not a rock. We are Koth! You have spilled your tears and sweat and blood onto that island. And so the demon that comes toward us is made of rock that is saturated with our blood and our flesh, and we can fight it!”
Cheers and shouts rose around her, and still she saw fear—but fear would also serve them well, as long as they were not ruled by it.
“If you cannot fight, or if you have children to protect, then by Vela—take them to where they are safe. But if you can fight, take whatever weapons you can find and gather on the shore. We will not let this demon destroy us.”
And Lizzan would not let the demon destroy them. She tossed the pine cone away and Aerax was there, weapons in hand and a heartrending mix of pride and dread in his gaze.
“You will be a legend,” he told her quietly.
Her throat burned and she took his hand. “Now a boat,” she said, and looked to Preter. “Can you give us a swift wind as you did last eve?”
“You are going out to meet it?”
Lizzan nodded.
“By the time you sail that distance, it might have risen higher out of the water. Or it might simply swat your boat aside.”
“True. But I cannot see many other options aside from waiting here on the shore.” Where she truly believed it could be fought, but not before hundreds—if not thousands—of Kothans were crushed.
“I have an idea,” the monk said. “For when we learn our spells and magic . . . we do not always practice responsibly.”
Aerax frowned at him. “What does that mean?”
“Sometimes we jump off cliffs. You do not need to do that here,” he added hastily. “But with a sail from one of those boats, I might get you across the water more quickly.”
* * *
* * *
More quickly” was Lizzan holding tight to two corners of a square sail and Aerax gripping the other two corners, while Preter filled the sail with wind until it lifted them into the air.
“Hold fast!” Kelir shouted up at them, as if Lizzan had any thought of letting go as they rose higher and higher, swaying. From below came gasps, and shouts of encouragement, and Lizzan only wanted them to fall utterly quiet so that Preter’s full concentration could be aimed toward their sail.
Oh, and they were so high. Lizzan squeezed her eyes shut.
“Do you pray to Vela?” Aerax called over the rush of wind, grinning.
Grinning. As if they were not hanging high above a freezing lake, heading toward a demon made of stone, with a hundred bulbous eyes and a cavernous maw created from nightmares.
“I am praying to Preter!” she shouted back, and his deep laughter in response was the finest sound she’d ever heard.
Until he called out, “I love you, Lizzan of Lightgale!”—and that was the finest.
Heart so very full, she looked to him as the wind whipped his snow-white hair across his face, memorizing every feature though she’d memorized them so many times before. Yet never had they been here before, so full of laughter and love and fear, for they both knew what lay ahead. And if this was the very last look she would have of him, then she would look her fill.
The laughter drained from his expression, leaving only love and desolation. “If you leave me, I will come for you,” he told her thickly. “Wherever you go, I will find you, and we will be together again. Even if I have to rip you out of Temra’s arms.”
Vision blurring, she nodded—and then not much more could she say as the wind carrying them eased slightly, so that they began to drift downward. The demon had tentacles now . . . or antennae. They were still partially submerged so she couldn’t be certain, but the enormous shadow beneath the water seemed to be moving slowly on at least twelve insectile legs. As they floated closer, the bulbous red eyes rolled upward, catching Lizzan and Aerax in their horrid gaze.
The antennae extended toward them, pincers at the end snapping, their reach falling short of the distance but filling Lizzan with new terror. Their sail began to drop toward the demon, faster and faster.
Abruptly new antennae erupted from beneath the water’s surface, spearing toward them. Lizzan cried out, kicking at the pincers but missing, the sail wobbling wildly. With a slashing of the razored claws, it ripped a slit into the sail.