Chapter 26 Wren #2
No choice now. I shift closer to Cassiel. I debate revealing myself to them—some silent sign to let them know what I am, that I am here on fey business, or capable of defending myself—but it’s too risky. If they recognise what I am, they might announce it to Cassiel.
Cassiel turns his head slightly, as though sensing the shift in the air. “What’s going on, Thornvale?”
I don’t take my eyes off the fey. “Three bandits, my liege.”
Cassiel exhales, tilting his head. “You can take on three, I’m sure.”
Not if they’re fey. Not when I have no idea what they’re capable of.
I release my hold on his reins, voice dropping low. “Cassiel, ride.”
He stiffens. “What?”
“I’ll handle this.”
“I’m not leaving you.”
“You’re not fighting fey.”
He goes very, very still. He understands what that means, what they’re capable of. Of course he does. He understands more than most.
Even so, he doesn’t move.
I curse under my breath. No time.
I slap the horse’s rear. “Go!”
Cassiel grips the saddle as the horse bolts from the spot, fleeing, thankfully, in the rough direction of the castle.
I lunge first. It takes the fey by surprise, my blade flashing in the sunlight.
One sidesteps, but not quickly enough—I score a shallow cut along his arm.
He hisses. The other moves to strike at my exposed side, but I twist, parrying just in time.
The clash of steel rings out. I swipe again, harder.
There’s more of them, but I’m faster. Not a blade touches me.
“What are you?” one of them murmurs.
“Currently? Pissed off.”
I dart forward, driving them back. But they’re fey, and fey do not fight fair.
One of them flicks a hand, and the ground beneath me changes. My foot lands on soft earth where it should be stone, and I stumble. It’s enough of an opening for them to rush me.
The first comes low, aiming to unbalance me further.
I barely dodge, twisting as the second swings high.
Their blades are faster than mine, lighter, moving with unnatural ease.
I manage to duck, landing a quick slice across the nearest one’s ribs, but it costs me—a boot catches me in the stomach, knocking the wind from me.
I stagger.
“How did you know what we were?” the third asks.
“I’ve got a gift.”
This, apparently, is not an answer well received. A knife whistles past my ear, too close. The air shifts.
Damn it.
I should have told them the truth. Cassiel isn’t here any more. Why did I have to run my mouth—
I duck under the next swing and drive my elbow into his ribs, hearing the satisfying crack of impact. The second fey grabs for me—I twist, slashing upwards, forcing him back. I press the attack. They separate outwards.
Good. If I keep them apart, I have a chance.
The bandits circle me like wolves. I shift my grip on my sword, muscles coiled tight, watching for their next move. The one I’d struck first is slower now, favouring his side. The others are still fresh, still grinning. One feints left, then right, testing me.
I don’t fall for it. I lunge instead, aiming to take him off guard—
And he vanishes.
A glamour.
I realise too late, pivoting just as he reappears behind me. A blade carves along my side, shallow but burning. I hiss, stumbling back.
They laugh.
I grit my teeth. I can’t let them press the advantage. I feign retreat, baiting them forward, and when the first lunges, I sidestep—fast as a viper—bringing my sword down hard against his.
Metal screeches. He falters. I shove him back with a boot to the chest, using his own momentum against him.
He crashes into an outside table, sending tankards flying.
Clearly not caring about concealing their natures any longer, one of them throws an invisibility glamour over them all. Their glittering shapes are still visible to me, but it’s not enough. Their blades are covered in pure light. There’s so little I can see—
A burst of flame, crackling and alive, fills the space between us.
I freeze. Fire.
The flames lick towards me, and for a single, terrifying second, I can’t move.
No, no, no. Not again.
The moment of hesitation costs me.
One of the fey lunges in the instant I freeze, his blade sweeping low. I try to dodge, but I’m a fraction too slow. A line carves through my thigh, white-hot and deep enough to stagger me.
A cry rips from my throat.
I grit my teeth, willing my body to move, fight, but everything is light and heat and my muscles lock together. I’m seven years old again, drowning in flame while my mother burns.
A horse whinnies.
There’s a sharp sound—a yell, a rush of movement—
A cane strikes one of the assailants.
The impact isn’t much, just the solid thunk of wood against his neck, but it’s enough. The fey jerks back, the fire flickering, dying. The brief moment of surprise is all I need.
I push through the pain, forcing my sword up in a vicious arc. The fey closest to me jumps back, but not fast enough. My blade catches the side of his arm, biting deep. He hisses, clutching the wound, and I run.
My leg screams with every step, but I force myself forward. I throw myself into the saddle of the waiting horse and bolt, calling for Cassiel as his horse jerks into motion.
The blood soaks through my breeches, warm and sticky against my skin, but I shove it aside. The pain is nothing compared to the raw urgency in my chest.
“Wren!” Cassiel calls. “Are you hurt?”
“I’m fine!” I grit out. “Don’t stop.”