But Osian does not have to answer to me. He’s not a revenant. And so when he lifts his hand and brings it down, signalling to those who are with him, I turn on my feet and run.
“The Order is here!” I shout at the convoy. “Weapons out!”
A flicker of confusion crosses Rhian’s face, but it’s gone in an instant. She leaps forward from behind the wagon and draws her sword in one fluid motion. Other fighters weave past the wagon, having reached the shore. Only Taliesin remains on the far side. He meets my gaze across the rushing water, despair and anger written in every line of his face.
But I don’t have the luxury of focusing on him for a moment longer.
I yank my dagger from my hip sheath and join the band of rebel fighters gathering on the riverbank. A dozen Order members have emerged from the trees. A reckless tension tightens between two groups. Neither moves.
Sweat slickens my palm, and I clutch my dagger tighter. The sound of crackling ice and the building roar of the rapids tries to draw my attention away, but I don’t dare move an inch. The moment someone does, this bank will fall into chaos.
“Give us the harp,” Maelor says, moving to the front. Of course Osian brought him. “And no one has to die.”
I clench my teeth. “Osian already told me you plan to kill us all.”
“Us?” Maelor arches a brow. “The High Swynwragedd insisted you would never join the rebellion, that you being with them was against your will, or that there’d been some kind of mistake. But here you are, slithering with them through the mud like the worms you are.”
I spit at the ground, fury rising in me like a snake ready to strike. “Better a worm than a liar’s butcher.”
Maelor scowls and turns to his fellow Rhyfelwyr. “Kill them all except the Swynwraig. She’s coming with us alive.”
The Rhyfelwyr move forward in formation, Maelor at the center, the others fanning out behind him in triangular lines. For a long quiet moment, nobody breaks it. Then they all lunge forward as one.
Steel meets steel, like a sharp cry over the noise of the river. Gethin rushes forward, meeting a strike head-on while Brioc takes the one beside him. Their swords whistle through the air before they crash against the enemy’s like rounds of thunder.
Rebels surge forward, colliding with the line, and all at once, the world becomes nothing more than a blur of steel, blood, and fury. I stumble back toward the wagon, uncertain what to do, the dagger slipping across my damp palm.
This thing is fucking useless to me. I sheath it and reach for the nearest enemy. If I can just get my hands on someone’s neck…but everyone is moving too quickly, spinning wildly as swords and battle axes collide.
Someone shouts behind me, and the sound cuts off halfway through.
I turn without thinking, only to find the blacksmith dead on the ground with an arrow in his head. A sick feeling curdles in my gut.
Arianell is further back near the wagon, dragging someone with a sword embedded in her chest out of the way before she gets trampled. Her lips tremble as she ducks low behind the wheel. She shouldn’t be here, but there isn’t anywhere else she can go.
Meurig rushes past me, sword held high.
Two come at him at once. He blocks the first strike, plunges his sword into the second’s gut, and spins into the space betweenthem like he’s done it a hundred times. Then a third Rhyfelwr comes in from the side with both sword and dagger in hand.
Meurig turns to meet him. He doesn’t spot the second blade until it’s already sinking into his neck. A spray of blood arcs through the air, and his body goes slack.
The Rhyfelwr yanks out the blade. Meurig drops.
For a moment, I don’t understand what I’m seeing. My mind refuses to make sense of it. A terrible river of red pours from Meurig’s neck while the fighting still flows around him. But he can’t be dead. Tonight, he’ll be grinning by the fire, toasting to another successful day on the road. He’ll point up at the firebird, like he always does, and say how beautiful she is.
My mind stumbles. I lose track of where I am, and the terrible din of combat fades. Images come unbidden to my mind: wings flaring, fire roaring, blood painting the ground. I’ve been in a battle like this before. Ages ago…
Then Brioc’s furious roar shudders me back into the present. He’s moving toward Meurig’s body, his face as red as the blood that covers the ground, grief shaking his great shoulders. But another Rhyfelwr rushes in and forces him back into the fight.
Meurig doesn’t get back up.
A dangerous heat floods through my body.
With a furious roar, I rush into the maelstrom, duck beneath the whistling arc of a sword, and seize the throat of the man who killed Meurig.
“Marwolaeth,” I hiss, digging my fingers into his skin.
His eyes roll back into his head, and all the life winks out of him in a single, blinding moment. I don’t even feel the sting of magic and barely feel the crumbling of my mind. My anger devours it all, like a beast kept caged for far too long.
