Page 48 of Sanctuary

“I hate you!”

Farhang took a step back.

“I will kill you! I will rip you apart! I want you to hurt and suffer! I will make you suffer!”

Finn raised his hands.

Roman grabbed him by the shoulder. “No.”

“But…”

“No. This is not your fight.”

“He’s right,” Andora said. “Don’t interfere.”

The monsters launched themselves at Farhang. Magic flared around his hands, a radiant corona of fire. He screamed as if cut, and a jet of flames tore from him. The creatures darted around him, too fast, as his fire struck again and again, missing them by inches.

Farhang’s fire looked hot enough to melt the world, but the blanket of snow sheathing the Glades remained pristine and unbothered.

The teenager was the first to fall. She’d gotten too cocky, and the fire caught her right flank. The flames burned a hole in her side, exposing pale ribs. The stench of cooked flesh spread through the clearing. Finn gagged.

The injured monster fell onto the snow, screaming. The other two screeched in unison.

It took a long time. Ten minutes, maybe twelve. An eternity in a fight. Farhang fought as hard as he could, his magic a firestorm, then a purifying shower, as he tried and failed to purge the corrupting magic from their dying bodies. And then he wept.

They waited for the shudders to die down. Finally, he got up and walked over to them on unsteady legs, looking like a risen corpse. He took his place next to Finn, and they resumed their trek.

They managed to take less than a dozen steps when Andora strode away from them into the snow, toward a magic whirlwind. A group of people appeared in the open. On one side, a woman in her late twenties held a boy, maybe two or three years old. She clutched the boy to her as if afraid someone would rip him out of her arms. Across from her, a group of six people waited, their faces grim.

Among the six, an older woman wore a gray robe with Troyan’s symbol on it, one triangle on the bottom, three on top. Troyan was the Healer, a Nav god who ruled over disease. His devotees healed the sick. Next to the healer, a young woman wore an amulet with Makosh’s twisted spiral—a seer, possibly an oracle.

“You must kill the child,” Troyan’s priestess intoned.

The mother of the boy hugged him tighter to herself. He had big blue eyes, chubby cheeks, and a head of reddish-blond hair. He almost looked like a bewildered kitten that was snatched off the floor in the middle of playing and now had no idea what was going on.

“He is barely three years old,” Andora said.

“He will be the death of all of us. The entire town will die,” Troyan’s priestess said.

“The child is innocent. At this point, he hasn’t done anything,” Andora repeated. “You’re asking me to take a life because of something you think might happen.”

“Will happen!” Troyan’s priestess pointed toward Makosh’s seer.

“It will come to pass,” the seer said.

“Last year your uncle, Sergei Ivanovich, predicted that the winter would be so cold, birds would freeze in flight,” Andora said. “Instead, you had record warm temperatures. Three years ago, you predicted that Red Rock Bridge would collapse. It is still standing.”

“This is different,” the seer said.

“Please!” The mother’s voice shook. “He’s just a little boy!”

“Their whole family are Lihoradka’s worshippers,” a man called out. “We should burn them all.”

Andora unsheathed her sword. “There will be no witch hunts.”

The man stepped back.

She turned to the mother clutching at her son. “I won’t let anyone hurt him, or you. Go home.”