Night Rune (Prof Croft Book 8) by Brad Magnarella (best e reader for academics txt) 📕

speared through my ribs where he’d rammed me. He was somewhere ahead, swearing at the tengu to pick up their pace. The scrubby creatures had stripped me to my boxers. My cane, pack, and coat with all my potions and spell implements were gone too.

I wasn’t laughing anymore.

“Everson,” Bree-yark barked again.

When I turned my head, I could make out the bottom half of his trussed-up body. I tried to answer, but a paste filled my mouth. I couldn’t move my tongue, much less force out the gummy mass. Which meant I couldn’t invoke magic. I remembered the way the satyr had looked at my potions. Must have figured me for a wizard.

Seeing I was awake, Bree-yark said, “They cleaned us out, but they weren’t happy with the haul. They’re taking us to an ogre who lives nearby. Gonna see what kind of price they can get for our flesh.”

Even better.

“So if you can cast,” he said, “now might be a good time.”

I shook my head to tell him it wasn’t possible. I could gather the realm’s abundant energy around my mental prism, but without the ability to form words, I couldn’t channel or shape that energy. Voiceless casting remained years away for me—assuming I got there. I tested my wrists and ankles. The ropes securing them had been cinched tightly enough to turn my fingers and toes numb.

“Gnarl twine,” Bree-yark said. “Not even sure my blade could hack through it. If I still had it,” he added in a mutter.

I sagged back into my restraints.

“Some guide I turned out to be, huh?” he said.

I shook my head, this time to tell him it wasn’t his fault. I should have downed the potions when we were ascending the well instead of having a mental orgasm over the fact we’d arrived in Faerie.

“If the ogre doesn’t butcher us right away, I might be able to negotiate our release,” Bree-yark said. “I’ve still got contacts in the goblin army.”

I nodded my head. That was promising.

“Then again, his full name is Humbert the Hungry.”

“No speaking unless spoken to!” the satyr shouted. He dropped from his lead position and fell in beside Bree-yark. I couldn’t see him, but I could hear his cleft hooves trotting to keep pace. The sound sent a spot throbbing above my right eye, no doubt where he’d stomped me. “Got it, ye putrid goblin?”

“At least my dad didn’t bang a goat,” Bree-yark muttered.

I winced at the sound of my friend being struck.

“Keep it up,” the satyr said. “Plenty more where that came from.”

“Oh, did you do something?” Bree-yark asked. “I must not’ve been paying attention.”

I wanted to tell the stubborn SOB to shut it as two more blows landed.

“I’d hate to waste valuable greamaigh on the likes of ye,” the satyr said, referring to the crap in my mouth. “But keep flappin’ yer lips, and I’ll fill ye to yer eyeballs.” He landed a final blow, this one causing Bree-yark to grunt.

The satyr must have seen me straining because he came around to my side. The first thing I noticed was his damp mustache, then the scatter of crumbs down his beard. When he leaned nearer, I smelled coffee and ginger.

The little shit ate our refreshments.

“Have something to add, laddie?” he asked, cocking a hairy fist.

I glared at him another moment before shaking my head. He grinned beneath his hard blue eyes.

“Then relax and enjoy the journey.” He lowered his arm. “We’ll have ye to Humbert shortly.”

Deep down, my magic shifted suddenly, as though trying to tell me something. I stopped wishing for the satyr to choke on one of his own horns so I could focus.

Soon, my magic seemed to be saying. Soon.

As the satyr moved away from me, he glanced toward the rear of the pack. Then he did a doubletake, his mouth forming a hole in his crumb-littered beard. Resetting his jaw, he galloped to the front.

“Move your asses!” he screamed. “Faster!”

By now the tengu were peering back too, several squawking in alarm. I tried to crane my neck around, but I couldn’t see anything beyond the rush of grass and tengu feet. The creatures behind me dropped their end of the pole, and my head thudded to the ground. The ones ahead dragged me for several more yards before ditching their end and fleeing after the others.

I came to a painful rest on my side.

“What are ye doing?” the satyr screamed. “Pick them up!”

But his voice was fading too. I lifted my head to the sight of scattering bird men. The flapping creatures couldn’t lift off—they were gliders—but the wings spanning the undersides of their arms gave them an extra speed. I turned my head the other way just as shadows passed over us and enormous birds swooped low. Tengu caws and shrieks sounded followed by the wet snapping of bones.

Bree-yark, who had landed somewhere off to my left, grunted, “Rocs.”

I scooted around until I could see him. His face was lumpy from the beating the tengu had dealt him, and dried blood trailed from one nostril. Charmed or not, I felt horrible for having laughed at him earlier.

“Ruthless birds of prey,” he said. “Our best bet is to play dead, wait for them to move on.”

He slumped in the tall grass, wrists and ankles still bound to the pole. I did the same, while trying to force the greamaigh from my mouth.

I’d read plenty about rocs. With their keen senses, not to mention appetite for living flesh, I didn’t share Bree-yark’s confidence that they’d move on. Even if they did, we’d still be bound, and it wouldn’t take long for another creature of the Fae Wilds to sniff out a helpless goblin and mage.

As the dying squalls of the tengu thinned, I gave up on the paste in my mouth. It wasn’t going anywhere. Through the grass, I watched the rocs take flight again with heavy thumps of their wings. At least we weren’t going to be bird food. But then three rocs broke from