I throw myself across the remaining distance, snatching hold of the branch halfway up, but with daggers in both my hands and no time to sheathe them, my grip is useless, my hands slipping.
Above me, Deron has reached the railing and is preparing to hoist himself over it, the visible bunching of his arm muscles telling me he’s going to pull the metal back to himself at any second.
I do the only thing I can.
Wrapping my legs around the diminishing branch, I harness the muscles in my stomach, lean back as far as I dare, and pitch the hunting knife in my right hand as hard as I can.
As it flies toward him, I pray he doesn’t have hidden armor where I’ve aimed it.
Thud.
The knife hits Deron’s back beneath his right shoulder blade, sinking so deep into his flesh that there’s hardly any visible blade beyond the hilt.
He cries out in surprise and roars in pain as his focus flies down to me. I guess he never expected me to hit him soaccurately, let alone so hard. Years of throwing knives into trees has given me that ability.
While he shouts, the impact of the knife knocks him against the railing, causing him to fumble and nearly lose his grip before he throws himself over it and onto the loft.
In the meantime, I take advantage of the delay. Now that my right hand is free, I propel myself up the branch as best I can before he can retract it.
He’s pulling on the metal, which only helps me ascend. Up and over the railing and onto the loft, where he’s twisting and trying to grab hold of the knife to pull it out.
I deliberately lodged it where it’s hard to reach and nearly impossible to remove without help. What’s more, he’s having trouble moving his right arm—the arm and hand he uses to control his metal.
The impediment shows in the way his copper moves more slowly, the branch sluggishly reforming into a much smaller dagger.
I’ve landed in a crouch on the loft, but I don’t waste time.
Fear drives me to act.
I don’t know what Thoren’s doing right now. Certainly, I haven’t heard a crash that would tell me the Blacksmiths outside have succeeded in throwing any spears or other projectiles through the turret, but then, a perfectly aimed arrow shot by one of them wouldn’t make much sound.
I don’t know if my father’s still alive. Again, I haven’t heard any shouts of triumph that might signal his death, but that doesn’t mean the Blacksmiths haven’t killed him.
I don’t know what’s happened to Skirra and Kori.
Fear for all of them fills my mind, and all I can think about is my father’s warning that these men will have no mercy for us.
Launching myself upward and lunging at Deron side-on, I reach for the handle of the knife embedded in his shoulder.
He’s turning toward me, the metal in his right hand changing once more, this time becoming like liquid. It streams from his palm up his arm, across his shoulder, and down his exposed side, all while connected to his right hand by a thin thread.
It’s molten and hot, the heat from it beating up at me as spikes begin to form within it. I’m close enough to them that they’ll impale me across my chest like multiple spears at once.
I catch his smirk. His arrogance. His certainty. Because he must think he will now cut me to pieces at close range.
But my father trained me to kill creatures as savagely as if I were a beast myself.
Fast and brutal.
I don’t give my own safety a second thought.
Wrenching the knife out of his back with my right hand, I ram the dagger in my left hand through the side of his neck, tearing through flesh and sinew, twisting and spilling his blood as I yank it back out.
Only to thrust the dagger in my right hand upward under his arm, right at the edge of the forming metal armor, ripping his veins, before I drop my weight and strike his lower back, three more times in quick succession, each strike aimed at the organs that will bleed the most.
He goes limp, his legs buckling and his head tipping to the side.
I step back and let him drop to the ground.
