Gideon, the guard I met at dinner, directs his massive bay gelding to the front. His armor glints dully under the moonlight, as does the armor of the ten guards who flank us. “All is clear.”
I catch the eye of Pallas, who sits at the head of the campaign. Four hundred flee, including the wounded, yet there are only sixtyable-bodied soldiers. The majority are blacksmiths, cooks, hostlers, laborers, and healers who have been assigned to the war camp for many weeks now.
At my nod, Pallas lifts an arm, signaling our departure. We abandon camp as the storm chases our backs.
Progress is slow, though I try to keep my worry to a minimum for Orla’s sake. Many hours pass in the cold and the dark that never lifts, and the sleet that dribbles, then hurls into our party with grueling force. Every so often, Pallas lifts a hand, and the faction slows, listening. I squint through the falling snow, teeth chattering, lips frozen.
Iliana prances sideways as something crashes to our right. My bow is up, salt-tipped arrow nocked and directed at an area of smudged darkness that seems to pulse with a primordial chill.
Someone, or something, screams.
I jerk Iliana around. The horses stamp, paralyzed, unwilling to move.
“My lady—”
“Hush, Orla.”
She falls quiet.
I suck in another gust of wind. Cold and sleet. A storm can often mask scent, but I don’t smell ash. Not a whiff.
Clouds darken the moon. To our right, dense forest acts as a wall of tangled overgrowth; to our left, a frozen creek runs parallel to the road. My every sense is heightened as I scan the area for movement. We need to push forward, but I’m afraid to take my eyes off the surrounding darkness.
Something brushes my arm. I twist in the saddle, the arrow pointing directly between Pallas’ eyes.
“Shit,” I hiss, lowering my bow. My heart pounds so ferociously I wouldn’t be surprised if it suddenly gave out. “I could have killed you!”
“My lady.” The reins creak in his hands. “There are trees down ahead. We’ll need to go around.”
Get off the road, he means. Wonderful. “Didn’t you hear that?” I squint into the dim over his shoulder while Iliana prances beneath me.
“Hear what?”
“That scream.” I wipe the freezing water from my eyes with my forearm. “It came from the rear.”
One of the soldiers emerges from the void beyond, veering in my direction. His pale, semi-translucent face shines as the sleet begins tapering off. “It’s Gideon, my lady.” He exhales sharply. “He’s gone.”
A chill drips down my already frozen spine. The beasts must be close, but I can’t smell the fire and brimstone among the watery snow. Another gasp has me spinning toward the sound.
A darkwalker stalks from the shadows.
The group scatters in the presence of the beast. I turn as another blood-curdling scream erupts from somewhere in the huddle. “No!” I bark furiously. “Hold the lines.”
A trio of servants flees into the forest.
Then two more.
Pallas maneuvers his mount forward, planting himself between me and the beast. His sword pulls free of its sheath with a hair-raising whine.
The creature’s long, serpentine neck coils like an asp, then strikes. Pallas, even wounded, manages to steer his horse away from the broken teeth. Orla whimpers in distress at the sight. I aim an arrow at the darkwalker, but I’m afraid of accidentally hitting the captain.
The soldiers snap orders, riding down the lines to try and corral the frightened staff members.
“Leave them!” I shout, eyes still on the beast. Those that fled are lost to us. I need every sword. I need order. I need to reach the citadel.
Pallas continues to slash at the darkwalker, and I realize he’s attempting to draw it away from the group. The forest shadows begin to distort. The trees shake, though the wind has long since died. I recall Boreas mentioning once how the forest disliked his presence, but what of his people?
Another scream. Orla has begun to pray beneath her breath.
