Distantly, Solomon knew his hand was trembling. Distantly, he knew that roll in his stomach and the shrieking adrenaline was terror. He knew it because even though his logical mind was telling him to stop firing, because it would be best if he didn't empty his gun entirely just yet, he couldn't keep his finger from pulling the trigger until it clicked.
Craven wasn't dead. Solomon could see it the Necromancer was still upright. He'd seen the pulse of at least one bullet getting through the weakened shadows, though, and knew Craven was injured. Stunned, at least.
Solomon forced his trembling hand down and fumbled for the bullets he'd stowed away in his coat. With effort he brought his breathing into control, putting his weight on his good leg and letting the pain of the bad wash over him, rolling off his back like a wave. You didn't resist pain. You accepted it and shook it off.
Craven wasn't used to pain. Solomon had spent too long as an active member of the Temple outside it, too long fighting, too long in conflict, to not be able to overcome it. Craven was a pencil-pusher, a politician.
"Help me up," he commanded Valkyrie as she came to his side, his voice stronger than he'd feared but weaker than he hoped. There was no time to reload the gun fully. Solomon settled for a few. With luck he'd only need a few. With luck he'd only need one.
He forced himself upright, gripping Valkyrie's shoulder while the girl took his cane. With the ease of practice, if not grace of ability, he lifted his gun at Craven and--
Hesitated. He hesitated.
He stood there, leaning on the girl under his shoulder, his gun extended as he stared at one of his personal enemies and a beast of a man. Craven cowered against the wall, but when he saw Solomon straighten his eyes widened and he tried to lever himself upright again, stretching out the hand with the amulet in it. The shadows around him rippled, half-gathering, but Solomon could tell from the creases in Craven's face and the sweat on his brow that the pain was disrupting his concentration. Now was Solomon's chance. Before Craven overcame it.
And yet still he hesitated.
"A person is never completely lost until they no longer wonder or care if what they're doing is right."
Solomon stared into Craven's hateful eyes and knew he could kill the man now. Knew it was logical, even, because that meant the Temple would assume someone was murdering Necromancers, that he himself was dead, and he could disappear.
"Solomon, why do you believe he should have judged you on the spot?"
"Because my philosophy and his are incompatible. Because I've plotted the deaths of others for the sake of my power."
What, he wondered suddenly, was the difference between here and now and having plotted death with magic? Craven wasn't unarmed, but he was currently helpless. Did it make a difference if Solomon killed him in that state with magic or with a gun?
Was it a chance he dared to take at this most critical of points?
Slowly he lowered the weapon, and found himself trembling all over. His throat worked. "Let's go. Quickly now. Get his phone if you can, Valkyrie."
Thanks to the adrenaline, if Valkyrie took his weight he could walk. But they would have to hurry.
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Craven wasn't dead. Solomon could see it the Necromancer was still upright. He'd seen the pulse of at least one bullet getting through the weakened shadows, though, and knew Craven was injured. Stunned, at least.
Solomon forced his trembling hand down and fumbled for the bullets he'd stowed away in his coat. With effort he brought his breathing into control, putting his weight on his good leg and letting the pain of the bad wash over him, rolling off his back like a wave. You didn't resist pain. You accepted it and shook it off.
Craven wasn't used to pain. Solomon had spent too long as an active member of the Temple outside it, too long fighting, too long in conflict, to not be able to overcome it. Craven was a pencil-pusher, a politician.
"Help me up," he commanded Valkyrie as she came to his side, his voice stronger than he'd feared but weaker than he hoped. There was no time to reload the gun fully. Solomon settled for a few. With luck he'd only need a few. With luck he'd only need one.
He forced himself upright, gripping Valkyrie's shoulder while the girl took his cane. With the ease of practice, if not grace of ability, he lifted his gun at Craven and--
Hesitated. He hesitated.
He stood there, leaning on the girl under his shoulder, his gun extended as he stared at one of his personal enemies and a beast of a man. Craven cowered against the wall, but when he saw Solomon straighten his eyes widened and he tried to lever himself upright again, stretching out the hand with the amulet in it. The shadows around him rippled, half-gathering, but Solomon could tell from the creases in Craven's face and the sweat on his brow that the pain was disrupting his concentration. Now was Solomon's chance. Before Craven overcame it.
And yet still he hesitated.
"A person is never completely lost until they no longer wonder or care if what they're doing is right."
Solomon stared into Craven's hateful eyes and knew he could kill the man now. Knew it was logical, even, because that meant the Temple would assume someone was murdering Necromancers, that he himself was dead, and he could disappear.
"Solomon, why do you believe he should have judged you on the spot?"
"Because my philosophy and his are incompatible. Because I've plotted the deaths of others for the sake of my power."
What, he wondered suddenly, was the difference between here and now and having plotted death with magic? Craven wasn't unarmed, but he was currently helpless. Did it make a difference if Solomon killed him in that state with magic or with a gun?
Was it a chance he dared to take at this most critical of points?
Slowly he lowered the weapon, and found himself trembling all over. His throat worked. "Let's go. Quickly now. Get his phone if you can, Valkyrie."
Thanks to the adrenaline, if Valkyrie took his weight he could walk. But they would have to hurry.