[This post is from Phelan’s point of view.]
Sweat beaded on his brow, his heart pounding, missing beats as it battered his ribs from the inside. He knew that with the sudden infusion of power from the earth beneath his feet, he would be lit up like a beacon to anything sensitive beyond the wards, to whatever was coming along with those drums in the distance.
That was almost the point, though. He knew that they were coming for them. There was nothing else they could be marching on, not out here.
Whatever the hell it is, whoever the hell it is, let them bloody well come. Phelan smiled a grim smile, opening his eyes and looking out toward the trees that clung to the walls of the ravine. Let them come and see what price they pay.
He should have felt sick to his stomach, worried, perhaps even afraid. In truth, he wasn’t sure why he wasn’t.
Sick of being afraid, maybe. Sick of running. Sick of a lot of things.
He sent one last surge of power through the wards, the hairs on his arms standing on end, body tingling with the power he’d drawn. His smile faded as he slowly stood, dusting his hands off on the seat of his jeans.
Let them come. They won’t like what they get.
Phelan took a deep breath and exhaled it slowly. The drums were louder now, no longer a faint echo in the distance. They were coming from the west somehow, from near the lake’s swollen shore.
Don’t know who. Don’t know how. Won’t matter once we’re arrayed. Just have to hold the wall, hold the gate. We’ll have the advantage of the high ground.
Why the hell am I so bloody calm?
He shook his head slowly. Either way, it didn’t matter.
There was work to be done.
