More cries, flames, the palace burned - no! - torches held aloft in a far corridor. Tom saw the knife - the stain of blood a dull gleam in the old man’s belt; the old man, his hand held up, his face triumphant, uplifted to the dark thing that spilled from the doorway - a doorway that he, Tom, had opened. The old man mouthed some words, words that Tom could not understand, a harsh, alien tongue that seemed a call to aid the creature forming in the air above him. The shrill cry of a hunting horn swirled a burning wind inside Tom’s head, and Cali’s cry, too, no more than the helpless cry of a young girl calling for help – help, it seemed, that only he could give. Savage was the storm that engulfed Tom’s thoughts, and a fierce cry of rage hurled from his lips as he wielded Shon’rel to the air. The blade flashed, scything through the old man, the shadowy eyes reflecting no hint of pain as the sword sliced him in two. But even as he was struck, barely a hint of his being remained, and only the red robe lingered, falling as a wisp of smoke in the air until it vanished into nothingness before Tom’s eyes.
And Tom was still.
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