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And one tall gray bear gets past Dessin’s line, approaching us in a dead run, a loud, earth-quaking gallop that tells me we are no longer safe in the circle. I hold out my knife, hoping the bear will run right into it, stab himself trying to maul us.
My name is screamed from Dessin’s vocal cords as he’s held down, bombarded in the snow and puddles of his blood.
I am our only hope.
The bear opens its mouth, taking one last deadly lunge to devour us. I scream and close my eyes, holding up the pointy end of the knife.
There’s a wet, snapping sound followed by a feral gurgling, then a thud, like dropping a sack of potatoes. I open my eyes, feel the hands of my friends gripping my waist, my back, my arms as they stay tucked behind me.
I killed it! I—
But my knife isn’t bloody. It hasn’t been used. The body of the bear has collapsed at my feet, and his head lies next to it.
I look up, expecting to see Dessin or DaiSzek standing in front of us, the cause of the decapitation. But no, they’re still overwhelmed, bodies slammed into the earth. And more animals have arrived, twenty, if not thirty.
Instead, I see a stranger wearing a black mask that covers his entire face, dark hair that hangs nearly to his shoulders, sleek feathers of a raven that coats his body, and a whip that might be made of chains or tiny blades. A weapon that decapitates with one swing.
I stare at him in horror and gratitude, sucking in fast breaths.
But the man doesn’t stay put, he winds up his arm, throwing the metal whip out toward Dessin, snaking the tail end around the necks of three mountain cats, swiping their heads clean off their shoulders with a slurping crack.
The whipping man doesn’t wait for Dessin to get up, he rushes to DaiSzek’s side, whirling through the air to reach a large group of the beasts that keep piling up, cutting through their necks like butter. A gory show of flying heads and spraying veins. It’s a clotted mist, a crimson thunderstorm over their falling bodies. And the man keeps going, waving that whip around like his arm will never get tired, like his body was made for the combat of beasts.
The killing slows to a painful stop as DaiSzek shakes the last bear like a rag doll, rattling the loose bones in its body.
My friends and I shiver, holding each other as we blink in shock, waiting for Dessin to confront the strange man. The soldier that turned the tide of this battle. He could be from the Stormsages. Maybe someone of this territory that was looking out for us.
The silence is smothered by the sharp winds, the gurgling necks, and our frantic breaths. Dessin and the masked man watch each other from over the carnage, waiting for the other to say something.
“What the fuck is wrong with you?” Dessin says with clenched teeth. “I thought you were dead.”
With that notion, the man removes the charcoal mask, tossing it into the snow. Deep-blue eyes. Sleeping, dreaming blue eyes. Stubble along his chin and jaw, and olive skin. And that look I’ve seen a thousand times. The eyes of a murderer. The excitement of war, violence, and chaos.
He grins at Dessin. “You think that little of me? I just saved your ass.”
“We had it handled.” Despite the hard expression, Dessin’s mouth curls into a faint smile. They shake hands first, then pull into a manly, back-slapping hug.
“You smell like a horse’s ass.” Dessin cringes as he pulls away from their embrace.
The masked man barks out a laugh. “Couldn’t handle a few little kitties, huh? I guess that asylum softened you up.”
Dessin snorts. “I guess so.” His dark eyes flick to me, then back to the masked man. “This is Skylenna”—he points to me—“Chekiss, Niles, and Ruth.”
The man turns to us, studying our colorless expressions, our mouths still gaping open to pant from terror. He nods his head at me. “Skylenna,” he purrs with a look of secret amusement. “You are as beautiful as he’s always described you to be.”
I look to Dessin for confirmation, but he only stares back at me blankly. Unashamed.
“This is Warrose. We’ve trained together since we were boys.” Dessin nods his head back to the blue-eyed man that is currently watching me without blinking.
“You were taken too?” I ask, holding in my aggressive need to shiver.
“I was.” He exchanges a look with Dessin. “He broke me out when he was eighteen. I fled to this mountain,”—he motions his hands to the North Saphrine Forest—“where I stayed with the rejects of the Chandelier City.”
“Which is why I thought you were dead.”
“If I had been there a day sooner, you’d have found an entirely different set of corpses.” There’s a wicked flash of violence dancing in his eyes. “But you beat me to them. Were you there to look for me?”
They’re talking about the slaughter of babies, women, and children from that small village. The one where Garanthian found us. I wonder why he never mentioned this man before.
