Chapter Fourteen #2
the flat of one blade, sending him out of harm’s way.
Everything in me screams that I should flee, but I’m his shield maiden, sworn to protect my liege. And everything I’ve learned
from Titus about defending has happened while on my own two feet. So I dismount too.
The assassins are nearly upon us. An arrow zings past my ear.
The Suratian rider is so close I can see foam at her horse’s mouth, the glint of a bridle bit. Titus charges forward.
I follow, not sure what I can do but terrified the Suratian will ride him down. Titus is a blur when he darts left at the
last moment, swiping with his blade. The horse screams, rearing, then collapses onto the road, blood pulsing from its neck.
The Suratian woman has fallen, her leg trapped by her horse. She struggles to free herself, clearly in pain, and Titus approaches,
one dagger raised as though to execute her.
If not for the wind and the steep, jagged slope, we would have been impaled by arrows already. We cannot afford to be still for even a moment, so I scream, “Leave her! I’ll take care of her!”
Titus does as I ask, rushing forward toward the remaining assassins while I sprint to the fallen woman’s side. She gazes at
me, hate pouring from her dark brown eyes.
Her dead mount provides some cover as I crouch before her. “Why?” I ask. “Why did you destroy my inn? Why are you after my
friend?”
“Go to Barathrum,” she spits out.
“Answer my questions, and I’ll help you.”
Her eyes turn distant, her pupils shrinking; my sister, Anja, looked just like this whenever she reached for her Gift. The
Suratian’s right arm flings my way, a glowing blade suddenly in her grasp, conjured from nothing.
I don’t think, just react, swaying sideways like Titus taught me, letting the magicked blade sail by my cheek. I grab her
wrist, reaching for my own magic.
Freeze.
I mean to startle her, to disarm her. It works. The blade clatters to the ground and disappears in a poof of glittering dust.
But then her back arches violently. Her mouth opens and closes like a fish drowning in air. Those near-black eyes that sparked
with so much life and hate go vacant and dull, and her body turns slack.
I don’t have time to be horrified at what I’ve done.
I shoot to my feet, looking for Titus. There.
Backed against the wall of a stone cottage, beneath the ruined remains of an awning.
A griffin condor has ravaged one of the assassins; he lies broken and bloody in the middle of the road, offal steaming in the cold air.
But the remaining three surround Titus, who is crouched, daggers at the ready. They were smart to corner him where the condors
can’t reach. He can’t fight them all at once. Three against one, swords against daggers.
I’m so focused on Titus that when I dash forward, I nearly trip over the giant body of a felled condor. It slows me too much.
One assassin is moving to strike; I see it in his shoulders.
“Titus!” I scream in desperation.
My vision of him blurs, expands. My ears pop.
I blink to clear sweat from my eyes, but it’s not just me trying to make sense of it. The assassins have recoiled from him.
“Watch out!” one yells.
The blurry shape of Titus is huge now, swaddled in smoke and heat. Something inside me screams that I should run and hide,
but then something is actually screaming, or maybe roaring, shaking the very earth and sending daggers of sound into my skull.
A massive beast launches from the cloud of smoke—all claws and fangs and amber-jeweled eyes, lush white fur with black stripes,
a long feathery tail. It’s an ice cat. Bigger than any I’ve ever seen or imagined.
The cat swipes with a massive paw, disemboweling the nearest assassin. Another assassin lunges with his sword, but the cat
neatly sidesteps before wrapping fangs around his throat and tossing him away as though he weighs no more than a piece of
firewood.
The third man attempts to flee, but the cat pounces him to the ground and envelops his entire skull with his mouth until I hear a crack of bone.
The cat releases the crushed head. Then he sits back on his haunches to clean his face with a giant paw. I smell blood and
urine and vomit. I may vomit myself. I’ve never seen such violence. Not even when the raiders came.
The horses have fled. The condors are winging away, save for the dead one on the ground.
No, not dead. She raises her head and squawks, but she makes no effort to get away.
To the cat, I say, “Titus.”
Maybe I should flee. Maybe he’s not himself in this form. But those eyes, deep and bright and thoughtful—they’re still his
eyes.
“Are you in there? Am I safe with you?”
His form blurs, becomes smoke. A moment later, he walks out of the smoke, looking like he ever does—tall and grim and dressed
like a poorly disguised prince.
“You’re safe with me,” he says. “Always.”
I’ve just watched a boy transform into a giant cat and back, a boy who already possesses a magnificent Gift. The theological
and magical implications are . . . too confused for me to sort out. So, what comes out of my mouth is: “You came back with
your clothes still on? Where did they go? Did they become your tail or your ear tips or something? Is that how you killed
all the enslavers?”
My cheeks are icy from wind against wet tears. When did the tears happen?
“Bria . . .”
“You killed so many people. Just ripped them apart.” I’ve wrapped my arms around my body, as though to hold myself together.
He’s walking toward me. “I know. I’m sorry you had to see—”
“I killed someone too. She’s right over there. She was coming at me with a magicked blade, and I just wanted to stop her,
but I froze her too much. I didn’t mean to . . . and the horses. We’ve killed so many innocent horses.”
Suddenly his arms are around me and I’m murmuring and half sobbing into his chest. “I’m sorry, Bria. I’m sorry about everything
you’ve had to experience since you met me.”
I indulge for just one moment, luxuriating in the feel of his embrace. But enough is enough. I put both hands against his
chest and shove him away. “I’m not sorry!”
He seems confused.
“I appreciate the empathy. But I can handle it. I can handle anything you throw at me. Even . . . this.” I make a vague gesture
at the disemboweled bodies surrounding us. My shaking voice belies my words, but they’re true. I knew what it meant to be
a shield maiden when I offered. I chose this.
Whatever he was about to say in response is interrupted by the felled griffin condor, keening in pain.
“She saved me,” Titus says. “One of the Deathsworn got behind me, and she . . .”