PART TWO
THE LAIR OF DREAMS
21
One glance was all it took. One peek in his direction, and the Wraith spotted them.
The Wraith sauntered forward, a curved scimitar in each gloved hand. He wore a full body suit of black, durable cloth that suggested he had far more weapons on him than those in plain sight, and a heavy hood concealed his features in shadow.
No one in the tavern dared take a swing at him as he wove around tables and chairs and bodies. Not even the men who were so drunk they couldn’t stand, though they stared.
And Avalon didn’t dare put on the mask and ask Sable for help. Not here, surrounded by strangers and the Clan Hunter’s muscled men that had been eyeing them with suspicion since the moment they’d arrived. They were on their own.
But as Hadrian drew a sword, and Avalon crept up to guard his back, her trembling hand on the hilt of her own dagger, it became clear that they weren’t nearly as alone as they thought.
As the Wraith advanced toward them, the buckles on his boots jingling, Hadrian eased into a defensive crouch.
If Avalon had blinked, she would’ve missed it. There was the hiss of a blade slicing through rope, then a loudwhooshthat had people shouting and stumbling back. One of three enormous chandeliers came crashing to the ground—and landed right on top of the Wraith.
From where she stood on the bar, Clarice cupped her hands over her red mouth. “I’d run now if I were you, Captain!” she shouted. And then graceful, dainty Clarice smashed a plate over the head of the person closest to her, and the tavern erupted into a brawl.
A startled laugh burst through Avalon’s lips. If only Sable had seen this!
The captain’s hand wound around hers, and they took off running.
If it weren’t for booze the men and women inside the tavern had consumed, they wouldn’t have stood a chance at making it out. But they nearly flew through, dancing around tables and chairs, dodging fists and knives held in clumsy hands.
As they were nearing the back door, someone smacked into Avalon, wrenching her hand free of Hadrian’s grip, and she went soaring into a wooden beam. She hit it with enough force to knock the wind out of her lungs, and her dagger clattered to the stained floorboards.
A fist swung for her jaw, and she ducked just in time to avoid the blow. The sailor struck the beam instead of her jaw; the sickening sound of bone crunching made Avalon’s knees shake.
Crawling to the shelter of a nearby table, too terrified to make sense of the blur of people around her, she narrowly avoided being stepped on and tripped over. Just as she made it under, someone grabbed her ankles and pulled her out; splinters stung her elbows.
Avalon flipped with a speed that surprised both herself and her opponent, aiming her boot for the groin. Unfortunately for Avalon, the person who’d grabbed her was a woman, and she swatted the princess’s foot aside like she would a fly.
But Hadrian was behind the burly woman in an instant, grabbing her by the hair and tossing her aside. She careened into a group of men smashing each other over the heads with plates and glasses and legs of mutton.
“Come on!” Hadrian shouted as he helped Avalon to her feet, his face shiny with sweat.
They burst through the back door before the Wraith had even stirred, and they found a couple of fine horses tied out front. They undid the reins and were in the saddles in record time. They galloped off beneath the light of a full moon, and when the captain and the princess turned to look at each other, they threw their heads back and laughed.
~
They barely made it five miles before Avalon’s ears began to ring. She tipped sideways, nearly falling out of the saddle as her horse galloped on. Blood dribbled from her nose.
A memory surged into her mind, loud and demanding, and she passed out just as Hadrian shouted and reached for her.
~
Crouched beside the icy brook, her head tilted back to allow the early-morning rain to wash the sweat from her skin, Sable Erwyn Sylvana held her scarred hands beneath the rushing water. The freezing temperature sent a bone-deep ache through her fingers, but she had yet to feel clean. Though every speck of blood on her hands had likely been washed downstream minutes ago, she could still feel its touch, like a ghost she couldn’t shake off.
So much blood had been spilled, and the sun had only just crested the horizon. Winter was bowing out after a few long and harsh months here in Midra, the Realm of the Elves, but spring was slow to take its place. Even the rain that fell from the dreary sky was as cold and heavy as the dew that dripped off the intricate canopy of frost-bitten leaves. It had been a long wait, but seeing the snow finally melt, albeit slowly, was worth it.
Sable’s pointed ears pricked as leaves crunched beneath boots. Someone of heavy build, she guessed. Likely over six feet. General Terren, no doubt, judging from the clang of metal that accompanied each step. The source was the Morningstar strapped to his belt—a club with a spiked head, attached to the handle by a chain. The weapon was a thing of nightmares, and even Terren’s most trusted men avoided looking at it. Sable herself had dreamed of it before—and every dream had ended with a scream that threatened to shatter her vocal cords.
“Merlinian,” the general drawled, his voice deeper than the grumble of thunder. Sable felt it in her gut, like a warning. “You should know better than to wander in these parts.”
Sable kept her eyes on the crystal-clear water lacing through her numb fingers as she spoke. “I’ve heard stories about this forest, General. In the ancient world, it was said the trees here could deliver messages, whispered on the very winds that rustle the leaves.” She turned her head to look over her shoulder at the face that had chased many a poor soul into the afterlife.
