I smelled the reek of his injuries, heard the pain in his ragged breaths, and they struck open a memory from years ago: Garreth instructing Rhys and me as we swung practice swords in the training yard, showing us how a real sword fight looked as he challenged a fellow warrior-in-training and they circled each other in an impressive display of swordsmanship. The match ended with both of them panting, bearing scratches, and I’d held a cloth to a cut on the warrior’s cheek—the same warrior barreling toward us now. I could see him, slumped awkwardly in his saddle, his brown hair mussed, blood splashed across his armor.
“Quinlan!” Before I could snag his horse’s reins, it stopped in its tracks, staring at me as the rats had.
“Lira?” Quinlan lifted his head. “I—I thought you were dead.” A smile crept across his face, and then he teetered sideways. I threw my arms around his waist, trying to hold him up, shouting for Zabelle. Together, we settled him back onto his horse.
“Looks like a nasty wound in his side,” Zabelle said, pointing at the red stain pooling beneath his left arm.
“What happened, Quinlan? Who did this to you?”
He blinked heavily, as if he’d just remembered something. “They’re coming,” he said, throwing a frightened glance over his shoulder.
I’d been too focused on Quinlan to notice, but now I heard them—shouts and pounding hooves. I smelled them—their lathered mounts, the dirt and sweat of their skin, and the heavy stench of their battle lust. There were three of them. I didn’t know these men, but I knew where their loyalties lay. I knew whose orders they followed blindly.
I drew my sword. Zabelle nocked an arrow, pulling her bowstring tight.
The Dragonmen crested the hill that had blocked them from view. They saw us and howled, the victory song of predators cornering prey. The three invaders spurred their horses, rushing toward us, carrying murder in their eyes.
CHAPTER 3
LIRA
The Dragonmen’s battle song echoed across the hills. Zabelle released her arrow and it slammed through one invader’s throat.
Their howl became a roar as the dead invader fell from his horse. The other two charged at us, long yellow braids streaming behind them.
Zabelle let another arrow fly, but the invader she’d aimed at dodged. They were nearly upon us. Zabelle put down her bow and reached for her spear. Quinlan’s sword was in his hand, though I doubted he had the strength to swing it.
“I’ve got the one on the right,” Zabelle said. “The other’s life is yours to take, Lira.”
I squeezed the hilt of my sword, my own battle song rising in my blood. “His life belongs to his gods,” I said, “but his death will belong to me.”
No matter how much I had trained at swords with my brothers, I’d always insisted that I was no warrior. But whatever power lay in the Fallen Ones’ blood had seeped into my muscles, into my bones. I felt stronger. Faster. Deadlier.
The invader’s sword was a massive, shining star slicing the air near my neck. My sword was a paltry bit of stardust by comparison, but it was more than enough. Wraith shifted out of the way, and as the invader’s arm swung to the side with his momentum, I shoved my blade between his exposed ribs. The hilt slipped from my hands, stuck in the screaming Dragonman’s side.
The gods did not speak inside my head, yet I felt them there, eyes opening from slumber, waiting to see what I would do with the strength they had given me.
Grabbing the knife sheathed to my thigh, I leaped from Wraith onto the injured invader’s horse. I gripped the Dragonman by his long blond hair, wrenched his head back, and jammed the blade through his throat. Blood sprayed in a bright burst of red.
I released the Dragonman’s hair and his body thumped to the ground.
The energy housed inside me sparked with approval, sending embers of wicked warmth through my veins. I sensed Veronis’s amusement.
Quinlan was hunched over his saddle, clutching his horse’s mane. “How in Gwylor’s name did you do that, Lira?”
“Divine inspiration.” I hopped down from the horse and stalked to where Zabelle had the third Dragonman on his knees, her spear pointed at his neck. “A prisoner?” I asked.
“He might know something useful to the prince,” Zabelle said.
I used my belt to bind the Dragonman’s wrists together. “You’re coming with us, Westlander,” I told him in Iseneldish. “Behave, or the pretty warrior with the spear will make you wish you had.”
We made our way back to the camp, Zabelle pushing our snarling captive along with the tip of her spear while I rode beside Quinlan, making sure he stayed upright on his horse. At the cave, there was a crowd awaiting us. Standing at the front was Garreth, a scowl forming deep lines across his features, but his anger ebbed as he recognized Quinlan. He ran to help his friend down from the horse, calling for healers.
Quinlan was unconscious by the time they laid him on a pallet. The healers went to work, cutting open his leather armor and tunic, examining the gash across his ribs.
“How bad is it?” Garreth asked.
“The wound is deep, but not lethal,” the eldest healer said. “We’ll clean and stitch it and watch him for signs of infection.”
At her assurance, I released the breath I’d been holding.
“This man is a brave warrior, and he is like a brother to me,” Garreth said. He winced at the word brother, and I knew he was thinking of Rhys, missing the only true brother he’d ever had. “Make sure he wants for nothing. Give him the same care you would give me.”
Garreth beckoned to me, and I followed him outside the cave, away from the camp. As soon as we were alone, he said, “What the devils were you doing, riding off to meet enemy soldiers, just the two of you? You know better. So does Zabelle.”
“Don’t blame Zabelle. It’s my fault. I thought it was a single rider.”
“Why would you think that?”
“I heard him coming from across the hills. Quinlan, I mean. But not the Dragonmen. I only heard them when—” My mouth snapped shut as I saw how Garreth was looking at me. Like I might be losing my mind.
“How could you have heard such things from so far away?”
“You know what they did to me.” The mystic. The Fallen Ones. “I’m different now.”
Garreth scratched at his scruff-covered jaw. He’d always kept his beard neatly trimmed, but out here he left it unkempt. It made him appear wild, like he belonged with the nomads.
He did belong with them, I reminded myself. He was their prince.
Resentment welled in me, sudden and sharp: Why didn’t you come for me, Garreth? Why did you leave me in Stony Harbor, instead of bringing me to Ghost Village, to be at your side?