Searing pain rips through my upper arm. My hand covers the wound and pulls away coated in blood. I’ve been stabbed.
The next blow drives me into the ground. A bone cracks and I scream as my head is yanked backward, my scalp smarting as a chunk of hair rips from the roots.
“Get up, my lady!”
Orla stares down at me with a look of terror, sweat gleaming in the hollow of her throat. A woman attempts to knock her aside, but my maid fights back with far more aggression than I ever thought possible, and they vanish into the shifting mass.
The crowd swells with aggression, and blows pummel my body like chunks of hail. I retaliate like never before, scratching and ripping and clawing and tearing. They won’t stop until I am dead, until they have properly punished the Frost King for ruining their lives.
Yet for every hurt I inflict, I receive several more. They want to kill me? I will not go quietly. With a shriek, I punch a man in the groin, but then a woman’s slap cracks against my ear. My vision wavers. Something small and dark rushes toward me. The boot slams into my mouth, and agony ruptures across my face.
“Get back,” Orla snarls. “Back!” I hear the wet, dull thud of a blade cleaving flesh.
Screams spiderweb like cracks through glass. Blood clogs my throat, and I choke, spitting out the foul taste of iron and salt. As the world fades, so do the echoes of the last pounding feet until, at last, all is still.
“My lady? Oh, my lady.” A whispered voice near my ear, wobbly and tear-stricken.
My body is awash in cold. When I try moving my right arm, pain sears near my elbow. My cheek presses into the muddy ground. I am dizzy, but alive. Broken, but alive.
Orla attempts to help me stand. I scream. Something is cleaving me from navel to sternum. She leaps back, no longer touching me. I slump onto the ground, panting, blinking back tears.
“Go, Orla,” I croak.
“I won’t leave you.” Her voice quavers.
Foolish, loyal woman. “And if they return?”
“Then they will return. Please. We must get you to safety.”
Gently, she takes my arm. My locked muscles groan as, somehow, I manage to find my feet without fainting.
Progress is excruciating. My legs do not cooperate, my balance teetering this way and that. I’m thankful for Orla’s support. She is surprisingly sturdy for a woman so small.
“Orla.” I’m forced to breathe out of my mouth since my nose is so swollen—broken, no doubt. “I need rest.” Even talking requires energy I don’t have.
“We mustn’t stop,” she pants. “We have to keep going.”
“Please.”
“No,” she snaps. “You have to hold on until we reach the citadel. I know you can do it.”
Sweat coats my skin, and I’m shivering, frozen, so cold my veins have iced over. My teeth chatter uncontrollably, joints aching with every stumble. But there is Orla, her voice guiding me through the dark of unending agony.
Almost there, my lady.
Another few steps, you’ll see.
Color fades from sight, and all the world is shadow.
“My lady.” Orla taps my cheek gently, careful of the bruising. The skin stings momentarily. “Stay awake.”
If only I could.
My legs fold, and I sprawl at the base of a nearby tree. Another pulse of dulled pain carves through my right leg, near the ankle. My eyes flutter shut. No more. I can travel no more.
Orla’s ragged breathing reaches me. “You can’t fall asleep.”
“Orla,” I whisper. “I’m tired.”
