I don’t know what it is, but it gleamed in the sunlight as darkly as the titanium now crisscrossing the Vandawolf’s chest.
The hairs on the back of my neck are standing up, my instincts telling me that the substance on their weapons is dangerous, although I can’t pinpoint why.
Along with a bundle of crimson-tipped bolts I saw across each man’s shoulder, they’re also carrying short-handled axes, the kind used to chop wood at close range.
I may be uncertain about the nature of the bolts, but I know exactly what the axes are for.
They’re to cut off my hand.
That’s all it takes to render a Blacksmith powerless. Without my left hand, I will never be able to access my power again.
The Vandawolf discovered this vulnerability on the night he killed Malak, and it didn’t remain a secret afterward.
These men must plan to shoot me from a distance with their crossbows and then remove my hand at the first chance they get.
The only saving grace is that none of them will be trained warriors. They may have spent the last ten years working with metal and wood, building up their physical strength, but they weren’t part of the city’s defensive team, the Wasteland Warriors—who are loyal to the Vandawolf.
Well, I assume the Warriors are still loyal, because I didn’t see any of them among the traitors on top of the wall. Each of the Warriors trained personally with the Vandawolf, and each is a skilled fighter.
I can only imagine how Braddock, Nero, and Vincent got the Warriors to stand aside. At best, they were bribed or threatened. At worst, they’re dead.
I’ve taken longer than I should have to catch my breath.
I judge I have no more than three minutes before the humans will reach me, and I can’t waste a second of them.
Working at a frenzy now, I drop the shield onto the ground near the tusks, placing it so that its curved inner side faces upward.
I pray there’s enough of my magic left within this metal that I can command it to alter its shape one last time.
Pressing my powered hand and the medallion wrapped around it against the metal, I ask the shield to elongate, picturing within my mind the longer, narrower shape I need it to be, along with the ledge I need it to form at one end, where the Vandawolf’s feet can rest.
The metal creaks and groans, warning me that its malleability is coming to an end. It responds much more slowly this time—seconds that will surely cost me—finally stretching outward and curving up at the bottom.
Before it stops, I wrap my fist around the handle in its center and ask it to break off. The metal comes away in my hand, but it leaves a knob behind.
I grimace, snatch my hammer from my waist, and smack it against the metal, flattening it as fast as I can.
The clanging sounds ring out around me and I sense the approaching men pausing. It’s sensible of them to stop, since they can’t be sure what I’m doing or planning, and their caution works in my favor, giving me extra moments to prepare.
I snatch up one of the tusks, position it on one side of the shield, and hammer the edge of the shield around it. It takes longer than I would like, since the shield’s metal fights back, and it’s only my increased physical strength that allows me to succeed.
I repeat with the other side, my muscles screaming at me while theclangof metal continues to ring out around me.
Sweat pours down my face, but I don’t stop until I’ve attached both tusks. Then I draw back, my chest heaving.
I may have created the stretcher, but the Vandawolf and I aren’t going anywhere until I’ve dealt with the humans.
And I still have to somehow figure out how to make it across the exposed wasteland without the humans on the wall killing or trapping us with their remaining weapons.
Hooking my hammer to my belt again, I retrieve the two daggers from the Vandawolf’s waist.
Then I drag him as quickly as I can back against the monolith’s chest. Once there, I turn him onto his side and position the stretcher in front of him, using it again like a shield, laying it long-side down and angling it back so that it leans across him. It’s wide enough that it touches the monolith, forming a triangular barrier that will protect his head, chest, and upper legs from any crossbow bolts fired at him.
I’m sweating with the effort, the heat of the morning sun reaching me even in the shadows, but I don’t stop until I’m certain he’s as concealed as he can be.
Turning back with a dagger now clutched in each hand, I take a moment to stare down at the large crossbow bolt that had impaled him and then defied my power. If I could command that metal, I could turn it into a second shield.
Seeking Thaden’s help seemed wise at the time, but that decision is now coming back to haunt me.
