Page 10

I’m running.

Running on my useless, half-healed stocking feet. Running for my life. I do not look back. I cannot bear to see how close behind me I’ll find my demise, how near I am to being skewered on a set of razor-sharp mandibles. I keep my gaze fixed forward as I race down the pitch-black passage, only the dying torch to light my way. But my mind is back at the encampment, back at the bloody scene I left behind when I fled into the dark…

Coward.

I push aside the guilt and focus on the passage. I found it exactly where Farley described, tucked behind a boulder ten paces from the campfire. It had taken some swift maneuvering to get around Onyx, who seemed determined not to let me pass. In the end, only fidelity to his master stayed him from following me from the cave.

His stalwart loyalty underscores my lack of it. I had not even spared a glance at Scythe as I slipped out of view.

He is your enemy , I tell myself over and over.

So why do I feel like the worst sort of traitor?

Shouts and sword tings chase me down the narrow tunnel, away from the bloodbath. I clutch the torch, wishing I had a better weapon. For while it may ward off the creeping shadows, if a single cyntroedi follows me, I will be no better off than poor Farley. Worse, actually—he, at least, has a sword to swing.

After a stretch, I come to the split he described. The right tunnel veers off into darkness. The left offers salvation in the form of a set of stairs. I race headlong toward it, ignoring the pain stitching through my ribs, hauling air into my lungs in ragged gulps, so focused on escape, I do not feel the telltale shock waves until it is too late to reverse course.

The centipede that erupts from the ground in front of me is bigger than any I saw back in the camp. Beside it, Onyx would appear a miniature pony. It slithers from its hole, white maw clacking, the froth of venom already coating each sawlike pincer in a toxic sheen. Its body is more bulbous than the others’, its legs thicker and covered in fibers that look sharp enough to pierce through flesh and bone.

If this hive of creatures has an alpha…here he is, in all his vile glory.

I backpedal rapidly, trying to create some distance, the torch extended in front of me like a shield. It is, I cannot help but notice, burning dangerously low.

When the creature makes to lunge at me, I brandish the flame with a menacing swipe. It pauses, as if reconsidering its plan of attack. I dare not turn my back to it. I know better than to try to run. Despite its size, it’s faster than I could ever hope to be, and as it rears up to full height, its myriad multijointed legs swiping at the air, screeching with what I can only describe as unearthly anticipation for the moment my torch flickers out…all I can pray for is a swift, clean death.

I have no desire to perish like the mare.

My free hand clenches at my side, pressing firmly against my thigh as I watch the creature eyeing me. My fist meets unexpected resistance—something hard presses back at me through the pocket of my skirts.

The dagger.

The one I confiscated from Scythe this morning. I’d forgotten it entirely. Not that it will do me much good—what damage can a slim blade do against such a gargantuan creature?—but it is better than nothing at all. In a flash, I’ve pulled it free. I hold it out along with the torch, one weapon per hand, my grip white-knuckled as I back away.

The creature hisses and lunges again.

“Back!” I scream at it, waving my torch. “Stay back!”

The creature pauses. Its angular head tilts to and fro as my voice ricochets down the tunnel. Its eyes are not like those of its smaller brethren, back in the cave. They are clouded, pearly with age. Reminiscent of the blind beggars at market with their hands extended sightlessly for alms.

Can it see me? I wonder suddenly, breath catching in my throat. Or have all these years in the darkness left it blind?

If so, it is tracking my voice, my pounding pulse, my shredded breaths. Pinpointing my position from the vibrations of my feet against the earth each time I move.

Clamping my mouth shut against any more foolish declarations of bravado that will betray my position, I make an effort to slow my breathing and creep backward as softly as I can manage, thankful—for the first time in weeks—for my lack of shoes. The creature stills, as if it truly is listening for me. Hope flares in my chest. A fool’s hope, but hope nonetheless.

Perhaps I can get away. Not past it, not to the stairs, not to freedom…but back to the campsite. Perhaps, against all odds, the men survived. Perhaps—

My foot hits a loose stone.

It tumbles across the floor, a thunderous cacophony in the otherwise noiseless passage. The moment it does, the centipede lunges straight for my throat.

I see it coming. See my death in its milky, murderous eyes. See my fate closing in like the snap of its serrated pincers around my throat.

I see it coming and I do not scream. I do not run. I hold my ground, torch extended along with my pitiful dagger. Because if I am going to die, there is no way I’m going alone. I will be this monster’s final kill.

And it will be mine.

My weapons are still outstretched when its head is parted from its body. There is a flash of heat—a glowing blade, swinging down from my periphery—and then it hits the ground at my feet. A second later, the squirming body follows suit.

Dead.

Definitively, unquestionably dead.

Green goo sprays all over me, coating the front of my dress, burning my skin like lye. I scramble backward, eyes squeezed shut as I wipe frantically at my face, praying none of the foul venom got into my mouth. I’m still wiping when a large hand peels my fingers away from my cheeks, grips me roughly by the chin, and jerks my head back. I find myself staring upward into a set of burning eyes. The hand at my jaw flexes, anger thrumming through every digit.

“When I say to stay by the fire,” Scythe grits, face dark with fury. “ Stay by the bloody fire. ”

Miraculously, all the men survive.

Back in the cave, Uther and Mabon—the tall gray-haired fellow and his stocky bald counterpart, I learn after brief introductions—are packing up the camp. Jac is cleaning weapons, a disgusted grimace on his typically cheerful face as he wipes green goo from blade after blade.

The pile of dead cyntroedi is massive. It nearly reaches the ceiling. There must be a hundred of them. I shiver at the sight and swiftly look away.

“The archer returns!” Farley greets me with a wan smile. He’s sitting by the fire, propped up against his daypack. His leg is strapped into a makeshift splint of wood and rope. It looks like he fashioned it himself. “Glad you’re still breathing, Ace. You don’t mind if I call you Ace, do you? Seeing as I don’t know your real name…”

“It’s R—” I catch myself just in time, swallowing down the slipup. “Call me whatever you’d like.”

“How about fool or idiot or insufferable bane of my existence ,” Scythe mutters from beside me.

I shoot him a dark look. He is still seething mad, that’s plain to see. He was furious to find I’d wandered off, disobeying his direct order to stay by the fire. That fury had heightened to a blind rage when he found me in the passage, going head-to-head with what I later found out was not an alpha male, but rather the queen of the cyntroedi hive, her bulbous body laden with eggs.

Thankfully, now that she’s dead, there is little chance of another strike. According to Jac, the remaining creatures will retreat and regroup until a new queen is born to lead them. This news should be comforting. But, amid the carnage, all I can think about is getting out of here. Back to the light, back to the air, away from the astringent rot of dead insects.

“Did you see her?” Farley asks Mabon, pointing at me with undisguised mirth. “Sharpshooter! Bullseye! She must’ve taken down twenty of ’em. Grabbed the bow and started firing. Never even blinked.”

“I saw,” the bald man grumbles, looking in any direction but mine. He is smart enough to realize any praise heaped on me will only further incite the pillar of wrath towering beside me.

“Of course you saw!” Farley is undeterred. “Only a blind man could miss her. She saved our asses!”

“Your ass was the only one in need of saving,” Uther chimes in, but his gray eyes hold a teasing light. “Seeing as you spent most of the battle sitting on it.”

Mabon snorts.

“I took down just as many as you did!” Farley yells, incensed. “Even sitting on my ass!”

Uther glances at me, grimaces, and shakes his head. I clamp my lips shut to keep my smile at bay.

“Can we get the hell out of here?” Scythe growls. “Before you call whatever other monsters reside in this mountain down upon our heads?”

Everyone falls silent and makes quick work of grabbing the rest of their belongings. In mere moments, the whole camp is cleared out. With the other horses gone, Onyx’s saddlebags are double-stuffed with gear. I hope the three that bolted fared better than the poor mare. My eyes linger on her prone form for a moment before we file out of the cave, Uther and Mabon carrying Farley between them like he weighs no more than a feather, Onyx following with a jangle of tackle. Scythe lingers behind, waiting to take up the rear as usual.

Jac stops beside me near the boulder, chucking me lightly beneath the chin with his fist. My eyes move to his.

“No one of importance,” he murmurs, echoing my earlier description of myself. “Right. Ace. ”

With a quick grin and a shake of his head, he ushers me out of the cave. It takes effort to keep from glancing back, looking for Scythe as we make our way to the fork at the end of the passage. It seems so much shorter now that I’m not running for my life.

“He’ll be along in a minute,” Jac informs me quietly. “He’s clearing out the cave for the next unfortunate travelers who take this route.”

“You think the creatures will come back?”

He shrugs. “Hopefully, we did enough to deter a new den of them from taking up residence in that particular tunnel. But monsters thrive in the dark. So long as there are shadows, there’ll be things to stalk around in them.”

The heat of the fire blasts down the passage at our backs. It must be a massive blaze. I wonder how he’s managed it. Except for the sparse pile of kindling beside the campfire, there was no extra wood in the cave anywhere I’d seen. No accelerant to spread flames so quickly—unless the vile green venom is highly flammable.

I could ask Jac. There’s a chance he might even tell me. But I’m too tired to indulge my curiosity with more questions. I stay silent, focused on keeping my steps measured all the way down the passage, lifting one foot after the other, my gaze pointedly averted from the decapitated body of the queen when we reach the fork. I need no more memories of her burned into my mind. The ones I already possess will haunt me well enough.

Waves of exhaustion flood my system as the surge of adrenaline subsides. In the aftermath of the fight, my entire body aches. My arm muscles scream in protest at the simplest of movements. I am covered in grime and dried goo, my skirts stiff with it. Just lifting them to climb the steps takes monumental effort. Only the promise of fresh air and freedom keeps me from collapsing in a heap.

Jac soon outpaces me, climbing steadily after his unit, seeming no worse for wear despite the battle he’s just fought. I have to stop periodically to catch my breath. I might lean against one of the walls for support if I weren’t so scared something will burst through it at any given moment and devour me.

Who can say what else nests down here?

My progress upward is so slow, Scythe eventually catches up to me. He smells of ashes and smoke and the acidic afterburn of insectile corpses. I can hear him breathing one step behind, his body heat immense enough to warm the air between us.

“Any slower, we’ll be going backward,” comes his wry greeting after a few moments.

I glower. “I do wish the centipedes had eaten you.”

He barks out a laugh. It sounds rusty coming from his throat, like he hasn’t found occasion to use it in quite some time. I am so startled by the sound, I trip over my skirts and nearly face-plant. But he moves like lightning, grabbing me before I can fall and hauling me back upright.

“Almost there.” His voice is low. I can feel the strength of his chest against my back. The bandolier of blades presses tight to my spine. “Ten more steps and this place is a memory.”

I nod, not trusting myself to speak, and he releases me. Somehow, I manage to ascend the final stretch without falling again. When I step into the light, squinting at the blinding flare of the sun, I could weep for joy. If I never again find myself back in the bowels of the earth, it will be too soon. I have never been so thrilled to see the barren tundra of the Cimmerian Mountains; have never been so deliriously happy to feel the sharp lash of arctic wind on my cheeks. I resist the urge to spin in circles like a child, acutely aware of five sets of male eyes resting heavily upon me.

They’ve somehow gotten Farley up into Onyx’s saddle. He looks even paler than he did down in the caves, his complexion peaked. His shattered leg is lashed to the stirrup. Someone has removed his boots. Despite his obvious pain, he attempts a smile when our gazes meet.

“Don’t look at me like that, Ace. I’m not dead yet. You’ll wound my ego.”

“He needs a healer,” I say bluntly, looking at Scythe.

“I thought you were one,” he returns.

“I have some skills, but not out here.” I sweep an arm around the sparse landscape. “Not without proper tools, not without herbs. That bone needs to be set, and all weight kept off it for at least two months.”

Farley looks aghast at this news. “Two months ? Did she say two bloody months?”

“If you ever expect to walk again.” I plant my hands on my hips—a move I regret instantly, seeing as the fabric is coated with all manner of foul fluids. “Where is the nearest town? There must be an inn somewhere on this summit. Even those crazy enough to travel at this altitude need a place to sleep and suck down ale.”

Scythe and Jac look at each other for a long moment, a wordless exchange unfolding between them. When their gazes break, there is an unhappy tightness to Scythe’s jaw. But his voice is level as ever.

“We’ll make for Vintare. It’s not far—just on the other side of this valley. We can spend the night at the inn, set off in the morning.”

“Penn…” Jac shakes his head, frowning. “We can’t delay your journey. The Apex Portal is in the opposite direction.”

“And?”

“ Go. You’ll be in Caeldera by nightfall. Leave us. We’ll manage.”

“The rest of your unit is more than a day’s ride from here. How do you expect to rejoin them with no mounts? And what of Farley?”

“Don’t worry about me,” the redhead interjects. “I’ll not be a burden.”

Scythe shakes his head, the metal of his helmet catching the weak, mist-shrouded sun. “It’ll be dark in an hour. You plan to carry an injured man across this ice plain?”

There is a heavy pause.

“I thought not,” Scythe mutters.

Jac runs a hand through his dark blond hair, blowing out a sharp breath. “We’ll owe you a debt, old friend.”

“I’ll add it to the tally.”

“There’s a tally?”

“Mmm. Long one.”

“Damn.” Jac shakes his head, chuckling. His eyes drift to me but his words are for Scythe. “Come to think of it, it might not be the worst idea to clean up a bit before you go traipsing into the throne room. Your excess baggage is looking rather rough around the edges. And while you may not care what anyone else thinks…a bath would go a long way before you throw her to the court wolves.”

Court wolves?

That sounds ominous—far more than any wild variety I might encounter in the woods. I jerk my chin higher, covering my unease with my most withering glare. I am fully aware of my dreadful appearance without his reminders.

“ Apologies. There wasn’t much time to pretty myself for your viewing pleasure,” I seethe. “I’ve been a bit busy trying not to be lynched or gutted or eaten alive. Next time I’m kidnapped and dragged to the Northlands, I’ll bring a lady’s maid along with me to keep my countenance fresh as a daisy in spring. Unless you’d like to volunteer for the role. How are you with plaiting hair?” My eyes narrow on his long blond mane. “Seeing as your own looks like it hasn’t seen a brush since you left civilization, I’m guessing not so great.”

Farley cackles so loud, Onyx prances his front hooves against the snow in protest. Mabon and Uther both seem to be choking down laughter. Jac merely grins at me, not at all offended, and turns back to Scythe.

“Best do what you can to make her presentable. Her charming disposition isn’t going to win any favors at court.”

Scythe’s lips twist. “You’re not wrong.”

“Plus, it’s time you ditched the Eldian getup. You look like Midland swine. I know you were trying to blend in but, gods, if this shoddy shit is what they dress their commanders in, what do the foot soldiers wear?”

“Typically whatever they can steal, salvage, or strip from the corpses on the battlefield before the stiffness sets in,” Scythe says darkly.

“Foul place.” Jac grimaces. “Glad you’re done there. Your homecoming is long overdue. Shame we won’t be around for Fyremas, but we’ll have a proper celebration when this mountain stint finally ends and the whole guild is back together in Caeldera. Start ordering ale as soon as you arrive; you only have a few months to import the good stuff. None of that flavorless Frostlander swill, either. I want Titan gin from Prydain.”

My mind struggles to sort through the terms he’s rattling off, rapid-fire. Caeldera. Frostlander. Prydain. None of them sound remotely familiar to me. That’s not exactly surprising. Not one of Eli’s many maps had covered the Northlands. When I’d once asked him why, he told me they’d all been burned.

The Cull spared few fae records. Even the maps were destroyed when the empire fell. The mortal kings were resolved to erase all lingering traces of maegic. Not only those who could wield it, but every aspect of their—your—very culture, Rhya.

It had seemed like an unnecessary step. An overreaction. I’d told Eli as much, but he’d fixed me with one of his wise looks and gently disagreed.

To annihilate a race, you must do more than kill its people. You must kill its music, its artwork, its architecture. Its customs, its traditions, its religions. You must eradicate the beauty, so only horror remains in the memories of those who live on in the aftermath. So no one attempts to rebuild—or even remembers why they might ever want to.

“Oh, is that all?” Scythe mutters, jolting me out of my thoughts.

Blithely ignoring his sarcasm, Jac adds, “A cask of Daggerpoint lager wouldn’t go amiss, either.”

“By all means…” Scythe’s amused snort puffs visibly in the chill air. “Use me as your next excuse to get falling-down drunk.”

“Don’t be absurd. When have I ever needed an excuse?”

“Fair enough.”

They grin at each other. The sight of that ultra-bright smile on Scythe’s face is so startling, I have to look away. Thankfully, there is little time to dwell. We are soon on our way—me wearing a laughably large pair of boots borrowed from Farley, who’d declared, with considerable vehemence, that he wasn’t using them so I should put them on my godsdamned feet and keep my godsdamned mouth shut about it. The laces are pulled as tight as they can go, but they still rattle loose around my calves with every step we take across the stretch of crunching snow.

Mabon and Uther lead the way, Onyx plodding after them with his hefty load of gear and the additional weight of a grumpy Farley on his back. I stick close to the horse’s side as we make the journey, steadfastly ignoring the moment Scythe drops his cloak around my shoulders as he walks past me to join Jac at the rear of our ragtag band.

It’s deliciously warm, and it smells like flame.

Like him.

To keep Farley company, I chat with him as we cross the valley. He seems to crave the distraction from his injury, firing question after question until I have no choice but to answer.

“Where’d you learn to shoot like that?”

“Hunting.”

“What sort of game?”

“Doe, mostly. Sometimes a boar or two, but only if they were disturbing the gardens.” I pause, shoulders lifting in a shallow shrug. “I may be a decent shot, but I didn’t often hunt with my bow back at home.”

“Why not?”

“I never liked to take too much from the forest. The herds get thinner every year.” The last few springs, game was so sparse I could go days without seeing a single deer. “Besides, it always felt wasteful to kill a large animal when I could get by with just my snares. Sometimes, I could sell the extra meat, but…” I chew my bottom lip. “Lots of folks won’t buy from a halfling.”

Farley looses a low, unhappy grunt. “Ignorant fucks.”

I say nothing, rather startled by his strong reaction. Sure, he and the others have treated me better than the last company of male soldiers I found myself caught up with…but I doubt the Northlanders as a whole are beacons of tolerance. The Cull affected all of Anwyvn, a unified extermination from the ice-capped North Sea to the Desert Depths of Carvage. Forgetting that would be beyond foolish.

“Anyway…” Farley steers us past the awkward silence. “You said you used snares? For what kind of quarry?”

“Foxes. Hares. Sometimes squirrels, if things got desperate.”

“Things get desperate often?”

I smile wryly. “I take it you haven’t spent much time in the Midlands, if you feel the need to ask.”

“Mmm. Doesn’t sound like paradise on earth, that’s for certain.”

A bitter exhale shoots from my mouth. “Paradise burned a long time ago. All that’s left are the ashes.”

He’s silent for a moment, absorbing that. “So, Ace, are you ever going to tell us your real name?”

“Why would I?”

“Why wouldn’t you?” he counters playfully. “We’re all friends here.”

“ Friends? ”

“We’ve done battle together. Fought side by side. If that doesn’t make us friends, nothing will.”

“Farley,” I say with emphatic enunciation, as though he’s a bit slow in the wits. “You do realize I’m a prisoner here, don’t you?”

At that, he barks out a laugh. He only sobers when he sees I’m not laughing with him. Twisting in his saddle, his eyes shoot to the back of our group. I don’t turn to see, but I know he is looking at Scythe.

“Penn!” There’s that name again. “Why does Ace here think she’s a prisoner?”

“Farley,” comes the terse reply. “Keep talking and your leg won’t be the worst of your injuries.”

“Testy, testy.” The redhead returns his attention to me. “Trust me, Ace. You don’t need to be so closed off. We’re not going to hurt you. Well, Penn might, but his bark is worse than his bite. Most of the time.”

“How comforting.”

“Oh, don’t be like that. He’s fresh off a campaign. Can’t really blame him for nursing a grouchy disposition, after spending all that time in the Midlands. Enough to drive a fyre priestess to drink, I’ll tell you. It’s going to take him some time to adjust to normal life again. Give it a week or so; we’ll get him laughing.” He pauses, mouth twisting. “A fortnight at most.”

I contemplate the idea of a different version of Scythe than the one I’ve come to know. One who makes his comrades’ faces light up with joy. One who laughs with his friends. One who does anything besides brood and scowl and insult me.

Frankly, it seems incomprehensible.

Farley must read the doubt in my expression. “Despite what you think, Ace…you’re safe with us. I promise.”

I give him a halfhearted smile. It feels like a lie on my lips.

Safe?

I am not safe. I haven’t been safe in so long, I barely remember the feeling. And after all I’ve endured these past weeks at the hands of human males, I doubt I’ll ever allow myself to actually trust another one.

I don’t tell Farley this. Because I like Farley. Hell, I even like Jac and Mabon and Uther. But my feelings toward the man who made me his captive are decidedly less clear-cut.

There is absolutely nothing safe about Commander Scythe.

Penn.

Whoever he is.

Nice as it is to entertain the notion of genuine companionship again after so long on my own…there is no chance in hell I’m about to let my guard down around these men.

Not today.

Not ever.

My hands slip into the deep pockets of my gown as we continue to walk, gripping the dagger concealed there. Though I know my actions are hidden from his vantage, I cannot shake the feeling that the helmed man trailing a dozen paces behind me can somehow see straight through the folds of his cloak on my shoulders, to my hand as it curls around the hilt.

My grip is so tight, my fingers are numb from far more than the cold by the time we reach the outskirts of Vintare.