I find her struggling to keep hold of her rucksack. She fights the thieves tugging at it. “Aren, give them the damn bag!” I call, slicing my way toward her. I reluctantly admire her courage but wish she’d relent before they hurt her.
A blade kisses my shoulder, drawing blood. I whirl, my sword raised. Instantly, it clashes against my attacker’s blade. I push against him with all my strength, forcing him backward until he stumbles and falls. Leaping over him, I chase after Aren, who’s being hauled backward to the edge of the bridge.
The thieves struggle against her stubborn will. The only thing that separates them from the limitless depths of the canyon is a low wall. One misplaced foot, one push, and she’s gone. But she’s too far—I’ll never reach her in time. I can’t think. I can barely breathe. Then I remember I’m not alone.
“Marcus! Aren’s at the ridge!” I shout. A nearby soldier hears me and runs toward her. Amid the chaos, I realize my company is winning. Our attackers may have the numbers, but they are no match for my seasoned knights who’ve spent their lives with a blades in hand.
“No you don’t!” Aren cries. She’s freed her skillet from her bag and is swinging it wildly at the thieves. Teetering at the edge, she manages to fend one off. Another ducks under her arm and yanks the strap of her rucksack from her shoulder.
As the strap slips, Aren grabs the pack before it hits the ground. The thief shoves her closer to the edge, trying to wrench the bag from her grip. One more push and she’ll fall.
My heart races at the thought of Aren falling. I hack through my opponents with a fury unbound. I push forward, redoubling my efforts, but I can see I won’t make it in time. Neither will the soldier rushing to help her.
Dear gods.I’m going to lose her.
Something rises deep within me. Every nerve tingles as the Whisting comes alive. The power inside my soul surges outward, a force I can neither control nor stop.
Like a bullwhip, it cracks across the bridge, upending carts and sending plumes of dust into the sky. The storm lashes the thief grappling with Aren, wrapping around his torso and flinging him over the edge of the bridge. The man vanishes into the mist below, his screams echoing in the dark, then fading into nothing.
Aren stumbles forward onto the walkway. She collapses to her knees, clutching her skillet in one hand and her rucksack in the other. But the soldier who ran toward her isn’t so lucky. He’s still caught in the Whisting’s storm, limbs flailing like he’s a spinning top. His sword wedges into the parapet. His body twists at an unnatural angle. His arm snaps, and he screams in agony. Before the Whisting finally slams back into me, the storm has his feet dangling over the edge of the wall.
I run to him, grabbing his uninjured arm and hauling him back from the ledge. A second pair of hands latches onto him. It’s Aren, seemingly unharmed except for a dash of blood on her brow.
Relief floods through me, my knees threatening to collapse, but there’s no time to rest. Together, we pull the man to safety, leaning him against the low wall. His arm is mangled, his breastplate badly dented.
“What was that, Your Highness?” he asks.
“Looks like a strong wind whipped up,” I say, guilt weighing heavily on my chest. I caused his injuries. “How bad is it?” This is not how I wanted to send him back to his family.
“Probably broke a rib or two. Definitely his arm,” Aren says.
“I’ll be back to form once I find a healer. Don’t worry about me, sir,” he says through gritted teeth
“And you?” I ask Aren, noticing she’s still gripping the frying pan.
“I’m all right,” she says quietly. She glances over the edge at the void below. “Thanks for saving me.” She pauses. “I guess I should have let go of the bag.”
I’m about to agree when my knees buckle. Aren catches me before I collapse. “It’s the Whisting,” I explain quietly, my head spinning. “Takes a lot out of me.”
Marcus and the rest of the company arrive.
“Strange how that gale came out of nowhere, sir,” a soldier comments. “Fortunate, though.”
“Fortunate indeed, probably just the unpredictable winds from the canyon,” I say, sharing a knowing look with Aren.
“They won’t pull that trick again anytime soon,” Marcus says. “But it cost us. Most of the thieves were easily vanquished. But the rest vanished, taking all our provisions with them.”
“It cost us more than that,” Aren says, looking at the soldier’s broken arm.
She kneels beside me. She doesn’t think twice when she starts to massage my aching shoulder with one hand, her touch strong yet comforting. She steadies my head with her other hand, and a shiver runs down my spine. I need to escape her touch or I fear this business arrangement will never work.
“It’s all right. We don’t need supplies,” I say, rising to my feet. I point at the path ahead. “Look. We’re almost to Loegria. We’re nearly home.”
Chapter Twenty-Four
Dietan
Crossing the bridge is a small victory.
