Bonesmith (House of the Dead, #1)(33)
“This time,” she gasped, withdrawing one of her throwing knives, “you run.”
Before Leo could reply, she flung it with all her might. Not at one of the soldiers, whose mail would protect their most vulnerable parts, but at the soft flesh of one of the horses, who were less well protected.
The knife landed true, settling in the nearer horse’s foreleg, causing it to shriek and rear up. Wren felt a stab of guilt, quickly stifled. It wasn’t a mortal wound, and pain was temporary. Or so her father had always said.
As the horse bucked, the rider struggled to remain seated, and the pair of them nearly collided with the other rider and his mount, slowing them down exponentially.
“Go!” Wren yelled, reaching for another knife, but the next thing she knew, she was on her back again, the ironsmith glaring down at her with eyes black as night, his teeth bared. He was younger than she expected, his cheeks smooth and pale, his dark hair slicked away from his face.
“Get him,” he barked, and Wren could only assume that Leo had, in fact, run, and the ironsmith was ordering the others to pursue. On horseback, they’d have him in moments, but Wren had other problems.
Above her, the ironsmith raised a hand, palm open. His sword, which lay several feet away, heeded his magical call and soared into his grip. Then he angled the massive weapon across her neck. There were strange grooves carved into the iron, creating a repeating pattern Wren couldn’t identify—and shouldn’t bother trying, as her death was imminent.
“Julian!” one of the soldiers shouted. Apparently that was the name of the boy about to slit Wren’s throat, because he glanced away impatiently.
The shift in his body freed her right hand—which had been pinned underneath him and still clutched a second throwing knife. With a painful twist of her wrist, she managed to slash the exposed, armorless flesh of the ironsmith’s thigh.
He grunted and flinched, and it gave her enough room to free her other hand and plunge it into the pouch at her waist.
A cloud of bonedust filled the space between them—harmless against the living but annoying all the same. Wren held her breath and squinted against the debris, but she’d aimed it all at him. Forcefully.
Coughing and choking, the ironsmith stumbled to his feet, wiping angrily at his streaming eyes. The weight that had been crushing Wren’s chest eased, and she scrambled away.
Seeking her sword, she copied the ironsmith and raised her hand, calling it to her open palm and sheathing her small dagger.
They faced each other, both breathing hard, his face ashen and streaked with tears. For the first time, he really looked at her. At the bone weapons and armor, her black clothing and grease-smeared eyes. Then down at the dust he swiped from his cheek.
“Bonesmith,” he said, the word dripping with disdain. It might have been the king’s orders that sent bonesmiths and the rest of the Dominion soldiers east of the Wall during the Uprising, but Locke Graven led the final charge, and it appeared that fact had not been forgotten.
Wren inclined her head, poised for the next assault. They’d wound up farther from the Wall than she’d realized, but the palisade was still too distant to be much use to her. The sound of fighting continued to ring out, but it remained on the other side of the trees, which were burning more steadily now. Plumes of smoke drifted in the breeze, blocking out the sun and swirling around the ironsmith, turning all to a gloomy haze.
And Prince Leo… Wren’s heart sank when she located him, thrown over one of the kidnapper’s horses. Their task was complete.
Except for Wren.
Sure enough, one of them was drawing their bow, preparing to nock an arrow. Wren’s gaze darted around—could she make it back to the trees?—but then she spotted a dark slash in the ground, a shadowy crevasse near the edge of the copse. If she could just get inside and take cover, maybe they’d simply leave her behind in favor of making a clean getaway with their prize.
Wren sheathed her sword across her back, and the ironsmith’s body tensed before he frowned. If she didn’t intend to fight…
He realized it a second later as Wren tore off toward the fissure. Distantly, she heard shouts and knew that while the archer would be aiming for her, it was more difficult to hit a moving target.
Of course, she still had the ironsmith to worry about.
Her goal wasn’t far, the crevasse almost within reach, when she tripped over some unseen obstruction, slamming hard into the ground. The wind was knocked out of her, stunning her and making her movements clumsy as she attempted to get to her feet, but there was something tangled around her ankle.
An iron rope?
Looking up, she saw that the ironsmith had followed her, and he no longer held his carved iron sword—or rather, he only held the handle. The blade had seemingly disappeared, the grooves she had seen up close demarcating segments that could be separated, breaking the sword into dozens of pieces that spread along an iron cable that had been hidden within.
It was a whip sword, a legendary ironsmith weapon she’d never thought to see in real life. The rippling iron cord was dotted with pieces of the blade, several of which were digging into her ankle. The only reason she hadn’t been sliced to ribbons was because of her bone-armored boot.
As she looked down at it, the ironsmith flicked his wrist, and the whip wrapped itself tighter and tighter, cutting off her circulation.
With a look of satisfaction on his face, he took slow, measured steps toward her. Wren, however, was more concerned with the arrow that was surely moments from sailing her way. She turned her back to him, pulling herself with her arms, the lip of the dark chasm just out of reach….