“Hate you?”
“Don’t you?” he begged. “Won’t you?”
“I wish to head back.”
A strangled sound slipped between Skyre’s lips. He’d groped out for an anchor in the chaos, but instead he heard the iron slipping through thewater, dragging further, further into the deep. His vision blurred and then drifted, unmoored, over the druid’s shoulder.
And that’s when he saw it. A strange shadow in the morning pale. His eyes narrowed in attempt to parse it out, only to realize too late.
He leapt forwards, taking the druid in his arms and twisting them both aside. There was a sharp whistle as the arrow grazed past, but Skyre pressed them tightly against the tree. The druid tensed in his hold, his gasp drowned out by shouting.
Through gritted teeth, Skyre hissed a command, “Get down anddon’t move!”
“I—”
The sound of running footsteps. Skyre broke away, drawing his blade. With his free hand, he pulled the druid close and shoved him roughly to the ground beneath a fallen log. “Now!”
The druid didn’t argue, instead, tucked himself beneath. Skyre turned sharply, his heels digging into the brush and with a hard thrust, buried his blade between the ribs of a charging attacker.Bandits. Their feathered armor was almost certainly Escgalian. Likely looted from the northern ridge.
A second man came from the left, blade raised and eyes wild. Skyre pivoted, meeting the blow in a fierce metallic clash. He kicked out, knocking the attacker off balance, then drove his sword into his gut, twisting sharply before tearing it free. Hot blood sprayed his cheek and spilled over the grass at his feet.
Skyre drank in the scent. Adrenaline claimed him, sharpened his senses until each breath, each heartbeat, became thunderous.
Another arrow hissed passed his ear. He glanced aside, eyes narrowing upon the archer now retreating into the dense foliage.
“Coward,” Skyre spat, teeth bared. Another charged, howling in his unclean language. Skyre parried, feeling the satisfying impact ripple up his arm.
He pushed the man backwards and slashed a deep gash across his throat. The attacker dropped with a wet, gurgling gasp, his body thudding against the brush.
His attention snapped back to the fleeing bowman, who struggled frantically to nock another arrow. In a dash, he closed the distance, feinting to the left as the arrow loosed, missing by a hand.
Before the bowman could draw again, Skyre swept his sword upwards. The bow shattered beneath his strike, sending splinters raining down. The bandit stumbled, wide-eyed with panic but Skyre pinned him to a tree with a thrust through the chest. He watched the frantic life fade from his eyes, then yanked his sword free with a sickening crunch.
A cry drew his attention—unfamiliar, ethereal, and yet he was sure he’d heard…
His name.
He wheeled around. A bandit had spotted the druid’s hiding place and barreled towards him, raising his sword for the kill.
Skyre surged forwards, legs driving him with furious determination. He’d bridged the distance in a moment, muscles straining. As the attacker brought his weapon down, he plunged his blade through his back. Iron erupted between his ribs, blood splattering the druid’s white robes.
The attacker stiffened, then slackened and Skyre wrenched his blade free, shoving the body aside with a growl of disdain.
Quiet crept back into the wood.
The Vaich stood, blade dripping scarlet onto the underbrush.
The druid’s awestruck expression unsettled him. He’d never seen anything so uncertain in his gaze. But he didn’t care to revel. His tongue was bitter with the taste of metal, and he let out one ragged exhale.
“I told you I would come.”
He reached out his bloodstained hand. There was a moment—a hesitation. Then, the druid gently placed his own within.
Skyre brought him to his feet, eyes searching for anything amiss. He found no injury, but the druid’s free hand clutched around the hilt of a familiar blade.
His golden dagger.
A hundred unspoken things passed between them, but one loosed its way between his lips. “The next man to touch you in violence…” Skyre muttered, “you slit his fucking throat.”
