The Deepcombers

Chapter Fifty Two

Eight wildkin soldiers blocked their way. Five infantry with leather tunics and machetes flanked three orange-robed shafeigors. They held the three-way junction.  A hooded figure led them.

Lon choked with disbelief when the tall figure lowered his hood and revealed his face. "Hastegus?" he gasped. It was all he could manage; the weight of the stones crushed down.

"Lonastasius Treanol," The cocky Crol said. The iridescent silver moon tattoo on his forehead shimmered and he still had the same swagger as on the Annabelle. "My new friends told me you'd come here. To light the signal... Draw forth your steadfast allies."

"You're too late." Saeya pointed at the glow that emanated from behind the ivy-covered wolf's head. "The signal burns!"

"It's of no concern," Hastegus waved dismissively, "nobody comes this way except more Crols."

"Step aside." Melcart raised his bare right arm.

"Tell me." Hastegus ignored the rogue, "has Clyde of Barobell killed the Templemaster yet?"

"Hamlin Adewoulson lives you fool." Saeya took charge, "and you'd best carry-on back the way you came. You've found yourself facing the Young Masters of Atarskal and there's nary a force between here and the port that can stand before us," the blond girl waved to move the rabble back, but they stood their ground. Lon swelled with pride at her words and he was sure the others felt equally buoyed. Individually they were freaks, but together they were unalloyed strength. Saeya was of course not including the Croleans in her boastful claim, but her confidence worked all the same to reinforce their group's morale. "Run away," she continued. "The only reason you're still alive is because it's beneath us to murder you here in your shrine."

"Now you wear three stones to ascend?" Hastegus wasn't discouraged by the huntress. He ignored her and continued to behave as though the others didn't exist. This was just between him and Lon. The occultist pointed at the heavy yellow ornaments around the young lad's neck as he stepped closer. "You quest for Samardina? You seek the lost Book of Kluth..?" The unpredictable mystic was a confident stallion, but Lon could see his bravado wasn't shared by his companions. Perhaps they knew how dangerous four young masters could be, and maybe they didn't expect to find any smilkdrivers here, or anyone wearing deadly relics.

"Step back." Melcart warned.

"Not a chance." Hastegus defied the rogue. "This is where I regain my rightful place." He pointed at the stones. "I'll take those now. You know it's me who should make this journey."

"But. He. Chose. Me." Lon said, referring to Kluth, not Horne, yet it was the Crolean priest who'd selected him to die and thereby reversed their roles.

"Step back," Melcart said. "Last warning."

"The wildkin know I am meant to ascend." Hastegus ignored Mel and reached out for the yellow blocks with both hands. "Now give me the totems."

"Do they. Know. Your. Crol. Beliefs?" Lon managed to speak and point to the wildkin.

"There's a place for almost everyone in the New Order," Hastegus replied calmly. "The Crols will succeed. Prima Alocer will be the new law of the land. Which means there's no place for you."

"Why?"

"You're an abomination." The mystic almost laughed as he condemned him. 

"Try your best," Melcart chuckled.

"The wildkin have their own Varget," Hastegus threw open his robe to display his horrible chest wound which still looked raw and painful. "Can you feel it?" the mystic closed his eyes. "Minat," he intoned. His word cracked with power and echoed in the stones behind them. The smilkpulse rippled and there in the air before his former friend's outstretched fingers appeared the same horrible wound as was manifest on his chest. Lon could see it coming and it scared him because there was no escape, not this close. He had no way to counter this sign because his smulcrum was occupied and he had to keep the it alive or he'd collapse under the weight. Lon turned his body and braced for pain. He reckoned his right arm and side would be the best place to receive the ugly gash. But the mark didn't stick. It bounced off his thigh and fell on the rocks at his feet where it faded away.