Then, without a word, he grabbed the knife by the hilt and pulled as fast and hard as possible.
Osana cried out as the blade slid free. Ferdinand traded it immediately for the strips, working fast to cover the wound tightly, securing the makeshift bandages under her arm and over the top of her shoulder before tying off all the pieces of fabric in front of her body.
When he was finished, Osana straightened, face creased with pain but determined to look over her shoulder to inspect his handiwork. Ferdinand was no medikua, and immediately wished he had spent more time with healers during his time in the Warlord’s caravan. “I couldn’t get the blood to stop—”
“It’s fine. I’ll be fine. Look at me.” Osana pushed away from him with her good arm and held him, the pain still pulling her mouthdown at the corners and flooding her eyes with glinting tears, but despite the obvious discomfort of her condition, her attention was squarely on Ferdinand. “We need to go for the big targets. Geneva, yes, but you thought the other Warlords would be here, didn’t you? They need to be dealt with, too.”
“Of course—”
“Ferdinand, you won’t kill Geneva. That is not a criticism but a truth.” It was. “Focus on one of the others. There are plenty of people here who want Geneva dead but the other Warlords are just as dangerous. Go for them. You know who they are. Take them out.”
He could understand what she was saying and yet it made no sense. “I can’t leave you here.”
“You can and you will or I’ll stab you myself.” To that point, Osana secured the knife, slick with her own blood, and held it at the ready. “I’ll only slow you down. I’ll stay here for you. Find me when we win. Go. Now.”
Ferdinand knocked the knife aside only enough to give Osana a kiss upon her tear-stained cheek, and then did as she ordered and plunged back into battle.
CHAPTER 20
TENDRILSof brilliant fire blinded Amarande for a single moment. The Warlord, announcing her public return, her anger, her intent to punish those who welcomed Luca’s arrival.
Koldo was right.
All the stars above, she was right.
Being outside the walls of the Itspi was a risk. To her. To Luca. To everyone around them in this very moment.
Amarande should have brought Ardenia’s vaunted army with her. Now, that vaunted army was hundreds of miles and a mountain range away from the vengeance of her mother. And here she was, with thousands of Luca’s scared and scarred people, reliving their recurring nightmare again after a single evening of peace and promise.
Shehad brought this risk to the people.
This was her fault, and these people would suffer.
Luca would suffer.
“No, no, no.” Amarande was suddenly in motion, lifting the blasted skirts of yesterday’s ball gown and running toward the blaze. A warning gathered where her cursed whisper had been and suddenly, she was trying to yell over the screaming, the stomping of hooves, the chaos of thousands of hurrying feet. “Away from the fire! Away!”
“Get away from there!” Luca bellowed into the space of her dying cry, hands over his head, frantically waving, jumping, repeatedly yelling—doing anything and everything to get the attention of those standing stationary in confusion.
As they ran ahead, barking orders, Amarande saw he’d grabbed his sword from the tent, and she suddenly realized she was unarmed beyond the knives that thudded in her boots. A last resort, those. She’d been so surprised—by Osana, by her warning, by her own tent—and so feverish about getting to Luca, she’d simply ran.
A mistake. At a terrible time. She needed a sword.
After few more chaotic minutes in which they lost both Ferdinandand Osana, a dappled mare thundered past and an idea swept over Amarande. All Geneva’s people were mounted—anyone on a horse this far from the corral was fair game. “Luca, reins and turn!”
Bless their mornings in the meadow, Luca knew exactly what Amarande meant and what to do.
In one artful dodge, he switched direction, racing toward the next rider, sword out—as a defense, not an offense. Weapon up, he met the rider in a high cross, but his attention was on the man’s reins, not his next blow.
With one terrible yank, Luca guided the horse into the complete opposite direction. The rider’s equilibrium shifted, and Luca removed his sword guard, negating the man’s leverage, and pitching him over the animal’s side with a thud as he landed flat on his back. The blade in the man’s hand skittered away on impact as his wrist plowed into the ground in a useless effort to break his fall.
Amarande scooped up the man’s sword as Luca’s own guaranteed the rider would not get up.
Then, they were racing toward the firepit again, shouting the same pleading order.
“Away from the flames! Everyone! Away!”
Amarande did not know if the words came from her, or Luca, just that they were together. As they barreled forward, suddenly a voice called out as if it had come from the sky itself.
