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Wrong, wrong. This is all wrong.
I look to Petrik with a desperateWhat do we do now?gesture.
We were supposed to wait for Kymora to cross an invisible line, then spring up to fight. But she’s farther away than agreed upon, and she’s singled out Marossa.
Kymora smiles. “My men know better than to show their hand.” She says to someone over her shoulder, “Cut down that tree.”
Men with axes spring forward. We’re out of time to think. Marossa lets loose another arrow, fells one man, but others spring forward with shields to cover their fellow men while they chop.
I nudge Petrik.
With a loud exhale, he stands. The rest of us follow suit. There are about two hundred of us in total, including the mercenary company. With weapons drawn, we face Kymora and her men at the road.
“There you are,” Kymora says. “I could hear the fearful heartbeats.” And then she adds, still conversationally, “Loose, please.”
Loose? Did she meanlose? Was she asking us to surrender?
But then a volley of arrows come at us from the sides, thundering down like a hailstorm.
It is my armor that saves us. The arrows glance off harmlessly, the magic protecting every soul in our company. Littleplinks like thick raindrops staccato through the space.
“Ah, Ziva. You’ve been busy,” Kymora says. Then, “Another volley.”
There’s no capable commander among our numbers. No one to take charge. Petrik was supposed to give the order to attackonce Kymora and her soldiers were in place, but that never happened. Petrik eyes his mother, his knees suddenly locking in place, forgetting himself.
I can’t even blame him; their relationship is the most complicated one I know of.
I stare down the woman who murdered my parents. Who tried to kill my sister. The woman intent on capturing me and destroying everything.
Someone needs to step up.
Feeling like an idiot all the while, I shout, “Advance!”
And I start running.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
The ferns whip against my legs. Brambles catch on my ankles, but they’re ripped free by the force of my sprint. Impossibly, I hear more feet around me—the mercenaries, my friends, Skiro’s and Marossa’s soldiers—joining me.
Kymora scoffs. I can’t hear the sound, but I see the way her head moves. “Go meet them,” she says.
Her soldiers engulf her, racing to engage us.
I thought the fight in Skiro’s Capital was utter chaos.
But it is nothing compared to the bedlam of fighting face-to-face on even ground. The clash as bodies strike against bodies. Shields and steel screaming. Grunts and cries piercing the air. My surroundings completely overwhelmed by red. First by the tunics of Kymora’s soldiers. And then, of course, the blood.
My shield catches the man running straight at me. All the air leaves his body as he flies backward. I bring my hammer down, see his eyes widen just before Agony makes contact with his brow. I taste bile in my throat as I run for the next falcon-decorated soldier.
Out of the corner of my eye, men go flying as a magicked greatsword sends them pelting backward.
Magicked throwing axes fly not in a straight line, but in wide arcs, taking out many enemies with each throw before returning to the castor’s hands. I hear laughter behind me and turn just in time to see a large mercenary with magicked knuckles on his left hand and a sword on his right knock enemies unconscious with every swing.
Our enemy’s blows bounce off the magicked armor.
I don’t relax, exactly, but some trembling part within me stills. I see the few magicked weapons I made for Ravis throughout the battlefield. They hold strong under blows, return to their masters’ hands after they’re disarmed.
But they are no match when pitted against all the weapons I’ve made throughout the years for the mercenaries.
