Merc is weaving around the base of the mountain, and he has a stream of the ogres behind him, all of them transitioning from black and brown to the red—
Another shriek.
I wrench around on the ground. There’s a second ogre flying at me, those wings that aren’t wings out to guide its trajectory, the angle perfect to land on me, the black teeth bared, the black tongue lolling out as if it can already taste me.
But I put out my hands, palms forward.
And I call to the flames, an intentional command borne out of what unintentionally happened first with the lantern and then with the hearth at Lena’s.
There are three nearby holes in the ground, like sockets, and as if the fire is something I can pull like a rope, I yank at the air—
Flames explode to life, sure as if I conjured them, and I throw my hands forward, pushing the blast of heat at the ogre in the air. It’s the lantern’s attraction to me amplified a thousand times, not the little glow of a wick seeking me, but so much, so very much, more.
I don’t understand what I’m doing, or how, and in this it’s just as I battle death.
But I do it.
The shriek stings my ears as I fall back and brace myself for another fiery trampling. The thing stomps over me, roaring in pain, that cooked-meat stench all that’s left behind as it tears off for a length and then drops to the red dirt. I don’t waste time tracking its death writhing.
Jumping to my feet, I search Merc out. He’s making a circle and heading for me from the west, as if he intends on picking me up off the ground.
Behind him is an army.
The camouflaged bodies of the ogres ripple over the ground like a heat wave, and there is a sea of them—that are closing the distance.
And that’s when I see the second lot explode out of another chute in the cliffs, the color shift to red happening as they fly off their perches.
I start yelling. It’s a waste of effort, but the rage in me won’t be tempered—and as if I am conducting musicians, I wave my arms wide and then bring them in again, calling the fire to attention.
And command it to do my bidding.
A wall of flames appears in a semicircle, and I hear the screeching on the far side, a couple of the ogres spinning up into the air as they burst into heat and smoke.
But then in horror, I realize what I’ve done. I’m protected. Merc and his steed are shut out—
Like a wraith, he jumps through the line of red fire, his horse’s wild eyes and flaring nostrils nothing I can track, for I only have eyes for him. With his black leather–clad body and his flowing black hair, he is vengeance with that broadsword in his hand, the inferno parting for him only long enough for him to get through before it recloses.
As he and his steed land, he thunders right for me, smoke rising from his surcoat, the backlight of flickering red and roaring heat like he’s come out of the very depths of evil.
And then he thunders past.
Spinning around, I see for the first time the ogre that was coming up on my rear. If there had been so much as a delay of just a moment or two, I would have been dead. But Merc takes care of me. He lets out a battle cry, reins his horse into an interception, and then leans so far out of the saddle to the side that he nearly takes the steed to the ground.
With a fluid stab, he drives the broadsword’s vicious tip into the head of the ogre that’s two lengths away from jumping on top of me.
The creature starts to spin around, faster and faster, tighter and tighter, until it yells in pain and spasms into a contorted, color-changing curl.
Yanking my head over my shoulder, I measure the wall of flames. I still want it to be up, and for no reason that makes any sense, I feel like it will stay there as long as I need it to.
This can’t be happening.
“Thank fates it is,” I hiss as I look around frantically.
Merc is yanking his horse into a circle and doubling back to the dead ogre. As he leans down and puts out his hand, I know he’s going to reclaim his weapon.
Where’s Lavante?
From out of nowhere, I hear a whistle—and then realize I’m making the call sound—
