Chapter 16 Moab
Moab
The woods didn’t want us. Every root caught at Scarlette’s boots, every thorn made a grab for her skin. Even with the wolf in me running point, I felt it, this was their ground, and it wasn’t going to give us up easy.
Scarlette limped badly, the bandaged ankle dragging through the underbrush. Blood soaked through in a line that turned the snow pink, then red, then black as she stumbled, cursing in three languages. She didn’t complain, but each time she slipped or gasped, it was like a knife in my own foot.
The hooves behind us had started a ways back, a distant vibration in the ground, a rhythm that might have belonged to your own pulse if you wanted to lie to yourself.
By now it was music, a full orchestration of panic and certainty.
I kept glancing back, hand on the little blade at my belt, wishing I had more than steel and spit to offer.
Ahead, the trees thinned. I could see the sky, orange and fat with late-day sun, the clouds bleeding together in a way that promised more cold by nightfall.
The circle was close, maybe another hundred yards, maybe less.
I dragged Scarlette upright when she slipped again, slinging her arm over my neck.
“Can you run?” I asked, even though she was already running.
She shot me a look that could have peeled paint. “Keep moving,” she said, then spat blood into the brush.
I grinned. “That’s the spirit.”
We crested a rise and the trees fell away, revealing the ancient oak circle.
I’d expected peace, or maybe just emptiness, but what we got was a gauntlet of soldiers, a dozen or more, ringed the far side, their armor piecemeal but sharp in the sunlight.
Some had swords, some had axes, and a few just big sticks with nails hammered through the end.
They looked like a painting from hell, every face set in the same hard line.
Sir Aldric was at their center, a statue of a man on a horse that looked bred to trample cities.
His armor was new, polished to a shine that reflected the dying sun.
The plume on his helm caught the wind and made him look taller, if that was possible.
Next to him, on a smaller, meaner-looking beast, was Brother Tomas, the cleric’s robe flapping over his mail.
He clutched a wooden cross so big it bordered on parody.
We had maybe three seconds to slow down before the trap snapped shut.
Scarlette hissed, “Shit,” under her breath, but didn’t stop.
I scanned for gaps, for anything. There was none. The oaks themselves seemed to lean in, hunched and hungry for what was about to happen.
Aldric raised his sword, and the men behind him locked shields, forming a wall across the clearing. “You’re finished,” he called, voice steady as a church bell. “Lay down, beast. You will not touch her again.”
Brother Tomas stood in his stirrups, holding the cross out like it might shoot fire. “There’s nowhere to run, witch!” he shouted, voice slick with the joy of being right. “Your end was foretold! Submit, and your soul might yet be saved!”
Scarlette spat. “Come save me, then,” she called, her voice bright and clear over the chaos.
I could have laughed. I wanted to. Instead, I braced her with my hip and scanned the edges for any advantage. There was none. Not with her hurt.
The first wave of soldiers started forward, the wall of shields flexing like a muscle. They meant to box us in, drive us to our knees, and finish it with the least possible risk to their own pride. They had no idea.
I bent down, low enough to whisper in Scarlette’s ear. “On my mark, you run for the center,” I said. “No matter what.”
She looked at me, eyes rimmed in red, jaw set. “Don’t be a martyr, Moab.”
I grinned, felt the canines shift in my mouth. “I just like to see them work for it.”
We moved together, slow, backing toward the center of the oaks, the ring of swords closing tighter. Above us, birds cut the sky in black slashes. The light on the armor hurt to look at, a reminder of all the things in this world I couldn’t break.
Aldric spurred his horse forward, the animal’s breath curling in the cold. “Last warning!” he roared. “I’ll see your head on a pike if you resist.”
Brother Tomas echoed, “Repent, demon! Confess your sin!”
“He wants me to repent,” I said to Scarlette, “but I think we’ll make our own luck.”
She laughed, then coughed, blood spotting her lip. “Always, Wolf.”
The men charged, swords raised.
We held our ground, backs to the biggest oak, waiting for the storm.
***
The first shot was a thunderclap. For a split second, the world froze, men with swords mid-swing, boots planted in churned earth, even the crows overhead arrested in mid-flight, wings outstretched like pages waiting to be read.
Then two of Aldric’s men went down, hard and ugly, the first with half a face left and the second with a smoking hole where the breastplate buckled. Blood sprayed a wide arc, painting the snow with more precision than any brush could manage.
The clearing exploded into noise. Horses bucked, one kicking a squire clear off his feet. The wall of shields shattered as men scrambled for cover they’d never needed before. Sir Aldric’s head snapped up, eyes gone wide, trying to make sense of the new kind of death.
Vin and Shivs came out of the trees at a jog, weapons up.
Vin’s face was all business—no smile, just the flat mask of a man doing a job he’d trained for.
He held the pistol two-handed, moving fast but not in a hurry, squeezing off shots that sounded more like punctuation than panic.
Every round found its mark. Shivs, behind him, had something bigger, a stubby black machine that hosed the air with more noise than sense, but each burst sent men flying or made them duck like animals on the first day of the hunt.
I’d seen a lot of things, but nothing like this, two worlds colliding, one with powder and lead, the other with faith and steel. The medieval side did what it always does: they regrouped. Men with swords rushed forward, howling, convinced that bravery could outshout fear.
Vin took three more down before they hit the oaks.
Shivs went wide, covering the flank. The smell of burnt gunpowder rolled over us, sharp and oily, drowning out even the blood.
Scarlette looked at me, then at the men falling in heaps, and for a second her face was a mixture of horror and something else, maybe relief, maybe awe.
Vin shouted, “Get to the circle!” his voice was as calm as if he were calling a play at a peewee game. I pulled Scarlette with me, half-dragging her toward the ring of trees. Behind us, the men closed in, desperate now, knowing the old rules were gone but refusing to quit the field.
They got close, too close. One of them, a big bastard with a beard like a broom, swung his sword at my back.
I twisted, grabbed a dead man’s sword, and caught him under the arm.
The blade slipped in easily, blood gushing like he was nothing but a wineskin with opinions. He dropped, clawing at the ground.
The next one didn’t hesitate. He slammed into me, sending both of us into the mud.
We rolled, my sword against his forearm, his blade scraping my ribs.
I felt the steel punch through skin, but it was a shallow cut.
He didn’t get a second chance. I shoved my thumb into his eye, popped it like a grape, and then sliced his throat while he was still screaming.
Scarlette screamed behind me, not in pain, but in rage.
I spun to see her on her knees, grappling with a soldier twice her weight.
He had her by the throat, squeezing, but she’d gotten her hand on his dagger and rammed it straight into his thigh.
The man yowled, let go, and she snatched his sword as he staggered back, eyes wide with shock.
She held the sword like she’d been born with it, both hands tight, knuckles white.
The next man who came at her got the point through the neck, the blade sliding in clean.
Scarlette’s face was a mask of focus, no fear, no hesitation.
She yanked the sword free and turned, looking for the next threat.
Shivs swung around from the right, emptying a magazine into a tight knot of men near the horses. The animals reared and whinnied, trampling anyone unlucky enough to be in the way. Vin, reloading, moved toward us, keeping his body between Scarlette and the incoming attackers.
“Good to see you, Sarge,” he called out, voice barely winded.
“Thought you might enjoy the party,” I said.
Vin grinned, took a headshot at a man trying to flank him, then ducked behind a fallen trunk. “How’s the girl?”
“She bites,” I said, and Scarlette snorted.
We pushed through, a slow retreat toward the center.
The soldiers adapted; some circled, some took cover, and a few hung back to see if their lords would order a retreat.
But Aldric was not the sort to back down.
He rode his horse straight through the chaos, sword up, his voice carrying over the gunfire.
“Cowards!” he roared. “Face us with honor! God’s judgment will find you!”
He pointed the blade at me, the signal clear. His men rallied, closed ranks, and pressed forward. Bullets did damage, but steel and numbers still counted for a lot. I felt the old thrill, maybe terror, maybe joy, of knowing we were up against it.
A man with a halberd charged, screaming for the church.
I ducked the blade, cut his hamstring, then left him for Shivs to finish.
Scarlette covered my left, swinging the sword in tight arcs, her movements clean and practiced.
She fought like a woman who’d spent her whole life running from violence and had finally decided to stop.
One of the soldiers broke through and went for Scarlette’s throat. She blocked with the flat of the sword, the impact shuddering up her arms, then parried and drove the point through his mail. Blood poured out, and she shoved him off with a grunt, then turned to help me with another attacker.
Vin and Shivs had their own hands full. A pair of archers had found cover behind one of the oaks, firing wild shots that sometimes glanced off the bark and sometimes found flesh.
Shivs caught one in the knee, dropped him, then finished him with a double-tap to the chest. Vin never stopped moving, never let his back go unguarded, the pistol barking out commands the enemy couldn’t ignore.
The fight was a blender—no sense, just speed, sweat, blood, and the feeling that any second could be the last. My knife was red up to the hilt. My hands were shaking, but it didn’t slow me down. I felt Scarlette at my back, alive and burning, every breath a promise.
We made it to the center of the circle, the old stones underfoot slick with gore and snow. For a second, it was just the dead and us. The air rang with the echo of gunfire and the shouts of the dying.
Then Aldric rode in, dismounting with a flourish that would have looked heroic if the ground hadn’t been slick with his men’s blood. He drew his sword, leveled it at me, and bared his teeth.
“Face me, you cur,” he said. “No more hiding behind women and witchcraft.”
I wanted to answer, but I was out of words.
Vin called out, “We’re thinning, Sarge. If you got a plan, now’s the time.”
I nodded, eyes on Aldric. “Cover her,” I said, jerking my chin toward Scarlette. “This is mine.”
The soldiers, or what was left of them, formed a loose perimeter, too afraid to close in, too proud to run. I squared up, knife in hand, and let the wolf rise behind my eyes.
Scarlette, panting, blood running down her arm, caught my gaze. “Don’t die,” she said.
I smiled, feral. “Only if he kills me first.”
Aldric lunged.
The fight wasn’t clean or pretty. It was a knife against a sword, muscle against training, hate against something older.
He was fast, but I was faster. I let him get close, let him see the kill in my eyes, then twisted inside his guard and raked the blade across his face.
He roared, swung wildly, and caught my shoulder, but not deep enough to stop me.
I punched him in the gut, doubled him over, then went for the kill.
He blocked with his forearm, but I buried the knife in the soft flesh above his elbow, then ripped it out and stepped back.
He stumbled, blood pouring from his face and arm, but didn’t fall.
Instead, he dropped the sword, tackled me to the ground, and tried to choke the life out of me with his bare hands.
We rolled in the blood and snow, his grip iron, mine desperate. I clawed at his face, but he held on. My vision tunneled, darkness creeping in. Then, out of nowhere, Scarlette drove the stolen sword point through Aldric’s ribs. He gasped, let go, and sagged.
I shoved him off, gasping, lungs on fire. Scarlette knelt by me, eyes wild, breath ragged.
“Did I get him?” she said.
I laughed, or tried to. “He’s not coming back.”
Vin and Shivs finished the last of the soldiers. The clearing went silent, and only the crows were left to judge us.
I looked up at the ring of oaks, the light slanting through them like a benediction. Scarlette’s hair was a mat of blood and sweat, her face streaked and raw, but she was alive.
I squeezed her hand. “We made it.”
She smiled, then collapsed against my chest. “Next time, we pick the fight,” she said.
“Next time,” I agreed, though I doubted there’d ever be another like this one.
The air in the circle shimmered, the space between the stones flickering like heat off asphalt.
Vin holstered his weapon, then nodded to me. “You ready to get out of here, Sarge?”
I glanced at Scarlette, at Shivs, at the dead and the dying.
“Yeah,” I said. “Let’s go home.”
Scarlette hesitated and looked back at the land she was leaving.
“It’s now or never, Sarge,” Vin said.
I nodded, took Scarlette’s hand, and together we limped toward the brightest point, the center of the circle. She came freely.
The last thing I saw was the portal opening—a golden maw, edges sharp and inviting. I heard the crows take flight. I heard Scarlette’s gasp as we stepped into the light.
And then, nothing.
Just the sweet, wild silence of home.