Maybe it was the deadly seriousness in Astryx’s tone.
Or maybe it was just the precipitous drop on either side of their cart.
“What are we going to do?” whispered Fern.
“When I say the word, you both get down from the wagon. Put it between yourself and whoever is closest. You need to be able to move. To run. This isn’t going to be like it was with Chak.” The elf’s voice was pitched low and freighted with deadly certainty.
Zyll started digging in her pockets.
“No,” said Astryx, and for a wonder, the goblin stopped. The elf glanced at Fern. “Remember the knife.”
The prospect of using Breadlee for anything but sharpening pencils had never once occurred to Fern and seemed ridiculous even now, but nevertheless, she jammed her paw into the satchel and found him at the bottom. Her fingers closed over Elder steel, warm to the touch.
Then there was no more time for discussion.
“Stop the cart,” called the orc, hefting her axe and grabbing the shaft near the head with her opposite hand.
Astryx complied, making a peculiar clicking sound with her tongue and gently tugging the reins. Bucket clopped immediately to a halt.
Fern wanted them to do anythingbutstop, but she supposed trying to run the orc down was a good way to end up with that axe embedded in Bucket’s skull.
“Once I start talking, get down from the cart,” hissed Astryx. “Remember what I said.”
She rose and tugged the tie of her oilskin cloak so that it fell away, tumbling in a gust. It caught on the edge of the wagon. Then she leapt down, unsheathing Nigel before she touched stone. He stayed quiet, as he’d been bid.
“Didn’t say anything about getting out of the cart,” drawled the orc. “But I guess for the Oathmaiden, I can make an exception.”
Now Fern did look behind and saw the orc’s three companions advancing their way. A rangy, red-haired man with a shortblade and a face as sharp as one, a stone-fey woman in black carrying an undrawn bow, and another orc in a parka balancing a heavy maul on his shoulder.
Their pace was unhurried.
Fern supposed she should be thankful she wasn’t already riddled with arrows.
She slid Breadlee from the satchel.
“Thank gods, I can hardly see a damnthingfrom in there,” he said. Fern got the impression he took in the scene. “Oh, hey, this may be your chance to finally get some real stabbin’ in!”
“Shhhh!” she whispered fiercely. “I’m not stabbing anybody!”
“Gods, noteverythingis about you! This is my shot to show Astryx that I’m the kinda sharp thatmatters!”
Astryx had moved to stand a few yards in front of Bucket, about twelve paces from the braided orc who sauntered toward her, carving away that distance. The wind blew harder, fresh flakes borne on every gust.
The Blademistress shouted, “You know who I am. I’m waiting for you to tell me who you are or what you want, but it’s cold, and I’m not feeling as patient as usual, so I’d appreciate it if you’d get on with it.”
That was their signal. Fern threw off the blanket and tugged Zyll’s sleeve to get her moving. She began to clamber down from the cart with Breadlee held clumsily in her right paw.
Fern froze mid-motion when she registered the humorless smile on the orc’s face.
“I wasn’t planning on any of that,” replied the woman, pitching her voice to carry over the wind. “Not much of a talker, really. But like I said, I’ll make an exception for the Oathmaiden.” She pointed the head of the axe at Zyll standing on the buckboard, then at Astryx. “I’m Tullah. You won’t have heard of me. I’m going to killher. But first I’m going to have to killyou,because you’re the sort of person that makes that necessary. Hadn’t decided about the other one.”
Fern could hear the consternation in Astryx’s voice, even though she couldn’t see her face. “The bounty’s no good if she’s dead.”
Tullah’s harsh caw of laughter echoed amongst the crags.
“I couldn’t give a frigid fuck about a bounty.”
Then she was sprinting.
