Chapter 41
ASHES OF THE STRONGHOLD
The night air hit them hard—shocking cold after the furnace of the tent. Behind them, the support beams of the command tent groaned, and with a crash of sparks and timber, the structure collapsed inward. The scream of the fire drowned out the final, agonized shrieks of the man trapped inside.
For Ky, the chaos was a strange kind of calm. The objectives were cold and simple: Night. Gessa. Out.
“Night,” Ky growled, his grip tightening on the sword he’d taken inside. He didn’t look at Gessa, but he felt her at his shoulder—no longer the trembling victim, but a woman holding a bloodied dagger with white-knuckled ferocity.
“The wagon,” she gasped, pointing with her free hand.
They charged. The compound was in an uproar. Men were shouting, some running for water buckets, others staring in disbelief at the bonfire that had been their commander’s quarters. No organized defense had formed yet. It was the only window they would get.
Bandits near the wagon froze, stunned by the fire. Too slow to react. But as Ky and Gessa sprinted into the light of the torches, shock turned to recognition.
A burly man standing near the forge turned to face them, hefting a heavy woodsman’s axe.
Ky met his charge head-on. Air whooshed overhead.
Ky ducked the clumsy swing. He didn’t try to match the man’s strength; he stepped inside the guard’s reach, his stolen blade finding the soft spot under the man’s arm.
Ky shoved the dying man aside and spun, looking for Gessa.
“Behind you!” he roared.
A bandit had rushed her from the flank, swinging a cudgel. Gessa was fast, her instincts honed by terror. She ducked the blow, lashing out with Polan’s dagger. The blade bit into the man’s forearm, but the range was too short; he roared in pain and backhanded her, sending her stumbling.
Ky was there in a heartbeat. He didn’t bother with finesse. He drove his shoulder into the bandit, knocking him off balance, and finished him with a thrust to the chest. He ripped the sword from the man’s grip as he fell and shoved the hilt toward Gessa.
“The dagger’s too short,” he barked. “Take this.”
Her fingers closed around the leather-wrapped hilt, her expression hardening from shock into grim resolve. She tucked the dagger into her belt and brought the sword up, her stance shifting. She was ready.
“Watch my back,” Ky ordered, his eyes locking on the cage thirty yards away.
They moved as a unit now. They sprinted the last few feet to the wagon, the heat of the burning tent still radiating against their backs. The cage was iron, the lock thick and crude. Night was pacing inside, a shadow of restless, lethal energy, his eyes glowing in the gloom.
Ky slammed his sword against the lock. Shock jarred his arm, but the metal barely dented.
“Hurry! There’s too many!” Gessa cried out.
He spun to see her backing toward the wagon wheels, parrying a strike from a new attacker. She was holding her own, but more men were coming. They were losing the element of surprise.
He had to end this. Now.
His eyes scanned the chaotic yard and found what he was looking for—a heavy smithing hammer lying near the forge where he’d killed the axe-man.
“Hold them off!” he yelled.
He darted back to the forge, seized the hammer, and returned to the cage in three long, limping strides.
He ignored the men closing in, trusting Gessa to buy him the seconds he needed.
He raised the heavy hammer, his shoulders screaming with the effort, and brought it down on the lock with all his strength.
The sound was a deafening clang of tortured metal. The lock deformed, the mechanism crushing inward. He struck it again, and this time the iron shattered.
He ripped the cage door open.
Night hit the open ground. The bond snapped open—an explosive release of fury.
The great lynx was a black shadow of teeth and claws, a blur of vengeance that tore into the nearest bandits, his rage a beautiful thing to behold. Two men went down, screaming, before anyone understood what was happening.
The tide of the skirmish turned instantly. But Ky knew it was only a momentary reprieve. The entire camp was now mobilizing, their shock turning to rage. Shouts and orders echoed through the compound.
“The gate!” Gessa yelled, turning toward the forest.
“No!” Ky shouted. “Look!”
A wall of bandits was already forming near the main exit, archers nocking arrows to bows. The path to the woods was a kill zone. They were surrounded, a tiny island of defiance in a sea of enemies.
He saw it then, across the yard: the squat, timber-and-stone watchtower. High ground. A single point of entry. A defensible position.
“Get to the tower!” he roared, pointing with his blade.
He grabbed Gessa’s arm, pulling her with him.
Night fell in to flank them, a snarling, bloody guardian.
A spearman lunged for Ky, but Night was faster, slamming into the man from the side and crushing his ribs with a sickening crunch.
Ky didn’t break stride, stepping over the body.
They ran, a desperate, three-part unit bound by fury and hope.
They reached the heavy wooden door of the tower. Ky threw his shoulder against it, but the wood was swollen tight in the stone frame from years of rain and neglect. It didn’t budge.
“Night, the door!” Ky commanded.
Night didn’t hesitate. He threw his immense weight against the wood. Once. Twice. On the third impact, the old wood groaned and splintered around the frame, and the door lurched inward with the screech of tortured hinges.
Ky kicked the door fully open and shoved Gessa inside. He followed right behind her as Night backed in, snarling at their pursuers.
Together, they heaved the heavy door shut just as the first of the bandits reached it.
Lying on the floor beside the doorframe, covered in dust, was a solid wooden crossbar.
They lifted it together and jammed it into the iron brackets on the wall, securing the door.
The sounds of men pounding on the wood and shouting curses from outside echoed in the sudden, dusty gloom of the tower.
They were safe, for a few precious seconds.
Ky didn’t waste them. While Gessa stood with her back to the door, sword held ready, his eyes were already scanning their new prison.
The ground floor was a single, circular room, the floor littered with treacherous piles of fallen masonry.
A crumbling stone staircase spiraled up into the darkness.
Arrow slits, choked with grime, offered slivers of light.
They were trapped, surrounded, and outnumbered.
He met Gessa’s gaze across the dim space, her face smudged with soot, her knuckles white where she gripped her sword. He looked at Night, who was already at the base of the stairs, a low growl rumbling in his chest as he watched the darkness above.
He looked at Night, growling at the stairs. He looked at Gessa, sword ready. No longer prey. They were on defensible ground.