The Jewel of Turmish - Mel Odom [97]
"Silvanus' mercy," Haarn whispered, "will this dead thing not return to the grave?"
Looking through the billowing smoke, Druz stared in disbelief at the skeleton. One of its arms had been blown off by the series of explosions and one foot was missing, but still it stood on the stump and reached out again for the jewel.
"Haarn," Ettrian called, "don't let it take the jewel."
The elf hobbled toward the skeleton, a look of dark intent on his soot-stained face.
The skeleton hobbled away from him, stumbling on one good foot through the craters that had been left by the explosive spell. It folded the jewel up under its remaining arm and bared its fangs, showing spaces where even more teeth had been knocked out. As it continued moving, the skeleton's lower jaw dropped away, giving a clearer view of the fragile spine holding the cracked skull in place.
Haarn, still limping, rushed forward, his scimitar bared in his fists. Closing on the skeleton, the half-elf raised his blade and drew back to swing. Instead of slicing through the spine as he'd obviously intended, Haarn swung through open air. The jewel glowed fiercely, and the ground opened up and sucked the skeleton down. Only a small mound remained to mark the skeleton's passage.
Reversing his blade, Haarn drove it deeply into the ground. It stopped when only half the length of the blade had sunk into the mud, but Druz knew the skeleton wasn't there. Whatever magic had flared from the jewel had taken it away.
"Haarn?" the elf asked.
Looking up, his eyes looking haunted in his scorched and soot-stained face, Haarn shook his head.
"We've let it escape," the elf said. "We had our hands on it and could have prevented some of this madness, but we let it escape. There's only one place that thing would be headed."
Ettrian swayed drunkenly as he balanced on his quarter-staff. Glancing to the east, he pointed with his chin.
"It could only have been called forth by Borran Kiosk," Ettrian said, his voice growing weaker.
The name stirred more fear inside Druz. Even before the horror stories of the Taker spread over the Vilhon Reach there were stories of Borran Kiosk. The legend of the evil mohrg rang through every alehouse and tavern. When men gathered to tell stories of what might have been and what might be, Borran Kiosk's name was never far from their hps.
"Borran Kiosk is dead," Druz said.
"Yes," Ettrian agreed, "and returned yet again. I was given word from the Elder Circle only this morning. Every druid who can answer has been called to Alaghфn to stand against the evil." He paused. "It looks like you might yet live to see a city as you've desired, Haarn."
Druz listened to the exchange, noting the resentment in the elf druid's words despite his weakness and pain.
"No," Haarn said. "I told you I never wanted to see a city, never wanted to be-"
"There's a part of you that belongs to your mother, isn't there?" Ettrian challenged, then his eyes rolled up into his head and he fell.
Haarn raced to the elf druid's side.
Druz joined him and watched as Haarn pried at the burned armor covering Ettrian's mid-section. She was surprised at the anxiety flashing in Haarn's eyes.
Fresh blood spilled from the cracked and open blisters that had mottled the elf s lean frame. The stink of burned meat clogged Druz's nostrils. She put a hand over her mouth and nose.
Gently, Haarn moved the elf aside and reached for the cloak. The garment's magical nature was further revealed by the fact that it had taken little damage from the mystic bolt. Haarn reached into one of the pockets sewn into the inside of the cloak.
Even though she knew the cloak was magical, it still amazed Druz at the way the druid sank his arm into it up to his elbow. He searched frantically, and pulled a potion from the pocket. He held the glass bottle up and surveyed the pale blue liquid contained within.
"A healing potion?" Druz asked.
She marveled at the bottle. Had it been kept in a regular pouch, it would surely