Chapter 62
CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO
FOX
Fox fought like an animal caught in a trap.
His swings were sloppy, his footwork would have gotten him slapped by his old trainer, and he was more focused on defending himself than attacking.
His body ached with every move, but he didn’t have a choice.
He needed to keep going—to keep moving. He could just make out Harlow on Eha, the dragon scrambling across the ground, throwing attacks.
Clouds of snow and ice misted the air. He got a single glimpse of Sofia’s curls as she ducked behind a tent, just enough to know Harlow was going after her.
Fox needed to get to her before he did.
A soldier stepped in front of him, one Fox vaguely recognized.
He raised his sword, catching the soldier’s before it could cut him across the chest. He felt the hit rattling up his arms, but he stepped forward, pushing.
The moment the other man staggered back, Fox brought his blade down to the side, slicing across the man’s leg.
He fell with a scream, and Fox was moving forward again, not even bothering to finish him.
His mother brought her dagger down across the soldier’s throat before he could recover.
Fox smiled. He could get used to this side of her.
She moved with the same confidence he’d seen when chopping vegetables in the kitchens, making beans.
When she’d been around his father, she’d only ever moved with a demure grace.
That timidity was now gone, replaced with a rage that he understood had been growing within her for perhaps many sun cycles.
Another man jumped out in front of him, and Fox attacked without waiting, but the man was ready.
He blocked Fox’s strike easily, parrying almost immediately even as he stepped forward into Fox’s space.
The man was large—not just taller but wider than Fox, and he felt the man’s strength in his blows.
His teeth ground together as he dug his feet into the soil.
The man advanced again, and this time Fox held his ground, blocking the man’s blow as his knee came up between the man’s legs.
It wasn’t the perfect hit, but he hadn’t been expecting it.
Groin strikes weren’t exactly approved of in most battle situations, but Fox was done fighting fairly. It had all been a facade, anyway.
As the man fell, Fox brought the hilt of his sword down on his temple.
He dropped like a stone onto the muddy ground.
Fox glanced back at his mother, reassuring himself that she was okay.
He didn’t know when he stopped fearing for his own safety, but right now, here, he was only worried about hers—and Sofia’s.
He might have not been the best spy or the strongest fighter. But he wasn’t useless or helpless. He was determined. He would finish what Leon had started—what Ian had died for.
“You,” the word pulled him up short, the voice too familiar. Fox turned to see Nesto, stepping out in front of him, a sword held in both hands like a staff. He glared at Fox with such vitriol that he almost doubted he was talking to him—almost.
“Nesto,” he said, shifting his weight slowly, trying to look casual even as he adjusted his grip. “Move out of the way.”
“Oh,” Nesto said, “by all means, let me step aside so you can murder more of our brothers-in-arms.”
“I don’t have any fight with you.”
“I have one with you,” he said. “I trusted you when you told me you wanted better for this country. But look at you—covered in the blood of your brothers.”
“I care more about this country than you can imagine. I care for everyone in this country. That includes the Dragonborn and the shapeshifters and everyone in between.”
“Don’t be a fool,” Nesto said, his voice cracking. “You don’t think they’ll just betray you the moment your back is turned? They’ve never wanted peace.”
Fox could feel the pain in his voice—the certainty in everything he said.
“Who did you lose? To the resistance.”
“My sister,” he said, a flicker of grief crossing his face for only a moment. “She died three sun cycles ago in a bombing. Was that in the name of peace? Were they defending themselves from her? Her and her child?”
“I lost my brother to the resistance, too.” Fox’s throat was dry, and he felt his mother behind him, listening. “I won’t defend the bombings, but unity won’t be found through Harlow’s war either. He will not bring us peace.”
Nesto’s hands loosened along the hilt of his sword, and his shoulders slumped just a fraction.
“Please, Nesto,” Fox said, seeing the fracturing in his resolve.
“Kill them, you coward!” screamed a soldier from behind Nesto, and Fox recognized Nico running at them.
Whatever hesitance that had been building in Nesto vanished in an instant. He bellowed, throwing himself forward, the rage back in his gaze as his blade slammed into Fox’s.
Fox grunted at the force, surprised at the strength of Nesto’s strike.
Nico flashed by, his mother meeting him with the sword of a fallen soldier.
He watched for only a second, long enough to feel dread pooling in his stomach.
She wasn’t nearly as proficient with the sword as she was with the dagger.
But then Nesto was screaming again and Fox whirled, meeting his assault.
They fought—Nesto striking to kill and Fox doing his best to defend himself. He knew he was holding back. But the young soldier was still wearing his glasses, slightly crooked on his nose, and Fox saw the tremor in his hands as he slashed, as if his body were rebelling against what he was doing.
“Nesto,” Fox said again, desperate to end this without the young man dead at his feet.
“Stop trying to distract me,” he said, feet slipping in the mud even as he said it.
He may have gone through the same initial training as Fox, but it was clear Nesto hadn’t practiced his fighting skills to any degree since.
His anger only made him sloppy. The sword lashed toward Fox again and this time he dodged the blow, letting Nesto stumble off balance from his own momentum.
He kicked out, his foot making contact with Nesto’s leg, and the soldier fell, crashing into the mud, sword clattering to the side.
He turned his face up, looking at Fox with a sickening mixture of rage and terror. Fox’s blade was poised, hovering just above the young man’s neck. He saw the pulse thundering beneath his skin. His face had gone gray and his eyes were focused on the sharp edge of the sword.
And Fox couldn’t bring the blade down.
“Fuck!” he yelled, twisting his wrist and bringing the hilt of his sword down hard against the boy’s temple. Not hard enough to knock him out, but hard enough to disorient him. Nesto fell back, and Fox kicked his sword away, just to be safe.
“Stay down,” he snapped.
He turned around, looking for his mother, acid on his tongue. But she was no longer in sight. He twisted, eyes sweeping the field, and he felt his knees nearly give out when he saw her, back to back with Javi as he swung his sword in wide arcs, cutting down anyone who approached them.
He forced himself to look away—forced himself to trust Javi.
It didn’t take long to find her.
Sofia was standing on top of Chalia’s back, her hair tumbling out of its braid, haloing her face in the setting sun. He almost smiled. But then he saw the soldier standing in front of her, screaming directions as Chalia spit water and ice at her.
Jordi’s face was red with anger, and Fox saw the intent in his eyes as he flung himself forward.
Sofia disappeared from sight, sliding from Chalia’s back.