I jerked and gawked, shaking my head, not about to leave him to this, to them.
“Go!” he insisted. “I’ll catch up with you. Now go! Make your way to the Borg!” He whirled in a circle and brought his sword down on another harpy as she bent over one of the warriors, working to finish him off in a wild storm of razor nails.
Fell whirled in a circle and cleanly severed the wing from the harpy he had disemboweled. Tar-like blood spewed from her.
“Now!” Fell roared, sparing me a quick glance.
I turned and fled, hoping one or more of these creatures would follow me, and I would show them the real me, safely transforming without any of Fell’s warriors around to serve as witnesses.
Blood pounded in my ears as I tore through the trees, not bothering to go quietly. I hoped they heard me. Hoped they tracked me.
Come. Come and get me.
It didn’t sound as though anyone gave pursuit, but I did not let up. I ran, carrying myself far away. I pushed and pushed, lifting myknees, pumping my arms hard. Strange animal sounds filled my ears, and only dimly did I realize the sounds were coming from me. It wasme. I was the animal.
Gasping, I finally pulled to a stop, flinging myself against a tree, hugging it, pressing my cheek against the rough scratch of cold bark, digging my fingers into its solidity until I felt my nails give and crack from the pressure. Saliva flooded my mouth from my sprint, and I worked to swallow it down.
There were no harpies coming for me. There was no one. No Fell.
I was alone.
No Fell.
I needed him like air within me … like fire.
I could not endure the loss of him again.
I strained my ears, listening for the distant sound of Fell or Magnus. Hopefully the other two warriors were only injured and not dead.
I turned my head in the direction I had come. I could not do as he asked. I could not leave him.
A sound cracked behind me.
I spun around, ready to face a harpy, ready to introduce my monster to another monster.
It all happened so quickly. They surrounded me in a blur. There were so many of them—so many faces. Too many.
Warriors on horseback smelling of onions and sweat and death.
Eyes peered out at me from beneath the steel visors of helms that I well recognized. These weren’t Northmen.
I took in the shining armor and well-groomed beards in an instant. These were soldiers from the City, the home of my youth, the place where I ate pain and abuse alongside my morning oats.
Eyes narrowed on me, and I knew they recognized me, too.
Before I could move, before I could speak, a figure atop a horse charged me with a war cry. The rushing hooves matched the blood pounding in my ears. I squeaked and scurried back as those hooves reared over my head. They crashed directly before me, sprayingsnow everywhere in a fine, powdery haze. There was a thud of boots hitting the ground, and then the gleaming pommel of a sword flashed through the miasma of snow as it lifted and came down, down, down—hurtling, racing toward my face before I could react, before I could move, before I could let out a sound.
I glimpsed the heavy chalk color of dragon bone, and then a cold, heavy weight cracked me in the head in a dazzling burst of icy pain.
My legs gave out like snapping kindling. I crumpled and folded as blackness dragged me under, pulling me into nothingness, toward a sucking void.
A helmed figure, resplendent in armor, stood over me, limned in the pale light of the morning, looking down at me as the world grew dimmer and dimmer.
He clenched the sword that had rendered me senseless between his gloved hands.Almostsenseless. I fought, clinging desperately to consciousness, my bleary gaze landing on the fuzzy face of my attacker.
No.It couldn’t be.Not here.
Not again.
