Two Twisted Crowns (The Shepherd King, #2)(107)

When the earth began to roll and the Destriers near their parents stumbled, Jespyr lunged from the shadows. She was still too weak to use her sword, even with Petyr and a Black Horse for aid. But her knives—she was strong enough for those. Two Destriers fell at the edge of her blades. When a third got to his feet and lunged at her, she dodged him, his sword grazing just beneath her chin.

Petyr tore from the shadows, knocking her assailant off his feet. The Destrier fell into snow, and then a yew tree was upon him, wrenching him away with a sickening snap.

The last Destrier that had not run after Ione was Allyn Moss. He’d been standing with his sword drawn behind Jon Thistle. But when the rumbling trees knocked him from his feet, Moss stayed down, fear washing over his eyes.

Ravyn appeared out of thin air and knelt over him—put a hand to Moss’s throat. “I don’t want to kill you.” Gorse’s face flashed before his eyes. “But I will if I must.”

The Destrier trembled. He took his Black Horse from his pocket—threw it onto the snow in surrender.

Ravyn pulled back, a familiar tremor in his hand. “Go.”

Moss fled into the night. When Ravyn glanced back over the meadow, it was just in time to see Ione disappear into the trees behind the stone chamber. Destriers—he counted eight of them—chased her. Elm and Erik Spindle and Tyrn Hawthorn were hobbling behind.

All was going to plan.

Hauth was still in the heart of the meadow, kept busy by three yew trees. They circled him—whipped at him. Hauth felled several branches with his sword, dodged and tried to slip between trunks, but the trees kept twisting, bending. Guided by the Nightmare’s sword, they would keep him at bay, distracting him from picking up his Scythe—

Until Ravyn was ready to deal with him.

But first, his family. Ravyn ran to them, drawing a knife through the ropes restraining Thistle and his parents. Jespyr was in the snow, wrapping Emory in her arms. She let out a shaking exhale. “He’s still breathing.”

“Take him back into the castle.” Ravyn handed Moss’s Black Horse to Petyr, then pressed his palm against his mother’s cheek. “Keep him safe.”

“We can help,” Thistle said, picking up a fallen Destrier sword.

“Everything is under control. Go inside.”

Fenir found a second blade in the snow. “You’ll want another pair of hands—”

Ravyn’s nostrils flared. “If you do not get your asses into the castle, I’m going to tell the Shepherd King, and then the bloody trees will drag you away. Jespyr needs rest.” He looked down at Emory. “So does he. We started this for him, and it’s almost over. So, please—pretend I didn’t inherit a lifetime of stubbornness from you, and get. Inside. The Castle.”

They stared at him, jaws slack. “I’ve never heard you talk so much,” Morette muttered.

“Best do what he says before he keeps blathering,” Jespyr said with a wink. But her face was drawn, her shoulders rounding with exhaustion. She wobbled, and Thistle caught her.

Fenir gave Ravyn a narrow glance. “See you soon?”

“See you soon.”

They carried Emory between them. Petyr stepped forward. “I’ll escort them, then I’m coming back.” He offered a crooked smile. “Or are you gonna yell at me, too?”

“Likely.”

They clasped hands, then Petyr hurried after Ravyn’s family and Thistle, slipping through the mist, snow flurrying in his wake.

Ravyn turned and scanned the meadow. It was darker now. Several of the yew trees had dragged their roots through the pyres, scattering the flames—smothering the light. But Ravyn could still see everything he needed to.

Hauth, caged in the heart of the meadow by the yew trees.

He stepped forward, looking out into the wood. He could not see him, but he knew the Nightmare was there, guiding the trees with his sword. Waiting. Watching.

Ravyn reached into his pocket—tapped his burgundy Card. Elspeth?

She answered right away. Ravyn. Is your family safe?

Yes. Ione and the Destriers are headed your way.

Good, came the Nightmare’s oily timbre. The Princeling?

Right behind them. What time is it?

The trees declare we’ve thirty minutes until midnight.

Elspeth returned. She made a noise in her throat. Ravyn?

Even now, taut with strain, her voice eased him, like a warm cloth pressed over his eyes. Yes, Elspeth?

Don’t die.

I won’t.

Because if you do, and we never get the time we’re owed, I’ll hate you, Ravyn Yew. I’ll love you and hate you forever.

The corner of his lip quirked. This will all be over at midnight, Elspeth. After that, you can love me as thoroughly as you like.

The Nightmare made a retching noise. Not to cut this tender moment short, but time is somewhat of the essence. You sure you don’t want the trees to help you, stupid bird?

I can handle Hauth.

Good. Bring him, and the Cards he carries, to my chamber. His laugh was heady as smoke. By whatever means.

Ravyn’s hands dropped to the ivory hilt of his dagger. I will.

The three yew trees caging Hauth went still. Hauth stepped away from them—his face unreadable, save the angry veins that protruded from his neck and brow. His eyes were cast downward, combing the snow for the Scythe he’d not yet recovered.