I’m acutely conscious then of the many opening doors on three sides of the courtyard and the new stream of Blacksmiths taking up position behind the circle of guards.
All of their hatred is directed at me.
Ten Blacksmiths lie dead on the stone around me.
Blood drips down my hands, but too much of it belongs to my brother.
I snarl at my captors. “I will kill you all.”
When nobody moves, I roar at them. “Are you afraid of death? Are you fucking cowards?”
At my shout, the inertia breaks.
They come at me all at once, too many of them.
An arrow slices across my arm and a blade cuts my cheek, but I welcome the pain as I drive myself forward, slashing and fighting until?—
A heavy object smacks into me from the side and drives me to my knees.
The swarm of Blacksmiths suddenly parts.
Malak steps through the opening they create, his black cloak swishing and swirling.
I look down to discover that once again, a black thread has pierced my chest and dark claws clamp across my torso.
But this time, I keep fighting, striking at the claws with the glaive in my hand, trying to cut through them, not caring that I’m cutting myself.
Malak’s face is dark with fury as he strides toward me, the thread that has pierced my chest extending from both of his hands.
With a single tug, he yanks me to the ground, his strength far beyond that of any other Blacksmith I’ve fought today.
The metal tears through my shoulder but I keep thrashing against it, roaring at him. “You’d better kill me, Malak!” My voice tears out of my throat. “You’d better kill me!”
He launches himself forward, his right hand wrapping around my forehead, the fingernails of his left hand and his black metal talon digging into my shoulder.
I wait for him to utter the whisper that will turn me to stone, or shadow, or dust, or ash…
I scream at him, tears of rage choking me. “Just kill me!”
Instead, my heart slows beneath Malak’s clawed fingers and my head swims, and before I pass out, all I see are his inky-dark, furious eyes.
Chapter 38
Iwake with a shout on my lips.
Chains bite my wrists, ankles, chest, and neck.
A cold surface rests beneath my back while I face the open sky. I recognize the castle courtyard and the glowing metal bowl filled with wine-red coal on my right-hand side.
As my consciousness sharpens, a deep terror replaces my rage.
The metal I’m lying on…
It must be Malak’s table. The one that Maybelle warned me never to touch.
Sound strangles in my throat as cold malice strikes through me. All I can hear is screams, but they aren’t coming from outside me, not from other people, because the courtyard and even the ramparts are completely deserted.
Horror floods through me from the surface I’m lying on.
