Mikoto and the Reaver Village (Amaranthine Saga #4) - Forthright . Page 0,7
his sire, for they had the Trebellair coloring.
Everyone was in fine form tonight. The encircling ranks were driving him toward a narrow place, likely in hopes of penning him in. It might have worked if they’d had the support of wards, but most battlers sucked at barriers.
Sinder streaked through the trees, circumventing the bulk of their ranks. Slowing to a stroll, he listened carefully, alert to movement in the treetops. One of the reavers had an owl Kith, and she was a regular stealth fighter. Hisoka should bring in more for support. It’d be in Sinder’s next report.
Something hit him. Not hard, but not in a good way.
He’d been made.
Bolting away, Sinder strained his senses for the position of his pursuer. It should have been easy. Even if a reaver was warded, their stones and sigils whispered in ways that every dragon knew. For sigils were written upon the wind, resonating with the songs of stones. But Sinder was at a loss. And that meant he wasn’t dealing with a warded battler.
There’d been a ward in the ranks after all.
Sinder leapt into a tree and quickly shed his tunic to check the back. A sigil shimmered against the cloth. Probably a tracer. He left it there and fled through the treetops. Which smacked of desperation, but it was also Sinder’s best out.
Quick, but less quiet than he would have liked. And far from graceful.
Leaves smacked. Twigs scratched. Bark bit. Pausing to listen, he peered back over his shoulder and caught the telltale gleam of a sigil creeping over pale skin.
He hung his head and wished—not for the first time—for Juuyu.
His partner made short work of any form of sigilcraft.
This was exactly why Hisoka frowned on solo missions. And why Boon was in deep shit. And why Sinder needed to either shed his skin—not ideal—or go to ground. Camouflaged, there was a slim chance he could outlast the night.
Right then, a wave of dizziness washed over him. A moment later, he hit the ground, and pain lanced through his side. Sucking in a shallow breath, he forced his way onto his feet and focused on a silent retreat.
Was his pursuer aware that he was flightless? That little detail was not on the approved lesson plan. With wavering steps, he made for one of the grottoes he’d located during earlier reconnoiters. Not the best of bolt holes, but it was closest, and that’s what counted.
Sinder crawled through a rocky narrow, tumbling into a den with an earthen floor. Perhaps it had once belonged to wildcats or wolves. It might have been a good hideaway if he wasn’t so certain that the sigil that continued to spread was beckoning to its crafter.
Clutching at his side, he waited to see the source of his humiliation.
A scant minute passed. A few low words and a stealthy scuffle preceded Michaelson into the den.
“Go away,” he muttered.
“Not until I remove that sigil.”
Lovely. He was immune to Sinder’s words, as well. “Sassing back to dragons? You are one annoyingly over-qualified rookie.”
Michaelson lofted a couple of crystals, which took on a soft blue glow. He sighed and said, “You don’t remember me, do you.”
“Should I?” Sinder studied the young man. Caucasian. With dark eyes and hair, which hung in loose curls almost to his shoulders. In need of a shave. Built like a tank.
The battler shook his head. “Dragons don’t rely so much on scents. Colors and sounds are what trigger your memories, and my voice has changed.”
Sinder frowned. He didn’t need lessons in being a dragon. He’d already been trying to pin down the man’s voice, which was deep and lightly accented. As if English weren’t the only language in his arsenal.
“I’ll give you a hint.” Beckoning with the fingers of both hands, Michaelson quietly ordered, “Touch my nose.”
“We have met.” Sinder’s thoughts raced. “We met when you were a child?”
“Only once, so it’s no wonder you don’t remember.” He showed his palms. “May I touch?”
Sinder tried to do the polite thing, only to reveal a bloodied hand.
“You’re injured.” Crowding close, the reaver ordered, “Show me.”
“Is this the part where I’m meant to assure you that it’s just a scratch?”
He snorted. “This is the part where I check for broken ribs.”
Michaelson’s hands were blessedly warm as he probed. Sinder bit his lip to keep from whimpering. “Kith partner, sigil crafter, and field medic? Where did Naroo-soh find you?”
“Hang on, Sinder. I need my kit, and Fend is carrying it.”