The men paused, amused.
“You speak like a man of Annon,” observed the first, stepping forward. He stood short and broad-shouldered, armor cobbled from rusted scraps. Soot streaked his face, and his beady, vulture-like eyes darted over her.
“You wear no seal,” the man said. “No lord’s colors.” His gaze shifted to Ilys. “She looks like a priest’s dog.”
“You’ve no cause here,” Ilys said. Her voice didn’t rise. “Turn back.” The insolence of it rattled her.Had they no fear of a God? Of the Fates?Yet when Ilys looked at Death, her gaze caught on the vulnerable pulse beating in the strong coils of his neck.
Another spoke behind him, “Anyone left breathing is fair game.”
A third added, “You’ll break just the same.”
They moved as one, wordless.
Death reached for Ilys, but she pulled away, drawing her blade.
“You’ll find I do not break,” she raised.
They came fast, four of them. One hung back, watching, still picking through the corpses. The first lunged at Death.
Ilys stepped between, steel meeting steel in a jolt that rang through her bones. Her sword caught his, deflected just enough. She twisted, slammed her hilt into his jaw. He reeled, and she ducked the return blow, but her feet slipped in the mud. She caught herself. Just barely.
Another came in from the side.
She turned into him, grabbed his wrist, drove her knee into his stomach. He grunted, doubled over. She buried her blade in his ribs. He folded around it, breath catching in a wet rattle.
She pulled free, and a leaden weight struck her back hard.
She hit the ground flat, ribs jarred. A man crashed atop her, a knife in hand, driving it down toward her throat. The blade inched closer. She couldn’t move her legs. Couldn’t breathe.
She jerked her head sideways, then snapped it up, smashing it into his nose. He grunted, faltered.
She twisted, got her arm free, elbowed his throat. He rolled off, coughing. She scrambled to her knees, mud in her teeth, vision blurring.
Another came.
He surged forward, all muscle and armor. She threw up her sword just in time; the hit stung to the bone. He caught her collar and slammed her into the tree. Her head cracked, ribs howling.
“You’re just a girl,” he dumbly offered.
She spat blood into his face and stabbed up under his jaw. The blade lodged deep, her arm trembling with the force of it. He twitched. Dropped.
Behind her, another sound. She turned.
One of them had reached Death, knocked him to the ground. Death raised a hand, but the man kicked it away.
Ilys charged. She tackled him low, driving them both into the mud. They rolled. She came out on top, straddling him, sword in both hands.
She didn’t speak. She drove the blade into his chest.
Once.
Twice.
A third time.
Only then did he stop moving. The field fell quiet. Only the wind remained.
Ilys stood, covered in blood and mud. Her hair stuck to her face, her breath ragged. Her sword sagged in her hand.
