He spun to see her backing toward the wagon wheels, parrying a strike from a new attacker. She was holding her own, but more men were coming. They were losing the element of surprise.
He had to end this. Now.
His eyes scanned the chaotic yard and found what he was looking for—a heavy smithing hammer lying near the forge where he’d killed the axe-man.
“Hold them off!” he yelled.
He darted back to the forge, seized the hammer, and returned to the cage in three long, limping strides. He ignored the men closing in, trusting Gessa to buy him the seconds he needed. He raised the heavy hammer, his shoulders screaming with the effort, and brought it down on the lock with all his strength.
The sound was a deafening clang of tortured metal. The lock deformed, the mechanism crushing inward. He struck it again, and this time the iron shattered.
He ripped the cage door open.
Night hit the open ground. The bond snapped open—an explosive release of fury.
The great lynx was a black shadow of teeth and claws, a blur of vengeance that tore into the nearest bandits, his rage a beautiful thing to behold. Two men went down, screaming, before anyone understood what was happening.
The tide of the skirmish turned instantly. But Ky knew it was only a momentary reprieve. The entire camp was now mobilizing, their shock turning to rage. Shouts and orders echoed through the compound.
“The gate!” Gessa yelled, turning toward the forest.
“No!” Ky shouted. “Look!”
A wall of bandits was already forming near the main exit, archers nocking arrows to bows. The path to the woods was a kill zone. They were surrounded, a tiny island of defiance in a sea of enemies.
He saw it then, across the yard: the squat, timber-and-stone watchtower. High ground. A single point of entry. A defensible position.
“Get to the tower!” he roared, pointing with his blade.
He grabbed Gessa’s arm, pulling her with him. Night fell in to flank them, a snarling, bloody guardian. A spearman lunged for Ky, but Night was faster, slamming into the man from the side and crushing his ribs with a sickening crunch. Ky didn’t break stride, stepping over the body. They ran, a desperate, three-part unit bound by fury and hope.
They reached the heavy wooden door of the tower. Ky threw his shoulder against it, but the wood was swollen tight in the stone frame from years of rain and neglect. It didn’t budge.
“Night, the door!” Ky commanded.
Night didn’t hesitate. He threw his immense weight against the wood. Once. Twice. On the third impact, the old wood groaned and splintered around the frame, and the door lurched inward with the screech of tortured hinges.
Ky kicked the door fully open and shoved Gessa inside. He followed right behind her as Night backed in, snarling at their pursuers.
Together, they heaved the heavy door shut just as the first of the bandits reached it. Lying on the floor beside the doorframe, covered in dust, was a solid wooden crossbar. They lifted it together and jammed it into the iron brackets on the wall, securing the door. The sounds of men pounding on the wood and shouting curses from outside echoed in the sudden, dusty gloom of the tower.
They were safe, for a few precious seconds. Ky didn’t waste them. While Gessa stood with her back to the door, sword held ready, his eyes were already scanning their new prison. The ground floor was a single, circular room, the floor littered with treacherous piles of fallen masonry. A crumbling stone staircase spiraled up into the darkness. Arrow slits, choked with grime, offered slivers of light. They were trapped, surrounded, and outnumbered.
He met Gessa’s gaze across the dim space, her face smudged with soot, her knuckles white where she gripped her sword. He looked at Night, who was already at the base of the stairs, a low growl rumbling in his chest as he watched the darkness above.
He looked at Night, growling at the stairs. He looked at Gessa, sword ready. No longer prey. They were on defensible ground.
42
A SLIVER OF SKY
The world narrowed to the scraping sound of the crossbar settling into its iron brackets. The boom of it locking into place echoed with finality. A breath of safety. The beginning of a siege.
Gessa’s back was pressed against the rough, splintery wood of the door. Her lungs burned. The air was thick with dust and smoke. The Spur blade Ky had shoved into her hand was a cold weight, its familiar balance a grim comfort in the unfolding chaos. In the dusty gloom, his silhouette was coiled and tight as he moved instantly from the door to one of the narrow arrow slits. Night, a darker shadow at his side, let out a low growl that vibrated through the stone floor.
The iron collar was a dead weight, a circle of silence choking off the familiar song of the world. Without her magic, she was frighteningly mortal, a creature of only bone and sinew. The fear was a knot in her stomach, but the memory of the lamp shattering in her hand, of the look of shocked agony on Polan’s face, was a hot, defiant coal glowing within it. She had done that. She had drawn blood.
“They’re organizing.” Ky’s voice was a low growl from the slit, pulling her from the memory. “Archers.”
