Cautiously, Aldric forged deeper into the still woods. Until the sounds of fighting began to fall away. Until there was only silence.
He whistled twice. Once for:Scout. Another for:Stay close.
A trill of warbling birdsong almost immediately cut through the trees in reply. A signal from a Son:Encroaching danger.Another Son soon answered. The same signal.Danger.
He glanced back the way they had just come, but there were no soldiers approaching from the field. The Elmorians were still fighting each other. None had yet pursued.
His hand tightened around his glaive as he turned his attention back to the forest.
To the ambush they had known would be waiting.
Sir Easome unsheathed his sword, his shoulders tense. “What’s happening?”
Before Aldric could answer, a woman staggered out from behind a tree further up ahead, her frightened sobs shivering through the air. She was dressed like a commoner: a rough, drab gown and a thin cloak. Her head was bowed, and her black hair streamed free, hiding her face.
“Please, have mercy!” she cried in the common tongue, though a hint of an accent clung to each syllable—an accent Aldric couldn’t quite place. “Help me! They burned my farm.” Her voice broke around the words. “They…they took me prisoner…”
Sir Easome frowned, lowering his blade. “Who took you prisoner, madame?”
The woman staggered closer. Closer than he liked.
Aldric gritted his teeth and shouted, “Stay where you are!”
Easome slanted him a bewildered look. “She is just a woman.”
Just a woman. He bit back a laugh. Oh, he’d seen whatjust womencould do plenty of times in his skirmishes with the Kunishi. Their shieldmaidens were often deadlier than their warlords. Because men were inclined to show them mercy. To let them draw too near.
To underestimate them until it was too late.
Beside him, Calix drew his bowstring taut. Rakon unshouldered his warhammer and made ready.
“I said stay where you are!” Aldric called out again. “Drop your weapons on the ground and raise your hands where I can see them!”
The woman stopped immediately. “My weapons?” she echoed, a strange tremor rippling through those two words. She stood close enough now that he could see the way her lips curved into a little smile when she finally raised her head and looked his way.
Gold. Her eyes glowed gold within her tawny face—the eyes of a predator.
Of a witch.
Behind him, Leif cursed.
“I fear, in this case,” the witch purred, her Arathian accent thickening with each word, “Iamthe weapon.”
The air between them shifted, warming. Her eyes glowed bright-hot. The acrid tang of theothergreeted his nose—a smell he knew well enough.
Magic.
“Run!” It was all he had time to shout before a column of flame erupted from the witch’s mouth, blazing a path straight for him.
Aldric jerked his reins and flung his weight to the side, forcing Mourn into a violent swerve. Heat slammed against his side and back, consuming the space he had just occupied.
Dry leaves caught flame—too fast to be natural.
Smoke billowed into the air, stinging his eyes and blinding him.
Bending low over Mourn’s neck, he plunged through the trees, heedless of direction. They just needed to get away—to regroup. But where were his Sons?
Behind him, men screamed; horses shrieked.
