Chasing the Prophecy (Beyonders) Read Online Free Page A

among his enemies, slaying them at will.
    Nedwin could not see Groddic. Could the initial explosions have slain him? Could they have been so fortunate?
    Galloran’s captured men were resisting, but as the enemy soldiers recovered from the initial surprise, the rebellious prisoners began to fall. There were too many enemies! Alek went down, injured by a projectile. Galloran and his remaining bodyguard ended up back-to-back, fighting for their lives.
    When his bodyguard fell, Galloran charged forward, whirling and dodging and slashing, somehow carving a path through the crowd of opponents. Nedwin had never seen a man dispatch foes so efficiently. Against all odds, having rescued no men, Galloran might cut his way free. If he could just carve a path to the woods, he could leave behind not more than fifteen disorganized enemies. Galloran raged forward, his matchless sword cleaving helms and shearing through armor. He was going to escape! As had happened so many times before, despite his ill-advised bravado, Galloran would live to fight another day.
    “Face me, coward!” a deep voice bellowed. Limping toward Galloran, Groddic shoved his own men aside. He wore no helm, and it was clear that part of his face had been charred.
    “No,” Nedwin whispered. “Go.”
    Groddic continued on a course to intercept Galloran. If Galloran turned away from the towering conscriptor, he only needed to fight his way past a few more men, and he could be running through the woods.
    “Make way!” Groddic demanded, and those between him and Galloran hastened to comply.
    Run, Nedwin mouthed, willing his master to flee.
    Galloran hurled a knife at Groddic, which clanged off his rod. “Let’s see if you can give me more of a fight than your men did!” Groddic roared.
    Galloran charged.
    His sword glinting in the moonlight, Galloran pressed Groddic back. The conscriptor was barely quick enough to defend himself as the sword chimed against his war bar. Nedwin felt some of the tension leave his body.
    Galloran slashed Groddic across the waist. The conscriptor tripped and fell. As Galloran sprang forward to issue the killing stroke, Groddic flung what looked like a handful of dust into his face. Galloran staggered backward, his sword falling from his hands as he pawed at his eyes.
    Nedwin squeezed a branch as Galloran tumbled to the ground. What could Groddic have thrown at his master? Galloran was reacting like his face was on fire.
    Using his war bar like a crutch, Groddic rose to his feet. His men surrounded Galloran, poised to pounce. The tall conscriptor gestured for them to wait.
    “You’re finished,” the conscriptor told the fallen prince, a gloved hand cradling his bleeding abdomen. “Surrender and I can cool the burning.”
    Rolling sideways, Galloran grabbed his sword, rose to a crouch, and lunged, stabbing blindly toward Groddic. The conscriptor sidestepped the thrust, then used his rod to knock the sword from Galloran’s grasp. Enemies surged forward and forced Galloran to the ground.
    Nedwin averted his eyes. He could not bear to witness this private moment of shame. Galloran, the hope of all Lyrian, had finally been bested.
    Nedwin considered the explosive sphere in his hand. He looked back at Groddic and his soldiers. Barely fifteen remained, and more than a few seemed wounded.
    Bowing his head, Nedwin closed his eyes. Galloran had given him specific instructions. He could remember his master’s sober expression as he spoke the words.
    “I have learned a precious word of power. Few know that I have been searching for it. Fewer know that I now possess it. This word is vital to our resistance of the emperor. Three syllables are now inscribed in locations known to my allies. I will tell you three others, which you must take to Nicholas of Rosbury. You must never divulge these syllables or let others know I shared them. Our lives, and the fate of Lyrian, depend on it. Should I fall, you must abandon the company and make your way