Page 35 of Reign of the Talon
It happens at once. Pain, sharp enough that I gasp, slamming back into the wall. Rui shouts my name and lurches to his feet, but then he is groaning, too, staggering back.
Agony is searing through my right shoulder, burning deep, deep, deep. I choke on it, breathing hard, and when I take my hand away from where the wound burns…it comes away red. I realize with a start that in here, I somehow bleed mortal scarlet, not monstrous emerald. And Rui, Rui is bleeding from his shoulder, too. Bleeding gold.
“Lina?” Rui’s eyes are wide with panic, but I don’t understand…
It hurts too much to lift my right hand into the air to sign the Quiet Language. I shake my head as blood seeps down my arm. How—howdo we have the same wound?
The answer comes to us both in the same moment. I see it in the way Rui’s eyes widen. It’s the Prophecy. She’s been—she’s been injured, and somehow in here, in this mind prison,Ihave been injured, too. This has never happened before, but I do not think that she has been wounded like this before, either.
But…why isRuiinjured?
“This,” he pants, clutching his shoulder, “this is new.” Suddenly, he curses. “Chan,” he hisses.
I stare at him, confused, hardly able to think through the pain.
“Chan went rogue,” the emperor pants as he stumbles toward me. “I meant to warn you. He left to track down the Prophecy. I couldn’t leave Sanyeongto. He must have found your body.” Swearing again, Rui kneels down in front of me, and scans my face in fear. “He has fireswords. They’re forged in my fire, Lina. They have killed Imugi.”
My eyes widen. Fighting back panic, I sign,Is this how we die?
No. No, not yet.Please, not yet. It can’t be, can it? Prophecies are not so easily thwarted, yet the possibility seems so very real as my shoulder screams in agony. Have I decided too late to fight back?
Should I have acted when I had the chance?
The Dalgyal Gwisin makes that horrible, rattling sound deep in its throat. Laughing. It’slaughingat us. How is this happening—
“Lina,” Rui pants, “we need to get you out of here—” But then the golden door is appearing on the wall, and I watch in shock as it seems to yank Rui through it before slamming shut. Something—perhaps the pain of the wound,ourwound—must have broken his concentration. Something must have jerked him back into the physical world.
Blood drips down my shoulder. I need to know what has happened. Ineedto. Gritting my teeth, I stagger to my feet and collapse against the bars of the cage, peering into the Prophecy’s eyes.
CHAPTER TWENTY
The Prophecy
The blade gouges deep into my shoulder, and I scream in furious rage as the white-haired Dokkaebi yanks his firesword out of my flesh and spits in my face.
He waylaid us two miles from the next village, leaping from his shadowed corridor, a blade of blue extending from the sword hilt he carried along with his dangpa. I had been expecting him, and it was easy enough to grab my bow and arrow from underneath my saddle and begin shooting venom-tipped arrows toward him.
I had not, however, expected him to—for once—actually think past his bloodlust andstrategize.
When he hurled his dangpa, that giant trident, through the air, I had no choice but to launch myself off Sonagi to avoid it. He waited until my left leg buckled at the impact of hitting the ground, andthenhe rushed forward. Taking advantage of my momentary weakness, he had kicked my left knee hard, and when I fell, he brought the firesword down. I rolled just in time for it to hit my shoulder, and not my heart, but the pain still has me roaring as the blade leaves my skin.
I am theProphecy. I am theGoddess of Wrath. I am theYeouiju.
And yet I feel this pain? Green blood pours from the wound as I roll away from the Supreme Commander, and as my Imugi lunge for him, mouths snapping. He fends them off, but only barely. I stagger to my legs, clutching the green-seeping wound, and bare my teeth.
This will not do.
Scaleblades drawn, I leap into the mayhem of writhing Imugi and a furious Dokkaebi. It is different this time. When he appeared, I was almost amused at his optimism of undertaking such a foolish task.
Now, I am angry.
He whips the firesword through the air, and with each stroke, I arch my back, avoiding the blue blade even as I question—furiously—why my wound is not healing. I have healed from Dokkaebi fire before, but still my shoulder leaks and leaks.
Chan’s fighting style is sharp and precise. His kicks, when he leaps into the air, are straight and neat. He can spin in a blur, bringing his foot toward my face in a motion that is difficult for even me to track. I counter this by moving with serpentine grace, smooth and sinuous despite the new immobility of my injured arm. My Imugi sense that I want this victory to myself and hold themselves back, but only barely. Beongae is hissing something about how delicious Kim Chan’s bones will taste, ignoring how his rider—Bomin—is shrieking in terror.
As Chan’s sword approaches me in a wide arc, I drop to the ground, spinning and slicing my foot underneath his boots. It is enough to throw him off balance, allowing me to somersault away from the still-descending blade, leap to my feet behind him, and press a scaleblade to his throat. “Yield,” I say, and my voice is guttural with both pain and displeasure.
“Go on,” Chan spits. “Kill me.” His sword drops to the ground.
