Page 19

Dawsyn runs through the night, her ears straining for the sound of wings. She needs desperately to drink, but she does not dare to stop. Dawn begins to break when she feels the first stirs of wind. It blows like a monster’s breath up the slope in small gusts at first, carrying the frost on its back. Dawsyn can smell it – the storm. The last remnants of the hostile season reaching out to stroke the mountain – short but just as harsh as any blizzard. She will need to seek cover soon.

The wind howls so loud that, at first, she does not hear it – the sound of wings dragging on the air above. Too late, she looks up and above her are two hunters, already diving toward her, their wings tucked close to their sides.

Dawsyn whirls to a stop as they close in, retrieving her ax as her boots slip a little on the slope. The Glacians land before her, overshooting their mark.

The pale beasts wear twin glares. Dawsyn notices the black shadows beneath their eyes, their heaving chests. They look weary.

“You evaded us, little mouse. How did you do it?” one asks, already stepping toward her.

“Wasn’t so difficult,” she lies, holding her arm behind her. “I was prepared for monsters. Your King sent kittens.”

The other Glacian laughs darkly. “She has more balls than most, Theodore,” he says to his companion.

Theodore makes no retort. His white eyes widen in fury.

Dawsyn marks his knees bending, his shoulders tensing. He will be the first to attack, then. She flexes her hand, steadies her breath.

The Glacian named Theodore lunges to the spot where she waits.

She swings her ax through the air, her aim hitting the space where his neck led him. The beard of the blade cuts cleanly through his flesh and out as she moves to his side. He goes down, dark blood pouring into the snow below him, but despite the wound, he rises to his feet, a sword appearing in his hand as he stanches the river spewing from his neck with the other. As Theodore staggers toward her, the other Glacian thrusts out his own sword. Before it meets her chest, she parries with her ax handle, its wood splintering. The sheer weight of the beast behind the sword is staggering. She twists away as Theodore’s sword whistles through the air from behind, narrowly missing her own neck. She spins, swings the ax again and brings it down. There’s a wet thunk as it cleaves into the second Glacian’s back between his wings and then an earthtrembling howl.

She snakes the hilt of the sword from his hand and reels. Then halts.

Theodore towers over her, the tip of his sword between her eyes. His neck spits blood between his fingers and the hand holding the sword trembles. The tip caresses the bridge of Dawsyn’s nose and she flinches as it nicks the skin.

“Stay mighty still, girl. It’s no prize to me if I bring you back dead.” But his clouded gaze rolls with blood loss. The span of his wings droops to the snowy ground. “Now, drop that blade.”

A gale shudders the spruce and pine around them.

“Do it now! Or I’ll remove that arm from your shoulder. I do not much favor flying in a storm.” He stumbles again.

He has perhaps a minute before he falls. Dawsyn just has to wait and try not to be dismembered. But the blade of his sword still stares her down, and if the Glacian falls, he’ll fall downhill toward her, through her.

She does not have to wait the full minute. A great whoosh of air fills her ears and the Glacian looks up, his sword dropping. Suddenly, a blinding flurry of snow sprays them. There is a strangled growl as a dark mass shrouds the white Glacian. Then his neck twists with a resounding crack.

As the flurry settles, the Glacian sinks to the ground, his eyes wide and unseeing.

Behind him stands Ryon, panting heavily. “I did warn you that they’d find you again.” He speaks evenly but frowns as he surveys the ground around them, at two of his dead comrades, at the blood that blackens and freezes upon the snow. At the Glacian sword in her hand. At the drops of blood between her eyes.

Dawsyn retreats several steps, raising the sword. She twists her wrist, hilt to the sky, and tilts her head, considering him. “Does it look like I needed your help, Glacian?”

Ryon eyes her sword more warily, his hands raised. “No, it does not.”

“Then, I’ll make you a bargain. Keep clear of me. Let me reach the bottom of this mountain and you can keep your throat… and all your other parts, too.”

He stares her down. “I’ll counter. We will reach the bottom of this mountain together. Then, we will part and you can go about your days, cutting throats and body parts at your leisure.”

She shakes her head. “I’ll decline.”

“Despite your many talents,” – and indeed, the Glacian looks genuinely impressed – “you will not survive these slopes alone.”

At his words, a howl of wind gusts across the forest floor and carries flurries into her face and neck. She winces.

“Your wounds have reopened,” he shouts over the gale, nodding to her shoulders, where blood blooms. “You can’t run through this blizzard.”

She stumbles against the weight of the wind at her back but keeps the sword steady.

“I’d wager those boots are full of blood, too. How long will you stay awake before you collapse? Another hour? Two? And then what will you do, girl?”