The other women are not silent. They are a wave of high-pitched, shrieking rage. They swarm the second slaver, their clubs and pitchforks rising and falling. It is not a battle; it is a butchering. It is a savage, desperate, and beautiful justice.
"What the—" Tars bellows, scrambling to his feet, his eyes wide as he sees his men being slaughtered. He sees the empty, open cage. He sees the mob of furious, armed women.
And then he sees Othic, standing by the wagon, his massive, healed body now a towering silhouette against the firelight.
"You!" Tars roars, his face turning purple. He ignores the women. He sees the true threat. He and Jax, the lanky one, draw their own swords.
Tars lunges at Othic.
Othic is unarmed, but he is not the victim from the Eelry gate. He is a mountain of coiled, ready muscle. He ducks under the first wild swing, the wind of the blade hissing past his head, and drives a powerful kick into Tars's knee. The slaver howls as his leg buckles.
My heart leaps.He is winning. He is strong.
Athudfrom the ladder to my left.
My head snaps around. Jax.
He ignored the chaos. He ignored Othic. He is coming forme.
His grime-caked fingers grip the edge of the hayloft, his face twisted in a grin as he sees me. "Found you, little rabbit." He begins to scramble up, his own rusted knife in his teeth.
He is coming for me. Tars is getting to his feet, about to charge Othic again. They are going to kill us both.
I scramble back, my hands finding the rusty, three-pronged hay-hook Othic had pointed out to me days ago. It is heavy, balanced, and sharp.
The slaver’s head appears over the edge of the loft. He sees me, and his grin widens, his eyes dropping to my torn tunic. "Yes, come to me, little..."
Iscream.
It is not a sound of fear. It is a raw, guttural shriek of pure, undiluted rage, a sound I did not know my body could produce.
I don’t wait for a lunge. I do not hesitate. I lift the heavy hay-hook with both hands andjamit down, putting all of my weight, all of my terror, all of my hatred for Privis and Krell and all of them into one, single, vicious thrust.
He does not have time to block. He only has time to be surprised.
The rusty tines hit his face. I feel a sickening, softpopas they find his eye, sinking deep.
His shriek is unholy. It is a sound that splits the night, a high-pitched, wet wail of agony that drowns out the weeping of the other women. He rears back, his hands flying to his ruined face, a fountain of black blood erupting from the socket.
He stumbles backward on the ladder, loses his footing, and falls, a heavy, screaming weight, to the barn floor twelve feet below.
He hits the packed earth with athudso heavy it shakes the loft. His broadsword, the one he was carrying, clatters loudly on the dirt floor, skittering to a stop just feet from where Othic is.
Tars, his sword raised, his face registering confusion, turns.
He turns his head for a split second toward the sound of his man’s ungodly shriek.
It is all Othic needs.
I see him move. He is not a wounded victim. He is a predator. He dives, his massive body twisting with a speed that defies his size. His hand closes around the hilt of Jax's dropped broadsword.
Tars whips back, his eyes wide, realizing his mistake. He swings his sword down, but he is too late.
Othic is on his feet, the heavy, clumsy human sword held in two massive fists.
Theclangof human steel on human steel rings through the barn.
Othic is a wall of iron. Tars is drunk, clumsy, and enraged. He swings his sword in wide, sloppy arcs, screaming curses. "I'll wear your tusks as a necklace!"
