—Find the magesmith.
I remember Rhen’s question, about the scraver Nakiis. I owe him a week of service, and he said he’d collect when he was ready.
Is this it?
A wild screech tears across the night, followed by another, sending the horses into a panicked frenzy.
“Tycho,” Jax says urgently. “Is it the one you know?”
Soldiers are shouting from the camp, woken by the sounds, and the screeches overhead intensify. There have to be at least three of them, maybe more. My blood goes cold.
“Tycho!” Jax demands.
“I don’t know,” I say. “Jax, I don’t know!”
I look up at the night and inhale a breath of frigid air, ready to call Nakiis’s name.
Before I can, a winged creature slams right into me. We crash into the ground and roll, but those claws have gripped tight. I can’t reach any of my weapons, but it doesn’t matter. It feels like my arm might be ripped right off my body. Men are shouting, and scravers are shrieking. It sounds like a lot more than three.
Then I can’t focus on anything else.
All I can feel is pain.
CHAPTER 3
JAX
A few minutes ago, I was glad we were alone, cloaked by shadows and silence. It took me forever to find the nerve to grab hold of Tycho’s armor, to press my mouth to his, but I’ve hardly seen him in days. He sat there speaking of concern for my honor. He pulled the pin from my hair. The sky was fully dark, the soldiers were tucked away at the camp, and Tycho was right in front of me, smelling like oranges and leather. We were alone, and I was no good.
Now I’m regretting the solitude. I’m regretting my inexperience. Because arealsoldier would be a hell of a lot quicker with a bow and arrow.
As it is, the scraver rips Tycho away from me, and I lose a moment to shock before I remember I’m armed. Tycho is swearing, struggling against the scraver’s grip, and the creature makes an inhuman sound that hurts my ears. The scent of blood flares on the air, causing a visceral reaction in my gut. Soldiers are shouting near the camp, but I have no idea what they’re saying. They’re too far to help anyway.
Then I have an arrow nocked on the string, and I’m drawing back to shoot.
It’s so dark. All I see are wings and shadows, and I can tell they’re rolling, fighting, tussling. Tycho’s voice breaks off on a sound I don’t ever want to hear again.
But I hold the arrow. I can’t see. I don’t want to hithim. I don’t know what to do. I might have the gear, but I’m not a soldier. Sweat erupts between my shoulder blades.
Then they come to a stop. Tycho isn’t swearing anymore. He’s not moving at all. The scraver has him pinned to the ground, and it rears back, claws ready to swipe through his throat.
I shoot.
The arrow snaps off the string and goes right into the scraver’s chest, hitting with enough impact to shove the creature sideways. In the dark, they could almost look human, those dark wings barely more than a shadow. But the screech that comes from its throat is so inhumanly shrill that I want to cower. Several horses break free from the tether line and bolt.
I have another arrow nocked already, and I shoot again. This time the scraver collapses to the ground, silent.
I’m breathing hard, my heart pounding in my ears. Tycho still hasn’t moved, and I’ve completely lost track of my crutches. I have to crawl to him.
Blood is everywhere, on his armor, on his face, in his hair. His armor seems to be hanging loose at the shoulder. I don’t think he’s breathing.
Then the clouds shift, and a bit of moonlight peeks through. I can see the reason for the blood. Claws have ripped across the side of his head, tearing through his ear, his cheek, into his mouth. His other arm is a shredded ruin where it wasn’t covered by armor. The scent of blood is so thick in the air I can taste it, hot and metallic.
I choke on a sob. “Tycho.Tycho.”
He doesn’t move.
He’s forbidden to use his magic, I know. Does that mean he might not have used it in time to protect himself? Could he be dead?
