Her hand catches the wall. The gasp she makes trying not to make a sound is worse than if she'd cried out.
She can be infuriatingly stubborn.
"We need to move fast," I say firmly.
Blaire glares at me for a moment, then sighs in defeat. Her arms loop around my shoulders. I feel her breath touch my ear, her heart beating fast against my back. She's lighter than she should be. Weeks without proper food and the toll of captivity have whittled her to bone.
Leaving Prince Vayne wasn't cruelty. Blaire pulled the plan from my mind the moment our eyes met, the way she always does. She knows the elven infantry has the fortress surrounded. The prince stands a better chance without us slowing him down. That's the only reason she's willing to walk away from him.
"I would've understood... if you didn't come," she whispers against my ear.
"I'll always find you," I say, adjusting her weight and starting down the corridor.
"Thank you," she murmurs.
Blaire directs me through the twisting corridors, guiding us toward what she remembers of the way out. We climb a crumbling staircase toward what should be ground level. I hear the guttural voices of orc warriors and dozens of heavy footsteps echoing through the passages below us. Their words are too distorted by the stone walls to understand but their intent is crystal clear.
"They know we're here," Blaire says, her grip tightening around my neck.
"Hold on," I tell her, breaking into a run as the sounds of pursuit grow louder.
We burst through a doorway into what was once a grand hall. Its vaulted ceiling is lost in shadow and rubble from collapsed walls litters the floor. Moonlight streams through broken windows, casting silver patterns across the destruction.
We can make it.
The main entrance is visible across the hall, its doors open to the night beyond. Orcs suddenly surge from every doorway, cutting off all escape routes.
There are at least thirty of them, fresh warriors who've been waiting for exactly this moment. They spread out in a careful circle, herding us toward the center of the hall. It feels like we're wounded prey surrounded by wolves.
I set Blaire down gently. She wavers a little but stays upright. Her jaw is set with determination despite the exhaustion. I pass her my short sword and draw my parrying knife.
Back to back, we face the ring of enemies closing in.
We both know this is hopeless. There are simply too many of them. They try to flank us, forcing us toward the corner.
Their leader, a lean brute scarred from temple to jaw, sneers at us.
"Well, well. We finally found the elven witch and her broken bird. Akaloth will pay well for you both." His grin widens. "After we're done playing."
They charge all at once.
The first orc reaches me and my dagger finds the soft flesh of his throat. The nonfatal hit I favor has no place here. I can't afford to hesitate, not with Blaire counting on me. Svenn's voice echoes in my mind from a hundred training sessions.
Strike true or don't strike at all.
The second comes faster. I evade his wild jab and drive my blade up through the underside of his jaw. Each life I take weighs on me even as survival demands it. But I push the remorse down, lock it away in some corner of my heart to examine later. If there is a later.
Blaire is dropping bodies faster than I am. They expected a helpless maiden. What they got was a Maiden of Arawynn, trained by Madame Corvaine herself in the ancient art of the Order. My friend may not compete in tournaments like Garrett,but her efficiency is lethal. Her mind-reading ability makes her nearly untouchable as each strike finds its mark with unerring precision. She can anticipate the attacks before they come.
For every one we drop, two more take their place. My arms grow heavy. Blaire stumbles, barely avoiding an axe that splits the stone where she stood.
They're learning to stay back, using their reach to their advantage. One of them scores a hit across my shoulder. The blade catches on my pauldron, slicing through to flesh beneath. Warm blood flows down my arm.
This isn't good. My grip is slippery now. I grit my teeth and keep fighting.
Behind me, Blaire screams. An orc has grabbed her by the hair, yanking her head back. The maiden slashes upward with her borrowed blade, cutting through her own golden locks before he can finish the pull. Her hair falls in a curtain of severed strands as she spins and plunges her dagger into the rebel's gut. He staggers backward and clutches at the wound.
Bodies begin to pile in front of us, creating a macabre barrier of the fallen.
