Page 21

War cries swell. The scent of iron and sweat seeps into the shield, mixing with the damp river smell underfoot. The Wyrds thunder over our dome, their shadows shifting over us, a heavy weight as they make it to the other side of the bridge and towards the pass.

I shift my horse closer to Quin’s, grabbing his reins as Quin buckles again. “It’s too much. Can you get us to the clifftops?”

Quin presses his lips together and shakes his head.

“I expended too much collapsing the cliffs, and now...”

Leaping to my rescue. He’s short on spiritual energy. “How long can you hold on?”

He doesn’t answer. He doesn’t want to frighten me.

“Florentius and Akilah will reach the camp soon,” I say. “They’ll tell Captain Kjartan. We just need to hold out.”

His face is pale, sweat beading at his forehead.

Each series of stabs into the dome saps him further.

He doesn’t speak, but I know what he’s thinking.

I’m thinking it too. Even with the Wyrd army halved, the Skeldars are outmatched.

More and more are marching onto the bridge, are running over our heads. We’re simply overwhelmed.

We’ve failed to keep the soldiers safe, Ragn safe. My king safe.

I tighten my hold on his reins and mine. Our legs are pressed together tight from the knee down and I press more. “Get out of here.”

He grabs my thigh, squeezing hard as he leans in to growl. “Going to throw yourself in front of the spear again? Will your last words be a plea to save my people?”

He stops my reply. “If I don’t leave with you. I don’t leave at all.”

My hand slackens around his reins and as it drops, he glimpses the deep cuts on my palm. He snatches my wrist and lifts it carefully, inspecting the wounds with a hiss .

“It’ll be fine.”

His fingers shift over the edge of a cut and I jerk.

His lips twist, displeased. He pulls out the flutette from under his shirt, presses the end to his mouth, and hauls me in close.

I’m half out of my saddle but his arm around me is strong and steadying, even through the punches of pain that roll through him as soldiers mercilessly barge over the shield.

Through the slithering blue, sunlight filters into the dome, casting a shifting dappled light over us.

Dark eyes meet mine, imploring me to stay still.

Gently, he slides his hands off me, and fingers flitter over his flutette.

Soft music vibrates in the air, tickling over my face.

The magic in each note is familiar—my own from a long time ago.

The tune is soft and elegant. He’s practiced in the months we’ve been apart.

Quin plays, closer and closer, until the end of his flute brushes my lips and I’m gulping in the sound, and the healing magic with it.

The sting in my palm lessens until I can’t feel it, and the rest of my body fills with warmth and energy. When he finishes, he keeps the flute between our lips and his eyes on mine.

My hand comes up shakily and lowers the flutette to his chest. “I could have used something from my pouch.”

“I didn’t want you to.”

“Because magic works better.”

He covers my hand. “Because I wanted to kiss you.”

A wall of metal shields slams against the dome. Quin retches and gasps. The shield shudders, its shimmery walls cracking in a jagged web, each line throbbing with light. Quin clenches his jaw hard and his entire body convulses as he fights to hold the dome in place.

Wyrds are pressing forward in endless waves, a sea of soldiers set to slaughter anyone in their path. The bridge groans under the weight. Two people, against this.

Quin forces himself upright. He glares at all the Wyrds, unyielding. A promise he will fight. “Keep your back to the side of the bridge.”

He draws out his Wyrd sword, shadows of intense determination layering his face.

I rummage through my pouch and grab knock-out powder. It won’t hold off many, but I must try to defend myself. So he doesn’t get distracted.

A bitter laugh escapes me. Absurd, at a time like this. But my bout continues as I stare at the impossible chances of survival.

Quin raises a brow as he lifts his sword towards the thinning dome and the Wyrds beyond.

I murmur, “Fate is truly left to the gods.”

The dome splinters, light glaring with each fracture until with a blinding flash and a sound like thunder, the dome explodes, blasting back the closest Wyrds in a tumbling wave that quakes across the bridge.

Quin remains steadfast on his horse, sword unwavering. His voice cuts through the chaos, heavy; full of absolute promise. “I will be your god.”

The declaration silences even the war cries for a shivery, breathless second .

He spurs his horse forward, and the steed rears with his furious cry. His blade glitters through the air and Wyrds fly back with the force, collapsing atop one another in a pile of steel.

He swings and swings, forcing a path. I fling out powder to the sneaky soldiers who pass him for me, but they’re few and far between. Quin is a blur of movement as he furiously defends me.

When I’m out of powder, I cast my gaze about for a weapon. I only have my pouch and the basket at my back, which—

My fingers fumble at the basket straps. The Wyrds are closing in, their blades catching the light in sharp glints.

There’s no time. I cut the reins with a jagged slice, tying the leather to the basket handles as quickly as I can.

The weave is tight—tight enough to hold river water, just long enough for one last desperate chance.

Three Wyrds barge toward Quin’s flank as he fights forward, and I swing my basket up, raining water in arcs, shouting that it’s tainted with poxies.

They jerk and scramble back, and Quin and I cover more ground. Ever nearer to the cliffs and the blocked pass.

We’ve forced our way through so much, but still, there is so much coming. Even if we get out, the Skeldar army is ultimately outnumbered.

I wield the last of the water in my basket, thrusting it in a high arc, making Wyrds scurry out of its path. Quin snags a bow and aims at the commander .

The commander lurches sideways, thrusting Wyrds off the side of the bridge, and motions for archers—

Drums. Coming from behind the rocks. Coming from an approaching army.

Arrows sing.

With a cry, Quin dredges up the very last traces of his spiritual energy, and with it hauls us off our horses and into the air towards the fallen rock. We make it halfway before gravity yanks us onto a boulder. But it’s enough.

Clambering over the crest of the pass, are Skeldars. Not just a few. There are more behind, scaling the fallen rock with bow and arrow. And more behind them. Half are covered in boils. Poxies.

Commander Kjartan leads.

And Nicostratus is by his side.