“Hush,” Tyrus snapped.
The drovers started to moan with fear. They were beginning to understand the danger, that they were much closer to the Scourgelands than they had perceived. “Away . . . we must away,” one of them babbled.
“Makapenrinee,” whispered another drover, his eyes widening with recognition.
Light filled the tent as Tyrus’s hands glowed blue with flames.
“The scars of others should teach us caution.”
- Possidius Adeodat, Archivist of Kenatos
XIV
Do you sense it? Annon asked Nizeera, reaching out and plunging his fingers into her fur. He did not want to reach out to it with his talisman, for fear of attracting the creature to them. What creature is it?
It is a Vecser, came her response. They are vicious hunters and can smell blood and flesh. It is blind to us because of the storm. They hunt in packs.
As if to reinforce her thoughts, the sound of another came, even farther away. The first was drawing near to the tent and they could hear the crunch of the sand as it approached.
Tyrus’s face had a grayish cast in the flame light of his fingers, his eyes fixed on the tent door. Were their enemies already prowling the borders of the Scourgelands, seeking them? Would they even be able to approach the woods unseen?
A thought came to Annon’s mind—a quick memory of his time in Basilides. He wore an iron torc around his neck, a device imbued with magic that had banished the serpents inside the lair. It repelled any animal, including his friend. Nizeera felt his thoughts and her hackles rose, her ears flattening, and she hissed at him.
Annon reached out and took Tyrus’s wrist to get his attention without speaking. He motioned to the torc around his neck, offering it as an alternative to using the fireblood so soon. Tyrus examined his gesture and then nodded curtly.
Closing his eyes, Annon withdrew inside himself and uttered the word in his mind that activated the torc—Iddawc. The torc had jewels embedded into each end and he felt their warmth begin to flush his neck as they responded to the thought. Waves of mental blackness extended from him, and Nizeera squirmed away, her mind repulsed by the fear emanating from the torc. She skulked in the corner of the tent, as far away from him as she could, hackles raised.
The screeching sound of the beast outside changed instantly. The baying stopped. The ferocity of the sandstorm increased, but not because of the magic the Druidecht wore around his neck. He felt the twin orbs pulsing against his skin, becoming unbearably hot. Annon mastered the pain, determined to keep the dark creature at bay. He clenched his fists and hugged himself, exerting his mind to endure the heat. Sweat trickled down his face with the effort. He did not like the black shroud preventing him from feeling Nizeera’s thoughts.
After several long moments, Tyrus signaled for him to stop. He gratefully relinquished control of the magic and the stones began to cool instantly. The shroud passed away and he felt Nizeera’s mind again, quavering with fear and anger that he had summoned its power.
“Well done,” Tyrus said.
“I would have killed it easily enough,” Kiranrao said petulantly. “Next time, send me to do such work.”
Tyrus turned and looked at the Romani solemnly. “That was a Vecser, Kiranrao. The plural is Vecses, as they hunt in packs. It was trying to get our scent. They are different from Weir . . . more like dogs than cats. Their hinds are lean, like a greyhound, but their chests are massive and their jaws lock tight. They have long tails with a pod-like sac on the ends. I did not want it getting our scent yet. Annon’s suggestion avoided the confrontation.”
Kiranrao leaned forward, his jaw jutting arrogantly. “Tyrus, you are as fearful as a child. I could feel it all the way over here. If you could only see yourself. We haven’t even entered the Scourgelands yet and you are already trembling.”
Annon felt a surge of anger at Kiranrao’s words. He had noticed the tremor in Tyrus’s hand as well, but he would never have stated it as nakedly as Kiranrao had.
“Of course I am terrified,” Tyrus replied, a half smirk on his mouth. “I know what we are about to face. I know the dangers far better than you. Trust me, Kiranrao. Even you will face your fears when we enter. Even you.”
The Romani snorted. “I fear nothing. You lacked the proper weapons when you last ventured in there.”
“We will see.”
Annon did not like the tension filling the tent. He watched the two men stare at each other, wrestling with their expressions instead of words, their faces illuminated by the flames in Tyrus’s hands. Kiranrao rolled over against the pile of provisions, turning his back on them all.