Chapter Eight
Jarok
Jarok vaguely wondered how one second he could be blissfully grinding on top of Piris, aching to be inside her, and the next second find his cousin bloodied on the ground at his feet. Lust pounded in him still even as rage welled up to meet it, and he had no idea how the two could stay contained in his body.
He dropped to his knees, pulling Gem forward to shield her with the bed as best he could. She hissed at the movement, the arrow with the distinct Monti fletching embedded in her back, though luckily, not very deep. Sadly for her, it wasn’t a clean through and through, so someone would have to dig out the tip.
“Go, you fool,” Gem said, her eyes half-closed as she sucked in short, hard breaths.
“I can’t—”
“You can and you will,” she clipped out. He spared a moment for Piris, watching her square up in a defensive posture at the foot of the bed, her wickedly sharp dagger at the ready, her body crouched low to present less of a target. She positioned herself as defender of his cousin, and a different sort of warmth pulsed in his blood at the sight.
“You and her, you need to go. Now.”
“But—” Jarok said.
“It’s a scratch. Practically nothing,” she gritted out. “They’re here for you, Jarok. I heard one of them yell something about taking the prince. Don’t let them get what they want.”
Jarok nodded, knowing full well she was right. The only reason the Benders would risk an open attack would be to kill or kidnap, and the only useful victim in such a scenario was him, as Engad Monti seemed forever focused on gaining the power of the Borau royals. However, only a short ride from Volesion Peak, and the resources Lord Brettly Volesion could muster, Piris might also be a solid bargaining tool for any Bender smart enough to see her potential. Both needed to flee and regroup at a safer location.
He couldn’t just leave Gem there, alone and unattended, however. “Cylian!” A beat later, the red-haired Fae parted the growing smoke of the hallway to enter their room.
The lord immediately started to give a report of the situation. “They’re downstairs, at least the ones left. I’ve tried to contain the flames as best I can. Darin dispatched the Benders above—”
He stopped when he saw Gem bloodied on the floor. A curt nod was all he needed to replace Jarok beside her. “Go,” he said, echoing Gem’s assessment.
Piris, squinting toward the hallway beyond, said, “We can’t go that way. The window.” She’d understood the situation so fast—had seen and executed a plan in her mind. He would have stopped in appreciation at the way she thought if there was any time to do so.
Jarok moved toward her after lashing his sword back on his hip, grabbing her waist as he did, causing her to tense before he said to her side, “Good call.”
She turned without a word when Jarok grabbed her hand and led them to the old, framed casing. At least they were only one floor up. Not a bad jump for any Fae, much less two trained fighters. He took the time to survey the ground, for anyone waiting below or any obvious hazards. He couldn’t see deep into the shadows, or tell if anyone lingered close by, so it wasn’t a complete sweep of the area, which made him more than a little nervous.
“Okay. Seems clear, but anyone could be waiting below, so we jump and immediately run toward the stables, yes?”
Piris nodded, looking out the window herself and apparently coming to the same conclusion.
“Follow after as soon as I clear the landing,” Jarok said as he climbed onto the windowsill. He had no time to hesitate or think too hard. The other way was fire and enemies with ready bows. This way likely also held Benders, but it at least gave them better odds and an open space in which to fight. He hesitated a split second before leaping down, bending his knees and loosening his muscles so they’d take the impact with as little damage as possible. The hit was hard, rattling him up to his teeth, but he sustained no injuries.
After he sidestepped, Piris followed. Her own thud to the ground sounded painful, but there was no sign of it on her body except a slight tightening around her eyes and a tick in her jaw.
With no time to spare, he grabbed her hand and they ran together, slowing only when they came to a blind corner at a line of three outhouses situated between the inn and the stables. It was a perfect place for an ambush, so he wasn’t surprised when a group of four Benders stepped in their path.
“Your presence is requested, Prince,” one said, a sneer on his face and a promise of violence in his words.
He didn’t get a chance to reply before Piris lashed out at the Fae with a swift, high kick to his chin, causing him to reel back, his hands windmilling to try to keep him upright before he landed hard on his ass in the middle of his group.
The Benders were fierce fighters, highly trained and with a clear purpose, so they lost no time attacking. At least one was momentarily down when the other three advanced, two coming at Jarok while one made to grab Piris. With his own fighters to contend with, he didn’t have the ability to help her. He ached to, his attention divided in a way that wasn’t good for either of them, but in a flash, he understood, as he had somewhere in his mind before, he really didn’t need to protect her. Piris held her own against the hardened warrior trying to contain her. She’d landed at least three harsh blows with her fists, weighted by her clenched dagger, in as many seconds. The last landed hard in the man’s gut, causing him to double over and let out his breath in a rough whoosh of air.
Jarok had no more time to consider her as the two men bore down on him with daggers of their own. He flicked his falchion out of his scabbard and gripped it tight with both hands as he brought it up to block, then repel their blows. The leverage the larger weapon gave him pushed the men back, but they weren’t amateurs. Without a word, one went back in for a high hit while the other crouched, moving in to take out Jarok’s legs. He called his wind to him, using it to topple the crouched man with a short, focused gust as he met the other’s dagger once again, pushing him farther back and hopping over the man sprawled at his feet.
He switched positions, trying to keep both in his sights, which meant he lost his peripheral view of Piris. It burned through him, turning his back on her, but he did it to help them both. He could still hear the unmistakable sounds of a fight in progress: grunts, curses, and the smack of hard fists or feet on cloth and flesh. As long as he heard those noises, Piris was still fighting, which meant he could concentrate where he needed to at the moment.
Both his opponents were up, trying to circle him. The one he’d pushed to the ground with his magic came at him from behind. They pounced at once, managing to take the prince down to the ground despite the swipe of his sword at one of their stomachs. Blood oozed, but the man didn’t let up his attack. Both Benders worked their way on top of him, the one with the stomach wound wresting the sword from his grip as he pushed all his weight on Jarok’s arm with bony knees, while the other pinned his other arm, moving to plant his dagger in the prince’s gut. His wind howled in defense, but they were prepared for his magic and huddled low against it.
The blade swung down, but before it could connect, a blur in a traveling dress knocked the Bender down from the side and rolled with him on the dirt and snow and ice. Jarok didn’t hesitate to reach across and use his left hand to punch the other Bender in his wounded stomach, causing a wheeze of breath from the man and making his knees ease up on his prone arm. A second blow brought the man down, and Jarok flipped their positions, took the man to the ground, and moved to straddle him. His falchion wasn’t in reach, but he managed to block the upward swing of the dagger, pushed his weight down on the arm, twisted the Bender’s hand, and slowly but surely forced the blade down, down, down until with a final push he embedded the thing in the man’s chest, right into his heart.
Jarok didn’t look back down at the man he’d just killed, and instead pushed himself up to help Piris. She’d grabbed his sword at some point and was volleying back and forth with the Bender who’d been on him moments before. The one she’d originally fought was on the ground several feet away and looked to still be bleeding. The one she’d felled first had fully recovered and was coming at her from behind. Jarok flew toward the man, the impact aided by an icy wind at his back, and he took the man down, shoving the dagger he still clutched through the back of the Fae’s neck, killing him in an instant.
Piris spared a glance his way but was only distracted a moment, not enough time for the Fae she was fighting to take true advantage, though he seemed to think it was. He jumped toward her, trying to knock her over with his muscle and height, but she swung back the falchion and stabbed forward in a flash, burying the wicked sharp, curved blade all the way through the Fae’s chest.
The two of them froze like that, blood dripping down her hand. The look in her eyes told Jarok it was the first time she’d killed. He didn’t have time to comfort her in the moment. They needed to be gone before more Benders streamed from the inn and tried once again to stop them. He rushed to her and she started, eyes wide and wild, when he laid a gentle hand at the small of her back.
“Piris. Come.” He took the sword from her and shoved it into his hip-belt, not bothering to wipe the blood from it. He’d have to clean it later. He grabbed her now-free, bloody hand and moved her with him, toward the stable and the horses he knew Nore had bedded down there.
Nore, the blessed man, already had his and Cylian’s horses saddled and ready when Jarok pulled Piris into the stable. “They’re prepped, Your Highness!” he shouted, moving to fling open the large double doors at the end of the row so the two could flee.
“Piris. Piris!” Jarok yelled in her face, trying to snap her out of the fog she’d been in since killing the Fae. He gripped her shoulders and shook her slightly, which seemed to do the trick. Her head straightened and her eyes narrowed on him, focusing once again. Good enough for Jarok.
“Get on Cylian’s horse. We need to ride. Now!”
She didn’t hesitate then, and he didn’t either, both mounting and moving toward the doors at top speed in a blink. Jarok shouted, “Run, Nore,” not wanting the groom to be punished for helping them when the Benders in the inn, or the ones they’d left breathing by the outhouses, saw they’d escaped on horseback.
They pounded down the snow-filled lane, kicking up bits of snow and ice as they fled, only slowing momentarily as they rounded the corner to pass the inn and get back to the main Winterlands road.
As they passed the inn, fire lighting the sky with a menacing orange-yellow glow, an arrow whizzed past Jarok’s ear.
“Down,” Piris called beside him, flinging her body to hug tight to Cylian’s horse, making herself as small a target as possible. Jarok mimicked her until the shouts of the Benders faded in the distance.
Their horses were swift, prepped well, and ready to run. Jarok hoped it’d give them a solid lead. They were headed back in the direction they’d arrived, away from where they needed to be, so a different plan formed in his mind. When he finally saw the opportunity he needed, he yelled over to Piris, “Follow me.” She veered off the road behind him and they trampled into a break in the tree line.
It was slower going, clomping through the dark woods on horseback. Not only did the closed-in trees make maneuvering difficult, but the deep pockets of snow were hard to catch before stepping through them, making each hoof drop potentially treacherous. Jarok, to offset this, stirred the snow several feet ahead and covered up their sounds with a vortex, taking most of his concentration. He also used his wind to sweep over their trail, making it near impossible to track them, though not entirely impossible for the right Fae, like Gem with her tracking affinity. He hoped she was well, and well enough to find them by the morning. They had no supplies and no hope of surviving in a Winterlands forest for very long without help.
It was quiet between the two Fae, Jarok concentrating on the path ahead. Piris was lost in whatever thoughts crowded her head, and the prince tried not to think too hard on it. There was nothing for it at the moment. He could dive deeper, consider a way to help her, but only when they were safely away.
The forest itself wasn’t quiet. Owls hooted in the trees, reminding Jarok of his mother, his home, and causing an ache to lodge in his gut for long minutes. Other creatures, small and furry, scurried in the shadows of the night, doing what woodland creatures did in the Winterlands—looking for shelter and food where they could find it. The wind, what Jarok commanded and the gusts moving on their own, whistled through the evergreen needles at odd intervals, keeping both Fae on edge. What Jarok didn’t hear was the clomping of hooves behind them, which, after several miles of picking through the forest, made him ease a touch.
After hitting a rise in the trees, Jarok looked down on a small open hollow, evergreens ringed in a circle blanketed with pristine, pearlescent snow. He guided his horse down, cooing to him all the while, encouraging each step. When the slope ended and Jarok dismounted, he bent to the horse’s ears, whispering more words as he patted the steed. He gripped the reins tight a beat, gave a quick clicking sound with his tongue, and released the horse to move on its own.
The horse listened, whinnying at Cylian’s stallion once Piris dismounted and urging it along in front of him. Jarok coiled a rope on his arm, his hands deft and familiar with the fibers he’d snagged from his saddle.
“Where are they going?” Piris asked.
“Back to the inn, though not via the road. My horse can find Nore anywhere, so they will be fine. We don’t need to have them out longer than necessary.” The prince worried about trackers but also the health of the horses, who needed the groom’s help to not get hardened hooves in all the ice and snow in the forest. He did not have the magic to help them, so best to send them on to Fae who could.
Piris didn’t acknowledge the answer but moved to rub her hands up and down her arms, warming herself. They had no furs and no leather outerwear, nothing to keep them from the cold besides the basic traveling gear they’d been wearing when they’d jumped from the second floor of the inn. Jarok didn’t say anything, as nothing could be done about their clothes, but he redirected the wind to act as a shield, keeping the windchill at bay for Piris.
“We should keep moving,” he said, jerking his head toward deeper into the forest on the opposite side of the clearing.
“Are we on our own now?” Piris walked as she talked, refusing to look at Jarok as she did.
“The others will find us.”
She glanced back at the lack of tracks they left, Jarok’s magic making it easy to cover their steps.
“As long as Gem is well… No, Gem will be well. She will find us.”
Piris didn’t question him further, pulling her arms tight around herself as a shield against the cold and possibly the events of the evening. Jarok worried about her and what everything, the delicious and the horrendous, made her feel, but safety was the first concern. Soon, he’d consider them far enough into the depths of the forest to rest for the night. Then he’d talk to her… get her to talk to him.
“Come on,” he called, staring at her with his feet planted as he encouraged her to move. “The woods are lovely but deep, and we have miles to go.”