Page 155

I’m not getting it back.

Four others are wearing her face to confuse and scare our fighters out of their wits.

I feel Kellyn’s hand clamp down hard at my shoulder.

“Retreat!” he shouts, giving the order Petrik was meant to give as soon as the time was right. But that time is most definitely now.

We were meant to let the enemy’s numbers overwhelm us. Let Kymora get a good look at me. Then make a run for it up the mountains.

But Kymora has a magic weapon now, and who knows where Izan’s hammer landed?

The time to run has come. It is no farce. Kymora already has the advantage in skill alone, and now she has my shield hammer.

We break through fighting pairs, turning tail and sprinting. We cut through the city, traveling on deserted streets until we reach the other side, to the steep incline of the mountain.

I hear Kymora’s voice shout over the sound of running feet, but I can’t make out what she’s saying. I’m too focused on fleeing. Getting away from the dangerous woman who now hasmyhammer.

This is exactly what I feared. Magic getting into the hands of those who would misuse it. Imagine if it had been Kellyn’s sword.

I shudder involuntarily.

We take a careful path up the mountain, avoiding the snares we’ve set. The path is rigorous, a steep incline that makes my lungs and legs hurt from the effort. But death waits below. We need to let them think they’re winning. We need to convince Kymora to follow.

And they are winning; their numbers are still far superior to ours. But I try not to think about that. Temra is at the top of this rise. Marossa’s calvary is waiting for us. We just need to climb.

Kellyn’s breathing is just as labored as mine. I take his hand, haul him up with me. Or maybe he’s dragging me after him? Impossible to tell.

When I finally reach a certain point on the mountain’s side, I look down. Most of the mercenaries are still with us. I’m relieved to see their numbers. The princess is with them, but I don’t see many of the other archers. They must not have made it down the trees and away from the enemy in time. They weren’t wearing the magicked armor like the rest of us. How could they and still climb the trees?

A horrible sinking sensation takes root in my stomach. I feel like I’m falling, plummeting to some horrible death.

I knew there would be losses. There were losses in the last battle, too.

It’s still shocking. Painful. Horrible.

“Well?” Skiro asks when we reach him.

I spot Petrik next to the prince, Temra at his side. The scholar says, “They’re coming. She’s taken some losses. The mercenaries have really wheedled down her numbers, but we’ve accrued losses of our own.”

“Then let’s hit her even harder with the next wave.”

Kymora and her men have regrouped. Reformed their marching ranks. They cut through the trees now that the archers have been dealt with, wend through the city, and approach the mountain’s edge.

The Kymoras form a line at the front of the battle, but I can tell which one is the real threat. She holds my hammer. She’s the one scanning the surrounding area, looking up at the mountain questioningly. Her eyes fall on me. She’s hundreds of feet away, yet I feel her gaze like a jolt of cold water to the senses.

I read her lips as she says simply to her men, “Climb.”

We watch as her soldiers and the four other Kymoras start the trek up the mountain. It’s a slow process—her men are even more tired than we are, having marched for most of the day before the battle. Their chests heave with exertion, their brows dripping with sweat.

Marossa looses the few arrows she has left upon the advancing men. Others cut loose boulders and tree trunks we’d carefully positioned. They roll down the hill, taking out the red-breasted soldiers as gravity pulls them down to the base. Kymora’s fighters are crushed, bruised, broken as we send parts of the mountain sailing toward them.

But there are always more soldiers to replace the fallen.

And Kymora is no fool.

“Climb the sides!” she orders. “Don’t attack straight on.”

Her fighters obey orders without question, taking positions to the right or left of our huddled masses. Out of range of the traps we’ve set.