Phelan could feel the unrest even before they came back into sight of the walls. A faint pounding rose behind his eyes as they rode, possibly due to whatever he’d managed to wrest free of Lake Michigan’s frigid depths or because of something else. He wasn’t sure of either, nor was he entirely certain that it mattered.
Matt waited for them at the gates, tired and spattered with Thordin’s blood—more blood than Phelan thought. He grimaced and shivered.
“Is he–?” Phelan stopped, the words sticking in his throat. He couldn’t be dead. It wasn’t possible.
“You better hurry,” Matt said. “Jay can’t afford for Jac to be distracted worrying about you while they’re trying to save him.”
Phelan swore softly and swung down from his mount’s ack, tossing the reins to Matt and breaking into a jog toward s back, tossing the reins to Matt. “It’s as bad as I thought, then.”
“Probably worse,” Matt answered, jerking his head toward the tents. “Go, and hurry. Neve and Seamus are there. Sif’s beside herself. I—she’s crying, Phelan.”
Far worse than any of us dared to think it might be, then. He broke into a run despite his lingering dizziness, knowing that Marin and Thom would both be on his heels.
Part of him thought that Matt should be there as well, btu something kept him from saying it. The man whose soul had once been the Ridden Druid’s had good instincts. Phelan knew that he needed to trust them as much as he trusted Marin’s or Thom’s.
He sucked in a sharp breath. You can’t die on us now, Thordin. You can’t. Your part in this story isn’t over yet.
It was what he wanted to believe. If Marin or Thom had seen something to prove it, they hadn’t told him outright, but he wanted to believe that it was true.
It’s what I have to believe. Otherwise, there’s nothing else left to hope for.
Gods help us all.
damn…… O.O