Page 120 of The Fox Heir

Chapter 36

The breath punches out of my lungs as I slam into the earth. Pain explodes along my ribs as I cough and try to catch my breath. Each gasp shoots searing pain through my chest. Grimacing, I sit up and blink through the dust swirling around me as I try to get my bearings.

The battlement crumbled beneath me. I should be dead, crushed beneath the stones, but I’m not. I’m bruised, and I’m fairly certain I cracked at least a few ribs in the fall, but I’m alive.

I’m also furious with myself.

In my hubris, I lost focus. I was more concerned with showing off for my father than with paying attention to my surroundings. There must have been a distant trebuchet pointed in my direction. My light and red cloak made me an easy target atop the battlements.

I was foolish and prideful, just like he always said I am.

I grit my teeth against the pain as I scramble down from the rubble. My red cloak snags on a stone, and I rip it off my shoulders. I leave it in the mud, stepping on it with my boot for good measure. I never want to see it again. Shame burns through my veins. I squint up through the dust, toward what remains of the battlement wall, but I don’t see the Dead Queen anywhere.

The air is thick with dust, making me cough. My lungs seize painfully with each breath. I stagger, ears ringing, and my vision swims. The ground feels like it’s tilted and shifting beneath my feet.

A Fox Soldier charges from the right, his axe held high. I dive, rolling through the blood-tinged mud. The impact jars every bone in my body. I land beside a corpse half-buried under rubble, and my fingers brush against the hilt of their sword. When I grab it, it’s slick with mud and dust.

A shout tears the air behind me. I spin, barely raising the blade in time to block. The clang reverberates through my arms, nearly knocking the weapon from my grasp, but I stand my ground. I send a whispered thanks to Tristan for the past few months of training. Without it, I’d surely be dead. I try to reach for my light power to blind the Fox Soldier.

Nothing happens.

Horror fills my chest.

The soldier presses forward, his breath rank and hot against my face. I twist, using the moves Tristan drilled into me: pivot, slice low, step back. The edge of my stolen sword bites into the soldier’s thigh where his flesh is exposed between plates of armor. He yells and falls to one knee.

I don’t wait. I drive the blade upward into the gap between his armor and his helmet until his voice cuts short. Crimson blood streams over his copper chestplate. When I draw my sword back out of him, his body falls to the ground with a clatter.

My head is pounding, and my light power is flickering inside me like a dying flame. All around me, the world is chaos: soldiers shout, arrows shriek past, feet stomp through the mud-soaked earth. Fear claws at my throat, threatening to unravel me.

I have to stay calm. I grit my teeth to keep focused. My hands grip the hilt of my stolen sword tighter, even as a wave of dizziness makes nausea rise in my stomach.

Another Fox Soldier rushes toward me. I raise my blade, slower this time. His strike glances off my sword, knocking me back into the rubble. Pain blooms white-hot in my back. I heave my sword upward, catching him across the chest. He stumbles, armor screeching. Once again, I reach inside my core, calling for my power.

I’m met with hollowness instead.

“No, no, no, no, no,” I say to myself as I scramble off the rubble.

The Fox Soldier raises his blade to swing again but stops short. Behind him, there’s a flash of movement, followed by a sharp, wet sound. A pike shoots through the front of his chest. He blinks down at it, surprised, then collapses. So much for Father insisting Fox Soldiers don’t need stronger armor than bronze and copper.

A young Gwyllion fighter stands behind the collapsed soldier. I recognize him instantly. He’s the boy I saw with his mother before the battle began. He looks almost as stunned as the Fox Soldier did. His face is smeared with dirt and blood, but he’s alive.

“Thank you,” I say, my voice raspy. He nods, then turns and rejoins the fight, his boots sliding in the slick mud.

The first heavy raindrops fall, and thunder rumbles over the clang of battle. My arms are shaking, and I’m dizzy. I duck out of the path of a silver greatsword, wielded by a copper-clad giant. Somewhere in the distance, the roar of corpse beasts echoes along the outskirts of the fight.

I blink against the falling rain and try to focus. My brain is a jumbled mess, and blood trickles from my temple. Frustration builds in my chest. I can’t fall apart like this! Even as I think it, I know it’s not weakness that’s making my brain muddled and my limbs weak.

It’s burnout.

And most likely a concussion as well. Nausea swells within me again as rain streams over my face. Between my shaking arms and head injury, I can barely hold the sword. What was the point of those months of training if I can’t even focus enough to use it?

Even as the thought crosses my mind, I know I’d be dead already without Tristan’s training. Still, I drop the sword and draw Grandmother’s moth knife out from my boot. Thank the old gods, I haven’t lost it in the chaos. The bronze hilt kisses my palm as I grip it. It’s a poor weapon against an army, but I know how to use it on instinct. And right now, with my head a jumbled mess, I need to rely on a weapon that I can wield in my sleep.

The rainfall is steady now, dripping into my eyes, turning the ground into trenches of mud.

Another Fox Soldier spots me and lifts his sword to strike, but I twist away just in time. I try to call my power, but it’s useless. Panic shoots through me like lightning.

The soldier turns toward me again. I rush at him, tackling him to the ground before he can strike. We land with a clatter that reignites the pain in my skull. Before the soldier can react, I slice my blade through his neck. I don’t wait for the telltale gurgle of blood pooling in his mouth before I’m up again.