134 – Medicine Is a Type of Poison

Mal stopped. In front of him was an impossible sight, one beyond any sort of common sense.

The wolf that had been about to attack Rolam from behind had bitten the other one, seemingly by accident.

Mal ran through the events in his head. Rolam had stepped to the left, stabbed the wolf in front of him, then slung it around in front of the one that had been about to sneak up on him.

Rolam, as far as Mal knew, wasn't capable of Total Awareness.

Then are his instincts that sharp? No, that's ridiculous.It was like—

Like he'd read the future.

Ekron broke out of his stupor. He glanced at the other creatures surrounding them, then set them all on Rolam.

Rolam dodged to the left. Stepped underneath a strike. Stabbed one through the head—all in one easy, fluid motion. One by one, each of the undead animals were sliced to ribbons so thin that the reformation of flesh was taking much longer than before..

Ekron's placid face shifted from a smile to a small frown. Eventually, he pointed his hand out at Rolam.

"Enough of this."

A black jet of mana ripped from Ekron's open palm and toward Rolam. Rolam spun out of the way with a flourish, and it missed him by mere inches.

Rolam darted toward Ekron like a honeybee in flight. His blade made a figure eight through the air, and sliced Ekron in half. He brought his blade up for another strike, when Ekron jerked his wrist.

A dozen more undead creatures came from the woods. But unlike last time, where they ran at Rolam one at a time, instead, they closed a loop around him, circling. They were going to strike at the same time. Rolam glanced left and right, and his hand tightened around his blade.

Mal rushed forward, his dagger gleaming in the sunlight. He broke left, toward Ekron. Ekron only shifted his head and the wolves attacked Rolam. Mal continued his course. The only way to end this fight was by permanently finishing off Ekron.

And there was only one thing that Mal could think of.

Mal reached into a satchel and pulled out a fistful of medicinal herbs. With two quick steps, he reached out his hand to jam it down Ekron's throat—

When Ekron sidestepped and his hand lit up black.

The world slowed to a crawl. Mal considered each of his options one by one.

His Airgrass boots shot him forward, and the black bolt missed him by an inch. He spun on his heels, and went in for another blow. Once again, Ekron slid to the side—but this time, Mal managed to keep his footwork steady enough to dodge out of the attack he knew would be coming.

Ekron disengaged and backed away. Mal looked at the ground around them. They were outside of the ring of death that Ekron had made earlier.

Mal rushed forward with the last of the energy stored in his Airgrass boots. At the same instant, he sent a column of plants out of the ground and around Ekron's legs. Ekron opened his hand for another one of those withering-type spells, but it was too late.

Mal stuffed the medicinal herbs down Ekron's throat, then clamped his jaws shut with both hands, one at his forehead, the other at his chin.

Ekron's eyes widened. Smoke came from the corners of his lips. He thrashed around in the vines, his nails came up to rip at the ones around his neck—even so, Mal didn't relent. Bit by bit, the thrashing died down, until it finally came to a stop.

The only thing left of Ekron was a dried-out, hollowed husk of a person. A book tumbled out of his clothing and onto the ground.

A journal. His personal mage journal?

Mal let go of the plants mentally, then turned to check on Rolam—

Total Awareness screamed at him, and he brought his head back around. The husk had leapt toward him, arms outstretched, eye sockets empty and hollow, those thin, sharpened nails covered in plant juices.

Mal's Airgrass boots were out. Even if he had them on, he didn't have the reaction time to move.

With nothing else to do, Mal shut his eyes and braced for his fate—

A blade sang as it cut through the air.

Mal opened his eyes. The head of Ekron collided with his stomach, then hit the ground. With a low hissing noise, it evaporated and turned to ashes.

Mal turned to look at his savior. Rolam was covered in red scratches, angry welts. Thin rivulets of blood ran down his face. He sheathed his sword, then looked at Mal.

Mal looked at him.

"Show me your hand," he said.

"What? Why do you need to see my hand?"

"Just do it."

Rolam shrugged, then presented his hand. Mal flipped it back and forth and searched along the palm. Nothing.

"Other one."

"Are you serious?" Rolam groaned. "Can you at least explain what this is about?"

Mal glared at him. Rolam complied and brought out his other hand.

Mal repeated the searching process, but located nothing. Not even a slight darkening of the skin. Rolam looked like nothing more than a pampered elf noble.

Mal brought his hands down. It must have been nothing. A fluke on Rolam's part. His amazing battle instinct combining with his training for a once-in-a-lifetime performance. Yes—that was the only option.

And then the back of Rolam's hand lit up like a lighthouse.

Rolam startled back and held out his hand away from himself. A thin golden light streamed out of one single point, like a divine pen writing out a message. Bit by bit, the symbol was filled in—a sword in the foreground, with wings wrapping from the back to the front of the hilt, and a ring in the background to close things out.

The Mark of Glory, signifying Rolam's status as the Herald of Glory. A power that granted him the ability to see five seconds into the future.

About five years too early.

Mal stood there for what felt like several minutes. Rolam, entranced, was too busy staring at his mark to say anything. Eventually, some vague plan of action finally entered Mal's mind.

"You can't tell anyone about this," he said.

Rolam jerked. "What? I am aware of what this means, honored leader. I am a Herald, am I not? Either that or an Endbringer, but I find that unlikely."

"Yes, but—"

What was Mal supposed to say? That having a Herald this early in the timeline was a sign of things going completely off the rails? Yeah, that would go over well.

"—Think about the political implications," Mal said slowly. "An elf receiving the Mark of Eternus. Rolam, they would kill you."

Rolam sucked in a breath. "Are you serious?"

No, but you don't need to know that.

"Dead serious. And we can't tell anybody else about the vessel."

"But—we slayed a vessel in honorable combat—that's something to be proud of, is it not?"

"It is, but does your honor need people to be applauding you at every second? Isn't it enough to know that you did the right thing?"

At that, Rolam opened his mouth, then shut it.

He was still doubtful, Mal could tell.

"Just for a few months," Mal said. "Six months, then we'll revisit it. For now, hide it, okay?"

Rolam stood there for what felt like hours, then nodded. "I'll trust your judgment, honored leader. It's never led us astray thus far."

Oh, buddy, you have no idea.

As they arrived back at the school, Mal couldn't help but feel that he'd forgotten something.

They were heading up a steep incline back to the school, gravel crunching and slipping under their feet. Mal caught himself before he tumbled, his mind distracted.

Beneath his robes, Ekron's journal rested against his chest.

"What are we supposed to say about the airships?" Rolam asked.

"We'll just say that we did manage to crash into them, but that by the time we woke up, Ekron had escaped."

Once again, that small niggling feeling of something missing at the back of Mal's head. He tried his best to remember what it was, but nothing came to mind.

As they approached the school, it came into clearer and clearer view. There was a mass of people moving in and out of the front gate. People were streaming in and out through the front gate.

"I want search teams to the north and to the east, and get messengers out to the surrounding cities! They'll have to stop for supplies at some point, we can catch them then!"

Deacon Thoma barked the orders at a group of mages in white. They nodded and ran off.

Mal approached him.

"Deacon Thoma? What's all this about?"

Thoma turned to face him, bags set deep in his eyes, his posture slumped.

"You don't know?"

"Know what?"

"The princess, Mal."

Mal's heart sunk.

"What about her?"

"She's gone."

At that, the wriggling piece of information that had bothered Mal so finally hit him.

He'd lost track of Nima during the fight, hadn't he?