The Last Canticle: Summoner's Dirge Read Online Free

man on the bed as she left the house. Damir closed his eyes and focused on regaining his strength. As if someone had cut open a vein, it felt like all his strength had been drained right out of him. He’d never used that much energy before to heal someone. Damir opened his eyes and looked down at the still-quivering lines on his arms. They slowly came to a standstill. He knew they wrapped around his left arm and spiked out in various pathways until they drew a chaotic path up his shoulder and vanished inside his shirt, marking the way to the left side of his chest where his heart was. More lines extended from around his heart in a unique starburst. One of the lines coiled around his sun-kissed throat.
    He rubbed his fingers down the inside of his arm and flicked his gaze to the man on the bed. What would he say when he woke? What would he do when he saw Damir?
    Damir only left the farm to make exchanges in town twice a month. They remained in isolation for a reason, and this was the first man to breach that solitude in five years.

Chapter Three
    The Stranger from Terrasolis
    The wolves were after him—chasing him, hunting him, killing him. They were at his back, their jaws snapping at his heels. Sweat trickled down his face; his eyes stung, and his vision blurred. He blindly ran. His lungs ached. They felt soggy, every pant strained and constricted. He choked on vomit, tasted fear. It replaced his adrenaline, became his adrenaline. His veins pulsed with the ominous fact that there was no escape. He was a capsized ship. He would go down.
    A low growl rumbled from the alpha wolf’s throat. The sound was deafening. It silenced the pounding of blood in his ears. The alpha led the pack in their slaughter. Balin hazarded a glance back. The alpha took a running leap, and a scream ripped from Balin’s mouth.
    “Easy,” a man said as Balin shot forward. The slight pressure against Balin’s shoulder guided him down. Balin struggled to catch his breath. His lungs ached as if he were still running.
    But he wasn’t. He had escaped the woods. He had freed himself from the endless race.
    “There you go; just breathe,” the man continued to urge as he wrung out a cloth and patted it against Balin’s sweat-covered brow. “It was only a nightmare, nothing more.”
    Balin struggled to focus his eyes on the man in front of him. Where was he? The last thing he remembered was the forest and then a brilliant light.
    “Where…” Balin tried to speak but broke into a hoarse cough instead. His throat was dry and raw as if someone had poured all the sand in the Sun Fields down his throat.
    The man dropped his cloth into the ceramic bowl beside the bed and grabbed a glass of water. The man helped him sit up so he could drink. As Balin took paced sips of water, the man spoke.
    “You’re at my farm. I found you just outside the fields. I don’t know where you came from, but you were really bad off when I found you.”
    Balin pulled away, some of the water dribbling down his chin. He finally took in the rustic home around him, so unlike the hell pits he was used to seeing every day. The scent of hay and livestock came on a breeze through the open window.
    “Where is this place?” Balin asked. His voice was still hoarse. “Who are you?”
    The man offered a small smile, and Balin felt his heart skip a beat. Against the warm light that spilled into the room, the man’s hair seemed to sparkle as if it had been spun from golden threads. It fell in feathery, soft waves around his face, stopping just past his chin. He kept it tucked behind his ears, wisps of bangs falling into the bluest eyes Balin had ever seen. They were a unique shade, like the tropical waters of Balin’s homeland, a brilliant aqua that practically glowed against the sun-kissed flesh.
    “My name is Damir, Damir Rosen. You’re in Pheor.”
    Damir set the glass of water aside. His voice was pleasant to Balin, holding the deep resonance of the Pheorian accent; Balin had