They left the cave as the sun crested the eastern peaks.
The forest was different in daylight.
The threatening shadows of the previous days had retreated, replaced by beams of golden light that cut through the canopy and dappled the forest floor. Birds called. Small creatures rustled in the underbrush. The air smelled of pine and morning dew.
It should have been peaceful.
But Ralvar's instincts said otherwise.
He moved quickly but carefully, his path weaving between the massive trees, avoiding clearings where they might be spotted from a distance. The terrain grew steeper as they climbed. He could see the dark line of the mountains ahead, the narrow gap of Blackridge Pass cutting between two peaks. Another hour. Perhaps less.
"You're tense," Delia murmured against his neck.
"Habit."
"It's more than habit. What do you hear?"
He'd underestimated her again. She read him too well, this human woman who should have been a stranger.
"Nothing yet," he admitted. "But I feel—"
The arrow whistled past his ear.
He threw himself sideways, twisting to shield Delia with his body as a second arrow struck the tree where his head had been a moment before. The impact sent bark flying.
"Contact!" someone shouted from below. "She's here! Move!"
Guards. At least four, scrambling up the slope through the trees, crossbows raised. He could see the one who'd fired, a man with a beard, reloading frantically.
"Hold onto me," Ralvar growled. "Do not let go."
He ran.
Not away. He couldn't outpace them while carrying her, not uphill, not with them spreading out to cut off his path. Instead, he ran toward a cluster of boulders he'd spotted earlier, a defensible position where the rocks would funnel his enemies into a narrow approach.
Another arrow hissed past. A third struck a stone and shattered.
He reached the boulders and set Delia down in the shelter of the largest one, pressing her back against the cold rock. "Stay here. Do not move. Do not look."
"Ralvar—"
"Promise me."
Her eyes were wide, frightened, but not of him. For him. "I promise."
He turned to face the men coming up the slope.
There were five of them. The two wagon guards and three outriders, just as he'd estimated. They'd spread into a loose line, trying to flank the position, crossbows tracking his movements.
Fools. They thought numbers would save them.
The first guard breached the boulder line, and Ralvar moved.
He'd trained for this since he could walk. His body knew the patterns the way other creatures knew breathing. His bladecleared its sheath in a silver arc that opened the first man's throat before he even registered the attack.
Blood sprayed. The guard fell.
The others hesitated—that fatal moment of shock that separated warriors from pretenders—and Ralvar used it. He closed the distance to the second man in two strides, caught the crossbow with his free hand, and crushed the mechanism before driving his blade through the guard's chest.
