled forward along the rock. Leenda’s head bounced and the world spun. When it stopped, she didn’t have an instant to recover from the pain. Athanaric approached the rock from the far side.

Leenda scrambled toward Rashel, who lay motionless in a twisted heap just a few feet away. One of her feet dangled over the lip of the rock. It wasn’t too far down on that side—perhaps a twenty foot drop into more purple flowers—but the fall would do Rashel no good, so Leenda snatched her from the edge, pulling her around to function as a shield.

Athanaric bellowed in wordless rage. Holding Rashel’s shoulders, Leenda turned just as the god reached the opposite edge of the boulder. He froze in place with his hands on the edge of the rock. His face contorted, yet he didn’t move. He didn’t even skirt around the edge of the rock toward Rashel and Leenda. He could have. She wouldn’t have been able to do anything. A wet warmth had started to spread down the back of her throbbing head.

She was as good as dead. She had no Thew left, and her entire body ached—that was a downside of using Thew: when you ran out, the fatigue was that much greater.

Yet, Athanaric didn’t advance on her. He stood there like a statue, except for the slight twitching in his right cheek. His eyes were wide with . . . with fear.

That was it. That was why he hadn’t thrown the rock at Leenda. He didn’t want to hurt Rashel, and thought Leenda might hurt her.

She adjusted her grip, bringing one arm around Rashel’s neck and placing one hand on the side of her head. Athanaric’s eyes widened, and he raised one hand in objection.

“Don’t!” he said.

“I’ll break her neck if you come closer.”

“Leave her in peace.”

A sudden dizziness fell upon Leenda. The world began to spin and blur. The blue of the sky seemed to melt into the brown and green and purple of the land. A sharp pain started at her toes and rose up her legs, followed by a complete loss of feeling in the place where the pain passed. The sensation moved up past her knees, into her thighs.

She’d felt that sensation once, fifteen years before when Krack had removed her soul from her draegon body. It meant Athanaric was using Spirit Ichor to rip her soul out—an effective way to kill her. However, without making physical contact, separating a soul from a body required a massive amount of Spirit Ichor and a high degree of effort and finesse.

 
“No!” she said and tightened her grip on Rashel’s head. “Stop it or she dies.”

She didn’t know if she had enough strength to carry out the threat, but she had no other weapons. She tapped her discernment, focused on the Spirit Ichor inside of her, and bound and applied it to her head. That would keep him from pulling her spirit away from her brain—and that would at least keep her conscious.

“What do you want with her?” Athanaric said.

He didn’t let up on the soul-tearing. Leenda could no longer feel her legs at all, and knew it was because half of her soul was outside of her body. Not exactly a fun sensation. She extended her binding of Spirit Ichor down her spine, into her arms and shoulders. That would ensure she could continue to use her arms to threaten Rashel.

“Release my soul now or I’ll kill her.”

Athanaric, just a twisting blur, faltered. “Wha—“

“Now!” She twisted Rashel’s head just a little.

“Don’t hurt her!”

The feeling returned to her lower legs in a tingling cascade from her hips to her feet. The world snapped back into focus and blood roared in her ears. She eased her grip on Rashel’s head, but kept the Spirit Ichor applied to her head and arms. Athanaric took a step back and lifted his hands.

Goat guts! That had been close. She should have been ready for it. Amazing that by threatening his wife she could command him, a god. No, not a god. A man masquerading as a god.

“What do you want with her?”

Leenda considered for a moment. She’d intended to talk with Rashel in private, so Athanaric would never know about the conversation. Now, no doubt, Rashel would tell him everything. He’d drill her about it until he got every last bit out of her. So, Leenda might as well tell Athanaric about her purpose.

“I need her to tell Wrend that he isn’t human.”

Athanaric frowned and narrowed his eyes. “Who are you?”

“Wrend’s mate.”

His eyes widened in realization and he nodded. “He’s not draegon, anymore. He’s my son.”

“He’s a draegon. He can’t be happy in a human body.”

She hated her human body because she could remember the power of her draegon form, the perspective she’d held as a draegon. Without those memories, did it make a difference to Wrend?

As she’d always done, she dismissed the thought. He was a draegon. He would find more happiness in that form.

“He won’t go with you.” Certainty filled his voice and face. “He’s dedicated to me. He would do anything for me.”

“Once he knows he’s a draegon—when it’s confirmed from more than just me—he will willingly come with me.”

She clung to the assertion. Wrend was not lost to her.

Still, the doubt stuck: what if he found out and admitted it, and still rejected her? Would she try to force him back into a draegon’s body?

Athanaric smiled with his lips closed and shook his head. He took a step back. “You talk with Rashel. Tell her what you need to. Then release her, so she can return to the city. I trust you, as a draegon, to keep your word and not harm her.”

She gave him a mirthless grin. “I will have my mate back.”

“You're welcome to try. I know my son.”

With a grunt, and one last smirk at her, he turned and headed toward the village and tent city. They lay at the base of the ridge a few miles away.

She watched him go, alternately tightening and loosing her jaw. Even when he disappeared from her sight, she continued to stare. The possibility that Wrend would reject her despite the truth—something she’d always known about, but rejected—had gripped her heart with a cold hand.