Page 62 of On Brutal Thrones

“They look bronze,” I say, narrowing my eyes.

“Gold,” Thorian corrects after studying them. He glances at me, and I get the uncomfortable impression that he notices more than I want him to. Thankfully, he says nothing. “They were probably made by the God of the Blacksmith. If they were placed here deliberately, they’ll have some special purpose or ability.”

“Awesome,” Fenric mutters, pushing his copper curls back from his face. “And we have to go into the middle of that field to retrieve them. Of course.”

A commotion to the east cuts off any response.

We freeze as voices carry through the trees, followed by the unmistakable sound of people arguing. A moment later, the Vultures emerge from the forest.

Every trace of humor disappears.

They haven’t noticed us. Their attention is fixed on the field, and we’re far enough around the perimeter that the towering plants and surrounding brush partially conceal us. I feel Nyx move closer to my shoulder, and her familiar scent reaches me.

My first instinct is immediate and useless. Get her away from here. After what I did earlier, the irony isn’t lost on me.

“I don’t think they see us,” Nyx whispers.

“Shhh, let’s watch,” Thorian says.

We fall silent.

The warlocks don’t spend nearly as much time studying the field as we did. After watching one unfortunate animal get pulverized, they begin casting.

Magic tears into the plants.

Several stalks crumple beneath the first barrage, leaves shriveling and flowers collapsing. For one hopeful second, it seems ridiculously easy.

Then the field fights back.

The flowers slam down toward the warlocks, forcing them to scatter. Vines whip out from beneath the towering grass and coil around ankles, yanking legs out from under them. One warlock hits the ground hard enough that I hear the impact from here.

“Do you think they see the weapons?” Fenric asks.

One of the Vultures suddenly cuts to the right and heads straight toward the center.

“Never mind.”

The farther they push into the field, the worse it becomes.

Vines snake around their legs and wrists. Flowers hammer down hard enough to send dirt and shredded leaves flying into the air. The smaller bushes clustered around the bases of the stalks suddenly open, spraying streams of liquid toward them.

The first splash hits the ground and hisses.

“Acid,” Thorian says.

The warlocks barely manage to shield themselves before another spray comes. Magic explodes in every direction as they fight back, and all three of us shift almost instinctively, putting ourselves between Nyx and the chaos.

Magnus gets caught.

Several vines wrap around his legs and waist and rip him off his feet. He disappears into the foliage so quickly that for a moment, I’m certain he’s dead. Then a burst of magic tears through the plant holding him, and one of the other Vultures drags him free.

That appears to be enough for them.

They abandon the weapons and run.

The field seems to pursue them as they flee, flowers crashing down behind them while vines snap at their heels and acid sprays through the air. Somehow, the Vultures make it out the other side and disappear into the forest.

Silence settles over us. The plants slowly straighten. Within moments, the field looks almost peaceful again.