Chapter Fifty-Four: Sacrifice

  What of friends?

  What of those who share our burdens,

  When we can’t carry them ourselves.

  Are they not silent heroes?

  Steadfast bastions on our darkest nights?

  Moose had not moved. Callam, in his craze to escape, wind at his back and the rain pelting his hair, took too long to notice. Sliding to a stop on the slick prairie grass, he looked over his shoulder to see the giant transfixed, a thousand or more roots converging on his position. Prairieplights of all sizes peppered the plains. Some were small as wagons; others towered tall as trees.

  “Leave me!” the boy bellowed as he squared his shoulders against the storm. “Zárima, élvador, únashi, kélatar.”

  Earth cracked around the giant’s feet, the nearby blades of grass bending under the pressure. Stone broke free from the ground and wrapped its way to his core, climbing up his body until it had covered his limbs and stretched along the steel of his shield. The downpour pelted his face. Roots approached from all directions. Their fibers groaned and snapped as they slammed into the earthen armor. Yet none managed to scratch the boy.

  With that single cast, he'd become the lighthouse fighting the tide.

  But unlike the lighthouse, Moose’s flame was sure to fail. All magic had its limitations—and any lackwit could see what would happen the moment this spell reached its duration.

  Callam’s body moved.

  And his wasn’t the only one.

  Lenora darted to his side. Scripting flowed through her as she raced over clumps of upturned grass, four tendrils in close pursuit. Her steps ate up the ground.

  “Crow’s foot!” she spat, voice tight with panic. “That fool. That damned idiot. He’s only invulnerable—”

  The wind stole her words, but Callam didn’t need to hear them. He dove low, muddying his knees to avoid a flurry of vines whipping through the air. His Seedling had already told him what Moose's spell did.

  The giant aimed to die here, serving as a distraction to keep them safe.

  Fool indeed.

  Yet how were they to survive as a group? Callam’s chest pounded so loud he felt it in his ears. Fear made every shift of soil and pattering of rain appear a threat. Only practiced discipline kept him from panicking—they had no plan. The beasts began to strangle the giant as Callam watched, tendrils coiling on top of each other like fibrous eels.

  When Moose surfaced from his shell, he’d suffocate.

  A stray root grabbed Callam’s leg, the wood rough and callous against his skin. He was airborne before he could draw breath. Screaming, he kicked and flailed—when that didn’t work, he tried to cast. No magic came out. He’d already reached his limit.

  Lenora hadn’t reached hers. With repeated shouts of, “Enfir maliv sonju fi naa loem,” she sent motes of flame at his and Moose's positions, six at a time.

  The creatures screamed as their roots burned, layers of felled wood crashing to the ground. The vine holding Callam released—and he landed hard—but those attacking Moose held fast. More beasts swarmed at their flank. A dozen shoots rushed Lenora’s way.

  The smell of char and smoke followed her as she retreated, casting all the way. It mixed with the sodden scent of damp earth.

  Where are the professors?

  The thought struck Callam harder than the ground had. Free, bruised, and gasping, he crawled forward, then rolled to his side as the earth underneath began to vibrate. Surely the Scriptors and proctors would hear this uproar and come running. Or sense the change in the weather and investigate.

  …wouldn’t they?

  Unless Sebastian distracted them.

  “Poet’s hand.” Callam cursed. A web of roots whipped overhead. Everything tasted slightly metallic from blood and from the thunder rolling in the clouds. He didn’t want to believe Sebastion guilty, yet knew it had to be so. Who else had known where they would be?

  Their teammate had to be behind this.

  Heat built within him at the realization—a heat he’d not known since watching the chapelward burn. It pricked the back of his neck and caused his anger to simmer into hate. Hate for the noble boy who’d nearly killed him once. Hatred of the skydrakes who’d destroyed his childhood sanctuary. Hatred at himself, for being too powerless to stop any of it. His was a hurt so personal he now recognized it as the hunger that had infected his previous spellcasts, driving the darkest side of him to lash out at whatever he could; it was almost as if his animal mind recognized these beasts for what they were: kin of brutal, unthinking creatures intent on an easy meal.

  Creatures Lenora pitied.

  Now, she and Moose were about to pay the ultimate price.

  I’ll not allow it.

  Reaching into his bookbag, he withdrew the small shiv he kept inside. It was more twig than knife, yet he swung it wildly as he pushed himself up, slicing it into each nearby root. Sap soon covered his hands. A stanza escaped his lips: “Fire remembers what coal forgets.” He’d make these prairieplights suffer for what they were attempting to do. For what the skydrake had already done. He’d—

  Metal hit thick wood and chipped.

  Reverberations shot down his hand. Before he could adjust his grip, a root coiled around his sword arm. Another grabbed his leg. Two more went for his throat, and he clawed at them with his free hand, trying to keep them from squeezing out his air. His heart beat faster. Lightning sparked a thin tree to his right. He’d die here, unless he fought. Die, just as Orian had, coughing and suffocating, encased in wood and surrounded by smoke. So, he thrashed. Mud squelched underneath him with each twist and turn. Thick and earthy, it splattered his jaw and the corners of his mouth. Cooled his skin.

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  Tempered his rage.

  Think.

  He’d been in a similar position, choked and powerless, months ago. It had been just one beast then, and a class of watching bystanders. “Why don’t the prairieplights eat the Tower animals?” he’d asked Rote after the ordeal. The Scriptor had insisted it was because the monsters sought human mana to escape the Tower. Callam had taken the answer in stride: Prarieplights were selective predators.

  And my friends are their prey.

  He fought back his guilt. With seconds of air left he could field no distractions.

  Think, damn it.

  More roots wrapped around his neck, the bark digging into his skin until he felt his throat might burst. Each heave of his chest brought no breath. Those fibers nearest him tore at the bookbag hanging at his side, trying to pierce through the leather. Almost as if…

  He blinked.

  As if…

  Thoughts came slower as his lungs—finally empty—fought for air. A pleasant cold settled into his limbs. Darkness lined his vision and the weather no longer felt so biting. The screeches and screams echoing through the flatlands settled to a pleasant buzz.

  Had his eyelids always been so heavy?

  “Callam!” Lenora cried—his eyes shot open. The roots had finally taken her. Three lashed her right leg while two tried to tear her tome away. She fought with everything she had. Mana leaked from her arms as she ripped the vines in two.

  Fear had set into her soft features. It haunted her blue eyes.

  Moose fared no better. In the distance, Callam could see roots encased his whole body now. They battered his form and chipped at the stone surrounding his grimoire.

  Grimoire.

  Something impossible settled in his mind. Something so foreign and wrong, it defied all common sense. Just the thought brought back his previous anger. Warmth shot up his left arm.

  What if…

  Lenora shouted again, though in his state he could not make out the words. A deep dizziness took him. Things would be so much easier if he could sleep. All the pain would fade. Why did she need his attention?

  Why not let him rest?

  Bright lights tore through the clouds. Magic of all forms descended toward them. He saw reds in the form of wings, yellows that split the air, and a green rot that polluted everything it touched. Prairieplights screamed and scrambled. Several went up in flames. Poppies grew out of the husks, making a garden of the graveyard. The pollen they released ate away at more roots and wood.

  Somewhere in the distance Callam heard a lute, the music carrying over the din and sweeping away the storm.

  ~~~

  Callam’s throat stung. Breathing still proved challenging as Rote pulled him to his feet. “Sebastian…” he started, then stopped to take a sip of water from the skin the teacher had handed him. Nearby, Adrenaline at the timely rescue kept his exhaustion at bay. ‘Sebasti—”

  “Patience,” Wisewick said a few feet away. Callam turned to see her tending to Lenora’s wounds.

  His friend looked distraught and kept trying to break free. “Moose,” she said. “Check on Moose first.”

  Wisewick frowned. Callam followed the woman’s eyes to where the giant remained encased in stone, a testament to his mana reserves.

  “He’ll be just fine—” Wisewick started.

  “He won’t!” Lenora’s voice grew more desperate as she failed again to push the professor away. “He’s felt everything. Every hit. Don’t you understand? His spell doesn’t make him truly…”

  The blood drained from Callam’s face.

  He sprinted toward the giant, Rote at his side. If what Lenora said was true, then Moose's spell only made his body invulnerable, and didn’t didn’t dampen the sensations the giant felt. A single lash from those creatures could flay skin—Callam couldn't begin to imagine what it felt like to be beaten on by a hundred or more roots for minutes on end.

  “Hi fev rayne limeor sai ra lo ne” Rote incanted as they approached. The wind around them moved. Sunlight glinted off of what remained of the giant’s shield as the professor’s magic blew away the stone. The metal had bucked and warped in several places.

  Seconds later, Moose’s armor faded and he crashed to his knees.

  His eyes, though open, were empty. All of his skin had turned a reddish hue..

  Sobs broke the silence; behind them, Lenora had begun to cry.

  “Take him to the infirmary,” a voice called out from behind them. Olenid. The Puzzleworks professor had arrived late and his clothing was in disarray. Paper constructs orbited him. “Callam,” he said. “Tell me what happened. In detail.” His eyes glinted. “Every detail.”

  Callam did so. Now was not the time for his misgivings around their professor.

  “And that's it?” the man said. “You had no tools to fight the beasts?” Moose lay on the ground between them. Lenora and Wiswick applied ointment to his arms. “How then did you manage to….”

  “We wouldn’t have, if Moose hadn’t—” Lenora cut her sentence off.

  “Bravery is a making of man.” Olenid looked intently at Callam. “And you're sure Sebastian is involved? Is there nothing else that might have attracted the beasts? Nothing unusual…”

  Rote spoke up before Callam could: “It stormed, Olenid.”

  “That it did,” the professor conceded. “Rote, collect the noble and have him meet us at the gate. Give him a chance to explain.”

  Furry breached Callam’s composure. “What chance does he need?”

  Olenid cocked his head. The two paper cranes floating above his shoulder did the same. “What chance, indeed.”

  The trip back to the castle took the better part of half an hour. Callam’s body, though bruised, managed the route down the rocky trail just fine. Lenora remained at his side on the walk, face downcast. She kept rubbing her right arm with her left hand, as if she didn’t know how to keep still. The warm sunlight stood in strong contrast to their moods. He knew she blamed herself.

  “Moose will…” he started. Rote had used his music to carry the giant to the castle.

  “Don’t.” Lenora snapped. “Don’t say that.”

  “I—”

  “It is no more my fault than yours,” she snarled. “Twice now. you’ve been attacked…” Her face paled as the words left her mouth. “Sorry,” she whispered—those were his secrets she’d publicly aired—yet she still pulled away, putting real distance between them.

  Much as her actions hurt, he understood. His own thoughts were similar; what kind of person was he to put his friends in danger? Moose and Lenora had not agreed to this. Guilt he’d held back earlier roiled in his stomach.

  Sebastian appeared impatient when they met him at the castle walls. “Why am I here?” he spouted. The bastard looked as if he’d been enjoying a nap. Rote stood beside him, displeased. Felm, his red paperfowl was nowhere to be seen.

  “Malfeasancem” Rote said simply. “Headmaster Vale is on his way.”

  Sebastian didn’t have the decency to pale. He shrugged, then made to leave.

  Olenid stepped forward. “I wouldn’t do that. No one looks more guilty than a party who hides. Best to admit our crimes.” He smiled broadly.

  Sebastian stopped.

  “What crime?”

  “Facilitating the ambush of your team?”

  Sebastian looked to Lenora, then to Callam, as if seeing their ragged appearances for the first time. Then he began to laugh. It was a wild, uncontrolled thing.

  “Ambush? I’m the only reason that scav is alive.”

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