Not for herself. But for our friend.
I hit the landing as the knight recovered in time to exercise his weapon once more. Nicu gasped and braced his knife, then red dots sprinkled his face like freckles. A rondel dagger lodged itself in the soldier’s jugular, Lyrik’s fingers choking the weapon behind him.
The rogue’s pupils blazed like pyres, his face contorting with an unchecked rage I’d never beheld from him. Gnashing his teeth, Lyrik jerked out the dagger. Between him and Nicu, the body dropped in a heap.
Their heads whipped up, and they stared at one another, encapsulated in time, lost in each other’s presence. Reliefwashed through my limbs, then segued into a rage as Aspen wrestled with Muriel.
Nicu and Lyrik turned, following my trajectory as I powered toward Aspen. Except another figure intercepted my path. As I slammed into the female knight and thrust my swords against her, the spectacle played out in the background.
During the feud, Aspen deduced something about Muriel’s weapon. Realization dawned across my lady’s profile. The Third Commander wielded a sickle instead of her own sword.
With a quick jab, Aspen struck a corner of Muriel’s weapon that unhinged the handle. The woman gasped, baffled as Aspen rotated in a circle, her blade hewing a line through the woman’s navel.
Dame Muriel stumbled in place. Her head swung my way, disappointment sagging her countenance as the force of Aspen’s blow ejected her backward. The female knight flopped over the railing and plunged to the understory.
Dicing through my last foe, I crashed into Aspen with a thud. Alive. Alive. Alive. She shook in my arms as I yanked her into a quick embrace, my muscles radiating with anxiety. The fibers of her hair brushed my cheek, and her body temperature seeped into me.
Alert, we pulled apart and viewed the sickle, which lay on the bridge. Aspen may have blown up the armory tent, but she also rendered a portion of the stolen village weapons faulty, in case some survived.
In silence, we drew a conclusion. The explosion hadn’t merely destroyed their makeshift disguises. The sparks and flames must have traveled, vanquishing the troops’ personal weapons as well. Whatever components Lyrik’s mixture contained, it had been potent enough to achieve this. Thus,the knights were forced to use whatever had withstood the onslaught.
More bodies flooded the enclave. Instead of the full troop, about half laid siege, perhaps because too many of them were still injured.
Even then, they exceeded our numbers. This should render the battle folly. Except they hadn’t been granted passage here.
Lining up across the bridge, we gaped as The Lost Treehouse unleashed its vengeance. The leaves curled like fingers and crowded the sky, blotting out the sun, dousing this realm in shadows. Fog hissed across the ground and snared human ankles, dragging screaming warriors across the undergrowth. Roots grabbed, fractured bones, and bent weapons like clay. Bridges forced soldiers into aimless roundabouts, and platforms led them astray, transporting them to levels they hadn’t been heading. Amid the murk, this place disoriented members of the troop and minced them to pieces.
The remaining attackers stormed to our level.
“This way!” Nicu ordered, jetting along the bridge and up another stairway. Our group trailed, camouflaging ourselves into the boughs. Using Lyrik’s colorful lanterns as signposts, my liege guided us amid the network, skillfully avoiding the knights as they scrambled about.
But then Nicu skated to a halt. Lyrik slammed into his back. Aspen and I slammed into Lyrik.
“What the fuck?” the rogue grated.
Then he saw what the rest of us apprehended. A squadron of hawks soared like arrows, furious caws tolling over the cathedral of trees. The creatures speared into the quagmire, their beaks puncturing bodies with the sharpness of bayonets, their talons stripping flesh like ribbons.
My pulse doubled. The castle night watch.
Another band of hooves plowed through the woodland, four steeds breaking through the mesh of leaves, their approach whisking detritus from the ground. The riders yanked their mounts to a standstill, their arrival lacking pageantry.
Two couples sprang from their horses and threw back their hoods.
The first woman wore a coffee-brown mantle layered over a moss-dyed frock, the palette blending in with the forest. By contrast, thickets of red hair gleamed around her head, the locks woven into a braided bun, which sagged in disarray at her nape. Violet puddles lurked beneath her eyes, and violent desperation contorted her face as she scoured the area.
A tall male physique stormed to her side, his high-collared coat void of its normal splendor, the material wrinkled and stained with grime. His dark hair had always been an intended mess, artfully strewn around his head; yet today, it seemed less of a show. Whereas dark kohl customarily lined his eyes, no such embellishment painted his raw features.
The mask had fallen. Furious terror dominated his countenance, the deadly expression blasting a hole through the woods.
Briar. Poet.
Beside them, a towering man dismounted, a dark blue mane lashing around his sharp, pale visage. Next, a petite female with olive skin hopped from her saddle, her golden irises burning through the shadows, her fingers gripping a whip-like rope.
Jeryn. Flare.
The princess and jester consumed the scenery to a hazardous degree, their gazes ransacking every stairway and promontory for their son. The howling knights drew their focus, the stunned clan watching as the trees picked apart segments of the troop.
Nicu gasped. Somehow, his father heard it.
