Free Changing Of The Guard (Book 6) by Ron Collins Page A

Will,” Garrick said.
    The boy rolled from the disk, wasting no time. He ripped the gag from his mouth as he ran, falling once, then getting up to run again.
    “You think I won’t be able to find him later?” Ettril said, turning back to cast his spell.
    A black cone struck Garrick full in the chest, and every muscle in his body clenched.
    An avalanche of cascading pain crushed him.
    His heart stopped. Bones ground against bones. His teeth gritted with the bloody taste of calcium and saliva. He fell, gasping for breath and groaning with distended sounds he had never heard from himself before.
    The ground was hard against his cheek and forehead.
    Shards of the city lay around him—broken panes of glass and metal, a blackened piece of cloth, scraps of wood that had once been a chair or a bed or maybe just a table.
    After all this, Garrick thought, he was going to die alone on a distant plane. Fitting, he supposed. He crawled toward the Koradictine, his bleeding fingers pulling himself along the ground. It hurt merely to breathe, but he wanted to give Will time to run.
    Ettril strode forward until the hem of his robe filled Garrick’s vision.
    “You are weak,” Ettril said.
    “Uhhh …” was all he could manage in response.
    Then he saw Will, sneaking up behind the mage, holding a jagged piece of metal in his grimy hand, his eyes hard and cold like no child’s should ever be.
    No!
he thought to Will.
You’re supposed to run! You’re supposed to get away.
    But the boy did not turn to run. Instead, Will crept farther toward the Koradictine.
    So Garrick did the only thing he could. He pressed against the ground, lifting himself to stand before Ettril Dor-Entfar.
    “You are pitiful,” the Koradictine said.
    Will raised his makeshift weapon and aimed for a place between Ettril’s shoulder blades.
    He was too late, though.
    The Koradictine’s energy rose. Ettril whirled and faced the boy, his expression an evil contortion of humor and disdain.
    “You didn’t actually think I would give you my back, did you?” he said, raising his arm to cast his death spell.
    Garrick went red with rage.
    “Nooooooooooo …”
    He rose up, then. He forgot about Braxidane, or about sorcery, or about Talin. He ignored dead muscles and biting hunger. He rose up, arms and legs screaming with pain—rose up, wailing like the demons wailed as he entered their plane of blue. He rose up, lifting a rock the size of Ettril’s head, a remnant of a wall, or perhaps a bank, a shop, a brothel, a tavern, or a bench that once served as a place to rest, or, perhaps maybe just a cornerstone to what had served as the home of a simple family. He rose with a rock from Nestafar that became an extension of his arm. And he hefted it, swinging it as if there was nothing left in the world but that chunk of granite. And he released it, his arm swinging forward, his muscles stretching with satisfying ache.
    The rock flew through the air with natural grace.
    It crashed into Ettril’s skull as the Koradictine’s spell hit its leverage point. Bone gave with a sickening crunch. The odor of Koradictine sorcery rose and then fell.
    As that stone fell, a pair of voices screamed, one the voice of age, the other of youth. And as it fell, Ettril Dor-Entfar’s magic went astray and exploded against a stone wall in the distance.
    Garrick tumbled to the ground.
    Then there was silence.

Chapter 9

    Garrick opened his eyes to see white clouds sliding across the sky like smoke. For the first time in forever, it felt like he was warm.
    Strange, he thought. So strange.
    Something speared his kidney, though, and his foot felt like it was being crushed under a mountain. He clenched his fist, and gasped with pain that pierced his entire being. If he didn’t know better, he would have thought he had been taken apart piece by piece.
    A warm sensation picked at his mind.
    Then he saw Will.
    The boy lay like a rag doll against a stone wall. Ettril Dor-Entfar was facedown a