She hauled Bracken to the right, put herself between Ren and the spirit. She drove her dagger up. Iron met shadow. Her arm went numb to the elbow. Cold shot through her bones, but it was worth it, for the Slew twisted away.
Yet more were coming. Faster and more aggressive than ever.
“Lara!” Bree shouted, alarm cracking her voice.
Alar appeared at her side, his daggers slashing as he drove the onslaught back.
Their eyes met for a heartbeat.
Heat pulsed between them, and then he turned and threw himself back into the fight.
The press of bodies—living and dead—became suffocating. Lara lost sight of him. One moment, he was there, the next, swallowed by shadow and writhing limbs.
Panic barreled into her.
Where was he?
A flash of blades to her left.Alar. He was—no. That was Vyr.
To her right then. Movement. Dark hair. It had to be—
Sablebane. Fighting alongside Mor.
Her pulse hammered so hard her chest ached. The chaos was total now. She couldn’t track him. Couldn’t see him.
A gap opened ahead. The Ravens surged through it, Mor at their head. The Marav followed, Cailean bellowing orders.
Sharp stones erupted before them. The base of the promontory, where powries and trows now formed a protective ring.
They’d reached it.
Lara’s gaze swept back, desperate, searching through the chaos for Alar.
There. A flash of fawn-colored leather. Dark hair. Twin blades catching moonlight. Alar was still fighting. Still cutting his way through. Still alive.
Relief crashed over her.
Bree grabbed her arm. “We climb. Now!”
Lara slid from Bracken’s back. Her legs nearly buckled. How long had they been fighting? Her muscles screamed. Her hands shook.
Around them, the others dismounted, weapons drawn, eyes wild. All of them were bruised and bleeding, their clothing torn.
And all the while, the spirits pressed closer, cornering them against the outcrop.
32: THE RITUAL
MOR LEAPED FROM Dorka’s back. Slicing her steel blade at a bog wight, she severed its head. Water cascaded over her, but she barely seemed to notice. Taking a moment, she leashed Dorka to a gnarled hawthorn that grew at the foot of the promontory. The clag-doo yanked at the chain and howled in protest. Mor murmured something soothing, yet didn’t linger.
Instead, she whipped around, her gaze slicing into Lara’s. “After me!”
She then sheathed her sword and began the steep climb up to the broken stone circle.
Lara watched her go, still struggling to regain her breath.
Holding onto Bracken with one hand, she turned to Bree.
“We’ll be right behind you,” Bree grunted as she slashed at another Fuath, a slender female with a mane of wild, knotted hair. The trows and powries had formed a protective ring around the base of the crag, but wraiths had still managed to break through.
