Sorcha passed the lantern to Alistair.
“One more thing.” Lukasz pulled a dagger from his belt, and before Alistair had time to react, the commander sliced open the side of his neck.
“What the—” Alistair clapped his hand over the shallow but bloody wound.
“It will find you more quickly if it can smell your blood,” Lukasz said, wiping his blade clean.
Alistair pulled his hand away, gazing at the blood that stained his palm. “Wonderful.”
“Stop complaining,” Kael said. “You volunteered, remember?”
Alistair cursed under his breath, but he took up the lantern and moved into the forest. When he was a short distance ahead of them, Lukasz signaled for the group to follow. Kael took a path directly behind Alistair while Barrow and Ember moved into the darkness on his right. The commander and Sorcha followed to the left.
They stalked through the forest. As he’d directed, Ember kept close to Barrow. She took note of his carefully placed steps, each made with the intent to keep his presence silent, hidden from notice. Her mentor slipped from tree to tree, leaving no evidence of his passage. Her fascination grew as she watched him. Barrow seemed to embody calm and grace, the opposite of what she felt. Her heart slammed against her rib cage and her pulse roared in her ears, so deafening that she worried it alone would alert the striga to her presence. Her blood raced through her veins, aflame with fear. Each curving branch, shift in shadow, and any root that stretched out to snag her step made her pulse stutter.
Alistair, by comparison, created a ruckus as he moved. He yawned loudly and stretched, kicked twigs as he walked. Ember found it difficult not to laugh at his antics. Alistair did appear to be nothing more than an overconfident youth strolling through the night woods.
The flicker was so brief Ember wondered if she’d imagined it. Barrow came to an abrupt halt and she knew she hadn’t. A shadow had passed through the lantern light. If Alistair had noticed it, he didn’t give any indication but continued his jaunty stride without pause.
When branches of a pine to his right creaked, as if bowing beneath unusual weight, Alistair did pause. He maintained a calm repose, lazily glancing from side to side as would any person who heard a strange noise in the dark.
The striga made no cry as it attacked. It flowed from the shadows above, a dark shape falling toward Alistair. When the creature was nearly upon him, Alistair whirled, bringing the lantern around with a shout. The pole slammed into the striga, knocking it back. The creature wailed, its keening filled with surprise rather than pain.
Caught in the lantern’s glow, the striga’s features were made plain and Ember’s stomach twisted at the sight. It had a human-like form, its skin leathery and the color of dust. Its wings were black and dwarfed its body.
The striga screamed at Alistair, revealing a mouth full of needle-like teeth. It slashed the air in frustration with taloned fingers as it hovered before him.
Three silver streaks sailed into view. The striga arched backward, its cry now one of pain. When it turned, Ember saw three daggers protruding from its shoulders. Kael rushed out of the shadows, throwing another dagger as he ran. Lukasz burst into the light, his claymore stretching toward the sky. Sorcha appeared at his heels, brandishing her short sword.
Barrow’s sword slithered out of its sheath. Silence and Sorrow leapt into Ember’s hands as she ran after her mentor to join the fight.
The work was done before they reached the others. The fourth and fifth daggers Kael had let fly tore through the striga’s left wing, rendering it useless. The striga screeched and dropped to the forest floor. Before it could right itself, Lukasz was on it. With two hands gripping the hilt of his claymore he brought the tip of the blade down, piercing the striga’s chest. The winged creature gave a violent lurch. Blood spouted from its mouth and then it went still.
It was a victory, swift and brutal. But a victory nonetheless.
Though she’d had no part in the creature’s demise Ember felt a stirring pride in how easily her companions had achieved the night’s aim. With a bit of regret, she slid her blades back into their covers.
“Gather kindling,” Lukasz said, jerking his sword free of the corpse. “We’ll burn the body and be on our way.”
“Can we pass the rest of the night in the tavern?” Alistair called to Lukasz. “We’re already on our way to the village.”
Lukasz laughed. “Perhaps you’ve earned a drink.”
“I’ve earned ten drinks,” Alistair said.
Ember should have felt relieved, but the hair on her neck was still standing up. Alistair had propped the lantern pole against the ground and was lounging against it, a tired smile fixed on his face. He’d been very brave, and his courage made Ember wonder if she hadn’t judged him too harshly. Beneath his bravado lay strength and dedication.
In the darkness behind Alistair and the lantern light, something moved.
She could barely make it out in the shadows, but something was there. It crawled down the tree trunk headfirst, claws digging into the bark, its wings folded like a cloak over its back.
Another striga.
“Something is wrong.” Ember turned at Lukasz’s alarmed voice.
To her left and right rustling sounds passed through the high branches, followed by an unnatural breeze. Wind born of enormous flapping wings.
Behind her Barrow whispered, “This isn’t possible.”
The noise grew. Gentle rustles transformed into buffeting winds bearing the promise of a gale.
Sorcha peered into the treetops. “No. It can’t be. Lukasz?”
“It wasn’t alone.” Lukasz spewed curses before shouting, “Make ready your weapons!”
“Do not leave my side,” Barrow said. And though she heard his command, she had no thought but for Alistair and the striga no one else had seen. It slithered down the tree and flattened itself to the trunk, camouflaged against the bark.
Alistair had straightened, but apart from the lantern pole he was unarmed. The striga behind him lifted its head, gazing at his unprotected back.
Ember shouted Alistair’s name as the creature launched itself toward him. Alistair gazed at Ember in confusion when she threw herself at him. Her body crashed into his, taking them both to the ground. But Ember landed atop Alistair and it was her flesh that the striga found.
She gasped as its talons ripped into her heavy wool cloak. As she wriggled on the ground, desperate to crawl out of the striga’s reach, the cloak tore away. The beast had no intention of letting its prey escape, and immediately it struck again. This time its talons sank deep into her shoulders. Ember shrieked as the skin and muscle of her back split apart.
Around her, shouts of confusion and panic rose from her companions.
Lukasz cried, “To me! Don’t give them your backs. Form a circle here!”
In her peripheral vision she caught snatches of other striga dropping from the trees, falling on the knights. Two, three, four, five . . . the shadows of the forest had come to life, hurling themselves at her friends.
A triumphant screech made her ears ring. Ember braced herself for another blow from the striga that held her, but instead it buried its claws deeper into her and began to flap its wings. Ember groaned in pain as the striga lifted her from the ground by the long talons of its feet. Alistair shouted, jumping up and trying to reach her. But the beast had already risen to the treetops.
“Don’t let it flee!” Sorcha called. “Kael, where are your daggers? Take it down!”
Ember heard something come whistling through the night air, but the striga zigzagged in its flight path, avoiding the attack. She twisted her head around. Already the glow of the lantern was fading as the tips of pines closed in on the rest of the Guard.
Barrow’s voice chased after her: “Fight this beast, Ember! Free yourself and I’ll find you!”
Ember’s vision blurred and she struggled against unconsciousness as pain threatened to overwhelm her. The striga was bearing her away from the
others, turning south as it flew faster and faster. She didn’t understand why, but whether the creature wanted to feast on her without distraction or if it thought her easy prey while her companions were more likely to put up a fight, Ember knew she had to free herself—however impossible that seemed.
Her weapons still hung at her sides. She clenched her teeth, wrapping her fingers around the handles though she couldn’t know for certain if she’d be able to lift her arms or if she might do even more, possibly irreparable, damage if she forced them to move. What she did know was that she would have only one opportunity to strike.
Taking a deep breath, Ember mustered all her strength and forced her arms to swing upward in a swift arc. She cried out as her arms crossed in front of her face and the blades hit their mark. Her scream one of agony as much as a battle cry, Ember felt her muscles tearing in the striga’s grip.
The striga screeched and then groaned as its belly opened up. Viscera spilled out, raining gore on Ember’s head and shoulders before slipping over her body and falling to the forest floor. The beast plunged out of the sky. Its grip on Ember slackened and was gone.
The creature, bereft of its life, was silent as it fell. But Ember screamed as the ground rushed up to meet her.
NINETEEN
THE COLD BROUGHT Ember back into the world. Her body shook and pain racked her shoulders, arms, and back. She pushed herself onto her hands and knees. The striga lay beside her, its split belly yawning toward the night sky. Ember began to retch, the cramps in her stomach nearly as painful as the wounds on her back. Though moving was agony, she crawled away from the dead striga, dragging herself along the forest floor. Her hands met the leather handle of one of her wheels. She felt in the dark until she found its partner, forcing back rising bile, unable to keep from imagining how easily she could have landed on top of the blades, spilling her own entrails only moments after she’d eviscerated the striga.
Having no idea where she was, she didn’t know where she intended to go, only that she couldn’t bear to be near the striga’s corpse. Its presence was repulsive and some still rational part of her mind warned that rotting flesh might attract predators . . . or the other striga. She crawled until she could no longer bear the pain, then dropped to the ground, shivering and exhausted. Her cloak was gone, her tabard and kirtle shredded, leaving her bare skin exposed to the frigid air.
Where had the beast taken her? How far? And why had it carried her away from the others?
She knew she should try to stand up and find some way to identify her location or at least make it identifiable to anyone searching for her. If anyone was.
The forest offered no clues—only eerie silence. She couldn’t hear sounds of her companions or of battle. How many creatures had fallen on them? Ember thought she’d seen six or seven. Enough to overwhelm the warriors. What if they were all dead? What if the remaining striga came in pursuit of the one that had taken her?
Waves of exhaustion beat at her as she tried to kneel and slid her wheels back into their slipcovers. Her calves wobbled when she started to stand, giving out after only a few moments. She collapsed onto her stomach and then rolled onto her side, curling into a tight ball in the hopes that she might conserve some of the fleeting warmth in her body. The black swell of unconsciousness threatened to pull her back into its depths. Ember forced her eyes to remain open, knowing that falling into that darkness might mean she wouldn’t wake up again. Between her wounds and the numbness overtaking her limbs, she knew she must fight to keep her body from succumbing to the cold and its weariness.
Though it was pure torment, she let her mind focus on her wounds because it kept her awake. If she started to go numb, she had only to move her arm or shoulder and the jolt of pain brought her back to the freezing night and her broken body. As time passed, even this tactic began to fail her.
She was slipping in and out of consciousness when she heard it: the soft thud of hooves against soil. At first she believed herself in a dream brought forth by desperate hope, but the loud snort, followed by a fearful whinny and shuffling noise of a shying horse, was sudden and close.
A moment later she heard Barrow’s call: “Ember! Ember, where are you?”
Barrow and Toshach must have come across the striga’s corpse, which likely startled the horse.
She tried to cry out, but only a croak slipped from her throat. A long moan of pain came when she tried to push herself up to crawl toward the sounds.
The hoofbeats were closer now and Ember began to drag herself along the ground. A tall looming shape emerged from the forest. Painted in darkness, horse and rider melded into a single shape and had she been a lost child, Ember might have thought she’d crossed paths with a centaur.
The image broke as Barrow swung out of the saddle and came to her side.
“You killed the striga.” His voice was hushed. “That’s remarkable. How badly are you injured?”
She couldn’t answer. Any remaining strength had been spent in the short distance she’d crawled. Exhaustion and pain pushed her back to the earth.
“I’m sorry, Ember, but I have to see the wounds.” She didn’t even have the will to protest or cry out when Barrow rolled her onto her stomach. She did whimper, however, when he peeled back the tattered remains of her tabard and kirtle. Dried blood had pasted the cloth to her skin. She felt the warmth of fresh blood flow on her back.
Barrow swore. “These look deep, but I can barely see. I’ll try to bind them as best I can.”
He was gone from her side and she soon heard the rip of cloth. When he returned, he helped her sit up, then wound long strips of fabric around her body, covering her upper back and shoulders.
The pain was so horrible that Ember could barely stay upright. Her body was shaking and the night had gained strange floating colors that rose like fog as she gazed into the darkness.
“It’s a poor job,” he muttered. “But it’s the best I can do.”
He left again and soon another string of curses floated through the night air. When he returned to her, Barrow said, “The fates are cruel. I’ve found you, but the horn is gone. I can’t call the others to us and I don’t want to move you until there’s light to guide us.”
Ember didn’t answer. She couldn’t. She simply let her body fall to the ground as it wanted to. She heard her mentor whispering to himself.
“Damn! She’ll freeze to death before the morning.”
What happened next only came to her in snatches. The sound of a girth being unfastened. The soft, curious whicker of Toshach close by. The gentle tones of Barrow’s voice as he spoke to the horse.
She was vaguely aware of the sudden welcome warmth as the stallion’s huge body settled on the ground next to her and of her own form being carefully pushed up against Toshach’s side.
“Don’t think me a churl, Ember.” Barrow stretched out next to her on the opposite side of Toshach. “If you aren’t kept warm, you might not see the morning.”
He moved closer, his body pressed against hers, his cloak covering both of them.
“Stay strong,” he breathed into the crown of her hair. “Daybreak brings us aid. I swear it.”
Through the haze of pain Ember smiled slightly. Part of her believed she had no chance of seeing the morning Barrow promised. But at least she would no longer die alone.
The morning did come, and at its first pale light, Ember’s eyes fluttered open. She felt wretched, stomach-sick and still dizzy, but her mind was clear in a way it hadn’t been the night before. At least she was warm. With a sharp breath she became aware of the cause for her body’s sole comfort. Barrow still slept. His lips were slightly parted and his steady breath peaceful.
Ember watched his face, entranced by the opportunity to observe the warrior so closely without his knowledge. Her breath hitched the longer she looked at him, mimicking her uneven pulse.
She’d never been this close to a man, not even her father, who’d regarded affection toward his children as foolish coddling. T
ucked against Barrow’s chest, she breathed in his scent, earth and pine mixed with sweat and the warmth of skin. The heat of his body kept the chill of morning at bay. Unable to resist, Ember reached out and touched the bare skin where Barrow’s shirt was open at his throat. Her fingers stroked the hollow above his collarbone and slid down until she could feel the rise of his chest muscles. Her hands were trembling, but she didn’t want to stop. He was so warm.
Barrow’s eyes opened and suddenly he was gripping her arms. She worried that lingering in his arms without waking him, and going so far as to touch him, had earned his disgust, but Barrow wasn’t looking at her.
“Be still,” he whispered. He rolled over and his gaze swept the forest.
She heard it then. A quiet rustle of cloth followed by a crooning, mournful sound.
“Can you move?” Barrow asked, voice low.
Ember tested her shoulders, wincing at the sharp pain in her back that answered the motion. But it wasn’t unbearable. She nodded.
“I’ll help you onto Toshach’s back.”
He leveraged her body carefully up and onto the horse.
Toshach flicked his ears, turning his head to look at his new rider.
“Slowly,” Barrow told the stallion, and Ember wound her fingers in his mane as he lurched up.
Barrow stroked Toshach’s nose, whispering too low for Ember to hear.
He turned and drew his sword. Toshach followed as Barrow crept with silent steps through the trees. When Barrow paused, she peered around the horse’s long neck.
The body of the striga caught her attention first. Of course it would still be nearby, though she barely remembered crawling away from it in the dark. The sight of the thing in daylight was more awful than her first glimpses the night before. Devoid of life, it had a desiccated, hollow appearance and its mouth lay open, fixed in a final death cry—like something with a hunger that could never be sated. The crooning sound came again, drawing Ember’s eyes to the right.