Page 9

The back of the cave narrows into a low-ceilinged passageway that leads deep into the belly of the mountain. We walk in silence, Jac at the front, me in the middle, Scythe close on my heels. Two horses bring up the rear—first Onyx, then Jac’s mount, a dapple-gray mare I had not seen tucked in the depths of the cave during the tense standoff between Scythe and me.

I had not answered his questions, had not told him who I am or where I come from, remaining stubbornly silent even in the face of his gathering vexation. Eventually, he’d seemed to decide it was not worth his effort, stalking away in disgust and barking that it was time to depart.

Jac shot me an amused wink before whistling for his mare and leading us to the passageway.

I don’t want to like the man, but there is something undeniably charming about his easygoing nature—especially in contrast to Scythe’s brooding malice. I also cannot deny my relief at his presence. Traveling alone with Scythe feels a bit like being locked in a cage with a feral wolf. One who hasn’t eaten in weeks and will not hesitate to consume you the moment you stop serving his purposes.

The passageway grows narrower as we walk, the stone path descending in a gradual slant. It’s cold beneath my socked feet, but I do not protest. I am afraid if I open my mouth for any reason, I will encourage further interrogation from my captors. Best to keep still and silent for the time being. The less they know about me, the harder it will be for them to track me down when I eventually escape their clutches.

The flickering glow of Jac’s torch dances across the walls, casting strange shadows on the pointed salt deposits hanging from the roof like canine fangs in the mouth of a beast. Here, in the deep, the world seems devoid of life. A realm of utter stillness. Except for the intermittent drip, drip, dripping of water droplets echoing back at us as they plummet, nothing stirs in the dark.

We walk for a long time, a single-file parade moving ever deeper, ever downward. We walk for so long, I grow convinced I will never again feel the sunlight on my face or the kiss of wind upon my skin. A sort of panic begins to churn within me, brought on by the tight-pressed claustrophobia of our entombment. The musty air moves in and out of my lungs, tasting of dust and decay, staleness and stagnation, and I struggle for calm.

For someone like me—raised on the wild, windy shores of Seahaven, with the crashing waves and churning surf, running amid the sun-dappled shallows with salt on my skin and sea-foam in my hair, skirts a tangle of sand, heart alight with the tang of the tides—this sort of earthly confinement feels like walking through a crypt. One I will never escape. Not only my body, but my soul itself trapped ever more beneath the mountain, unable to find its way to the skies.

Just when I think my nerves will crack, just when I think I cannot take another moment of this cloistered death march and will beg Jac—or even, gods help me, Scythe—for a reprieve from the torment…the passage widens once more. We step through a rough-hewn archway into another cave and are immediately greeted by a chorus of voices: male, hushed, resounding from all sides so their origin is difficult to pinpoint.

I haul a breath of marginally less musty air into my lungs as we round a bend and find ourselves at a campsite of sorts. There is a low, smokeless fire burning merrily. Three men sit around it, armed to the teeth—swords lashed to backs, daggers tucked into boots. A bow and quiver lean against a bundled bedroll. A massive wooden crossbow rests beside a canvas pack, accompanied by dozens of heavy bolts. A trio of dark brown horses stand by the far wall, tacked to ride.

“ Oi! ” Jac calls, his grin back in place. “You lot could at least pretend to patrol. I trained you better than to be caught with your pants down. Or do you let just anyone waltz into your camp unawares?”

“You walk like a lout after last call,” the closest of the men retorts. “Heard you coming a league away.”

“True,” the red-haired man across from him agrees. “Jac, you tread with all the deftness of an avalanche.”

“Is that any way to speak to your battalion leader?” Jac asks with faux anger.

Chuckling, the men rise and, one by one, clasp forearms with Jac, fingers to elbows, holding for the length of two heartbeats. Once the greetings conclude, the red-haired man turns his attention my way. His mouth parts in curiosity at my unexpected presence, but when he catches sight of Scythe coming to a halt close beside me, he disregards me completely. His eyes go wide and his face splits into a grin.

“As I live and breathe! Penn! What in the skies are you doing here?”

Penn?

My eyes flash over to Scythe. I find him already staring back at me, resignation etched across his features beneath the helm. He doesn’t want to share his true identity with me any more than I want to share mine with him. I arch a questioning brow and his mouth flattens into an even sterner line.

“Farley,” Scythe says in greeting, stepping forward to clasp the redhead’s forearm. “Been a long time. “

“Too long. I can’t believe you’re here! Thought we wouldn’t see you again until the first melt of spring.”

“Plans change.”

Farley’s light green gaze slides to me. “I can see that.”

“Hungry?” another of the men—with longish graying hair and steady eyes of the same hue—interjects. “We’ve got a bit of dried venison. Not much in the way of hunting, this high up in the range, but we had a spot of luck last week.” His chin jerks toward the redhead. “Farley is a damned good shot, on the rare occasions he stops chattering long enough to stop scaring off supper.”

The redhead responds with a vulgar hand gesture.

My stomach gives an audible grumble. Scythe glances at me for a heartbeat before his head shakes, rejecting the offer of a meal. “We need to make for the Apex Portal. I want to be in Caeldera by nightfall.”

Jac and his men nod at once.

“We’ll accompany you as far as the crossing, but we can’t go through with you.” Jac sighs. “Four more months on this frigid icicle before we earn a reprieve, I’m afraid.”

“It’ll fly.” Scythe—or is it Penn?—assures him. “You get cold up here, think of Beatrice and her lovely monobrow, awaiting you in warm tavern sheets.”

There is a riot of laughter from the rest of the men. It cuts off abruptly when the ground beneath our feet begins to shake and shift. The trembles are so great, I think the mountain must be coming down around us, an avalanche of stone and ice that will bury us alive.

I have endured earthquakes before, of course. They’ve grown more and more common in recent years; sharp, unpredictable shudders that make me think Anwyvn might be situated atop the back of a great slumbering beast who is shaking awake after a long hibernation. Usually they last no more than a moment or two, rattling cups in their saucers and jostling books off shelves.

This is nothing like that.

These tremors are more concentrated and come far faster than anything I have previously experienced. It is so intense, I fear the cavern floor will crack open directly beneath our feet, a deadly vein dropping us straight into the bowels of the earth. The three brown mounts by the far wall bolt before their riders can catch them.

Without thinking, I reach out a blind hand toward Scythe, grasping his upper arm to keep myself upright. Such is my fear, I do not realize that I’m putting pressure on his still-fresh wound. If my grip causes him pain, he does not seem to notice. He is already in motion, jerking the sword from the scabbard across his back with his opposite hand, shoving me closer to the fire and shifting his body to block mine.

I peer around the broad planes of his shoulders and see the rest of the men have taken up similar positions—backs to the fire, swords at the ready, a practiced formation for an incoming assault. Their knees are bent slightly to absorb the continuous shock waves. I mimic the stance, instantly steadier on my feet.

They are silent, but their expressions speak plainly. Whatever is coming—whatever is causing the cave floor to pitch and heave like water in a bucket—will not be a welcome addition to their company.

“What is it?” I dare whisper in the turbulent dimness, hearing the fear in my own voice and hating it. “Is it…ice giants?”

Scythe’s head twists—not enough to meet my eyes, but enough for me to see the severe lines of his profile beneath the heavy nose bridge. Frowning, he mutters, “Worse.”

Worse?

I open my mouth to ask what could possibly be worse than an ice giant, but I never get the chance. Because at that moment, the incoming enemies make themselves known. And I find, as I take in the sight of them—their scurrying legs and clacking pincers and beady eyes—Scythe is correct.

Whatever horrors an ice giant might unleash…

This is far, far worse.

They do not come from the cave mouth, as I’d expected. They burst up from the ground all around us in a violent explosion of stone and dirt. Two dozen of them, perhaps more. There’s no time to count once the melee begins.

Centipedes.

Not the small, screech-inducing bugs I’d glimpsed scurrying across the floor of the storage closet back at Eli’s cottage. These are a giant variety I’ve never seen, never even fathomed, except perhaps in legends of old. Each as long as a horse and as wide as a barrel, with hundreds of legs jutting from either side of their armored insectile bodies. A pale, putrid white hue, they remind me of maggots. And they reek—an acidic stench that stings my nostrils and makes my eyes water.

The first of them erupts from the earthen floor just beside Farley. I watch in horror as its serrated mandible closes around his shin and, with the ease of snapping a twig, cleaves the bone in two. Even as he falls, screaming in agony, he swings down with his sword and beheads the beast in one clean strike. Green goo spurts from its decapitated body, a flood of venomous fluid. Its legs continue to squirm and clack against the ground long after it is dead.

“Stay by the fire,” Scythe barks, gutting another of the centipedes as it rears up before him, jerking his blade free before I can so much as blink. “Cyntroedi can’t stand the flame.”

I try to respond but my throat feels fused shut. I can only watch as the men take on the vile creatures. One after another after another. Jac’s double-headed axe neatly shears half the legs off one as it plummets from an outcropping of rock overhead, leaving it limping in wobbly circles. The gray-eyed man whose name I have not learned battles two at once on the far side of the fire. On his knees, Farley continues to fight—slashing out against anything that comes within range of his sword. The final man, bald and stocky, with midnight skin, stays close to his fallen friend, firing bolt after bolt from the mammoth crossbow.

For all the bloodshed, it is Scythe I cannot tear my eyes from. I had seen him kill men before, seen his grim efficiency as he slaughtered Burrows and the other troops who lashed me to that hanging tree. But now, as I watch him whirl and slash, skewer and thrust, I realize I have not seen even a glimpse of his skill before this moment. The man who takes on a half-dozen monsters sent straight from the realm of nightmares at once appears inhuman. Impossibly fast, his motions a blur, his helm a dark gleam in the firelight.

With a wounded shoulder, no less.

He moves like a man possessed, caught in the throes of battle fury. Occasionally, between kills, his eyes dart across the cave to find mine. They seem lit from within, that fire in their depths burning bright despite the darkness, no longer an ember but a flame. His blade, too, appears to blaze red-hot, as though it has been left to heat in the coals for hours on end.

Surely a trick of the light , I tell myself, shaken by the sight.

The men, for a time at least, seem to have the upper hand. Until the earth begins to shake once more, fresh shock waves announcing the arrival of a second cluster of cyntroedi. It is at this moment that I finally come unstuck from the paralyzing grip of terror that stills my limbs. My gaze sweeps the space around me, landing on the bow. It is larger than the one I used back home—a man’s bow, crafted for killing worse prey than I was accustomed to hunting in Seahaven’s tranquil woods—but I grab it anyway, slinging the quiver across my back and nocking an arrow with familiar ease.

Mere days ago, when I saw the state of my iron-ravaged wrists, I wondered if I’d ever again be able to draw a bow. But Scythe’s salve has healing properties I’ve never seen in all my years mixing tonics and brewing teas with Eli. My skin is practically mended, the gaping wounds scabbed over in a way that should not be possible—not for weeks.

Not for a lifetime.

Yet, there is no more than a twinge of residual pain, a faint ache of protest in the tendons as I set my stance, lift the bow, and anchor it against my body. I’m breathing rapidly, the rise and fall of my chest making it difficult to take aim as I pull back the bowstring. With a steadying gulp, I hold the air inside my lungs. My eyes narrow on a centipede that has just burst from the earth behind Scythe. It skitters toward him, intent on striking him unawares.

I let the arrow fly.

I’ve always been a good shot. Since I was no more than a child, when Eli placed a novice bow in my hands, I excelled—first at the stationary targets he set up for me in the gardens, later with the distant marks hidden deep in the foliage, designed to challenge me. By the time I reached my fifteenth year, I did all our hunting, bringing home a steady supply of game to fill our table. Our coffers, too. I sold a fair bit of meat to villagers who were too hungry to be picky about buying from a halfling.

Thus, even with the large bow, even with my aching wrists, my shot makes impact—not precisely where I aim, not straight through the head, but in the center of the armored body. The creature gives a pained screech, its pincers clacking at empty air as it whirls around. The beady eyes fix on me, glittering, and my whole body trembles.

Faster than I ever imagined possible, the creature comes my way, carried across the cave on a hundred spindly legs. Locking my knees against the trembles of fear, I barely have time to nock another arrow and fire before it reaches me.

This time, my aim is true. The arrow slams home directly between the creature’s beady eyes. It falls to the cave floor with a thud, pincers clacking one final time as its vile fluids leak out around it in a viridescent puddle. I catch myself grinning as I reach for another arrow in my quiver.

The smile freezes on my face when my eyes turn to locate new prey and instead lock with Scythe’s. He is on the opposite side of the cave, in the process of dispatching two especially mammoth cyntroedi. He does not look pleased with me. If prisoners are not privy to information, I’m guessing they aren’t privy to weaponry, either.

Ah, well. He can brood at me later. Preferably when we aren’t under attack by stallion-sized insects.

“Jac!” the gray-haired man yells, voice tense. “Need another blade over here!”

I watch a blur of dark blond hair race by, taking down monsters as he goes. My eyes trail him, picking off the creatures who give chase, covering him as he moves. Two, four, six. I lose count, firing without hesitation. Without thought.

The acidic smell of venom thickens in the air as the armored bodies pile up, filling the pitted floor of the cave until all I can see are legs. Legs and pincers and putrid white carcasses, an invertebrate graveyard.

A sharp whinny of distress has my head whipping in the opposite direction. My heart seizes as Jac’s gentle gray mare is taken down by three cyntroedi, no more than a dozen paces away from me. Onyx rears back and slams his hooves down on one of them, crushing it instantly. I fire two arrows in quick succession, taking down the others. But it is too late for the mare. She is beyond saving, deep scores in her hide gushing irreparably. The venom is already working its way through her system, causing damage the best healers in Anwyvn could not undo.

Deep down, I know it’s pointless, but my irrational heart refuses to admit as much. I make my way toward her, tears glossing my eyes. If I can get there, maybe I can do something. I have to at least try…

I make it no more than a few steps. Scythe’s sharp whistle sounds from across the cave. At first, I think it’s to get my attention.

I’m mistaken.

He is calling his horse.

Onyx responds instantly to his master’s signal. He trots to my side and, with an intelligence far surpassing that of a normal horse, herds my body back toward the safety of the fire. His glossy eyes are rolling with white, infused with the same fear that churns though my veins. I let my hand stroke his flank just once to soothe him before I turn back to the battle with my bow aloft.

“Need some help over here!”

It’s the stocky, bald soldier this time—the one fighting beside Farley. Alarm fills me when I see he’s been drawn away from his post, pulled deeper into the crush. Leaving Farley on his knees, wholly unprotected. The cyntroedi are encroaching on his hard-fought patch of territory, enticed by a meal so close to the ground.

Sidestepping Onyx, I rush around the fire to his side. I’m running low on arrows, but I don’t think about that as I reach into my near-empty quiver and fire. Once, twice. A third time. My arms are aching fiercely, the exertion catching up with me. It’s been too long since I used my body for anything except running, hiding, and cowering. I’ve withered away to nothing.

Skin and bones , Scythe’s voice whispers inside my head.

He’s right. Even if I had unlimited ammunition, I’d still be useless, unable to lift my arms to fire. That grim realization haunts me as I reach for my final arrow.

“The lads say I’m a handy shot,” a hoarse voice says from beside me. “But I’m nothing next to you, Ace.”

I glance down into light green eyes. They are hazy with pain. Farley’s face is pallid, his breaths coming in rapid pants. His left leg is bent at an unnatural angle and I know the bone is in pieces below the knee. A difficult break to set. Even with the best treatment, he’ll likely walk with a limp for the rest of his days. The fact that he’s still upright—still swinging his sword—instead of curled into a ball of limbs, sobbing freely, is a measure of his self-discipline.

It is a miracle that he killed the beast so swiftly when it attacked. Had he not, it might’ve taken his leg clean off. Or worse, punctured the skin with life-sapping venom that would’ve stopped his heart in seconds. By comparison, a break is a blessing.

“If we live through this, Penn should recruit you for the Ember Guild.” He grins through his agony. “Might be worth living with a bum leg, just to see that play out.”

I don’t know what he’s blabbing on about, but I grin back at him nonetheless as I nock my arrow.

“It’s my last,” I tell him, drawing back the bowstring with a shrug.

“Use it well,” he murmurs, lifting his sword as another centipede bursts from the earth five paces away and comes at us. We take it down together—my arrow through its left flank, Farley’s sword through its right. When the creature lies twitching, I set down my useless bow and slip the empty quiver off my shoulder. Farley watches it clatter to the ground, then looks up at me.

“You should run.”

My mouth gapes. “What?”

“No need for you to die here with us.” He jerks his chin toward the center of the cave, where the soldiers rage on—Scythe, Jac, and the two others still in death grips with what seems to be a never-ending onslaught of colossal, carnivorous predators. “They’ll keep coming. Wave after wave.” His eyes hold mine, steady despite the suffering in their depths. I strain to hear his words over the constant clash of weaponry. “You stayed. Helped. Did what you could. That’s good. Doesn’t make you cowardly if you save yourself now.”

“But I don’t even know where—”

“There’s a passage just behind us. It’s not far from the fire. A dozen paces at most, tucked in behind a boulder.” His chest heaves and I know his injury is draining every bit of energy he has left. “Run. Don’t stop. When you come to a fork, go left. There’s a set of rock steps, straight up into the mountains. Once you make it there, you’re safe. These things”—another chin jerk, this time toward the pile of twitching, skeletal bodies—“stay down here in the dark.”

I hesitate. I don’t know why. He’s just handed me a chance at freedom. A chance I should snatch as soon as it is offered. I owe no allegiance here—not to the injured man at my feet, certainly not to the fearsome one across the cave who fights like a general trained by the God of War himself.

Scythe is not my friend.

Not my protector.

Not my savior.

But…

He gave you socks.

He brought you salve.

He kept you warm and fed and safe.

He saved your life on more than one occasion.

I silence the unwelcome voice of conscience in the back of my mind with a swift shake of my head. Scythe only did those things for his own benefit. He needs me—for what purpose, I’m not certain, but I doubt it is anything good. He believes the mark on my chest is some kind of sigil, a power source to be tapped. For all I know, he plans to sacrifice me on an altar of blood as soon as we reach our destination.

“For the love of gods, girl, go !” Farley snaps weakly. “Take a torch and get out of here.”

I look into his pain-hazed eyes for another long beat.

And then I do as he’s bid me.