“Ziva Tellion!” a woman who is almost as tall as I am shouts. “Hand over your weapons or prepare to have them removed from you by force.”
“Eat dirt,” Petrik says.
Temra nods at him in approval. “Yeah, shove off, lady. You can have them when you rip them from our cold, dead fingers.”
Petrik snaps his neck in her direction. “Perhaps we need not take it that far.”
“When you’re vastly outnumbered,” Temra says through clenched teeth, “sometimes you have to rely on intimidation.”
“And the mercenary also said he’d be right back with our money! So clearly he’s a great source of wisdom!”
“Shh,” I tell them. “Let me think.”
“While you do that—” Petrik cocks back his arm and flings his staff. It flies end over end toward the closest of Kymora’s guards, a big man with a mud-colored beard nearly down to his navel.
And while the weapon worked splendidly against untrained city folk, this man catches the staff in one hand.
But the staff has to return to its wielder, so the guard is dragged forward as the staff jerks back toward Petrik. His feet make long trails through the mud on the road as he wrestles with the stick, trying to find purchase.
Petrik’s face is horrified as the guard grows closer and closer. Kymora’s soldiers seem mildly perplexed as they do nothing but watch the scene with interest.
The bearded guard has his full focus on the staff, as though now it’s become a personal struggle between himself and the stick. He clearly doesn’t think us an actual threat.
Which is why his face flits to surprise when Temra sticks him with her shortsword.
A heavy breath escapes his lips before he falls, and the staff finally reaches Petrik once more. He wastes no time before casting it again. A second guard catches it, but she’s smart enough to let go before she can be dragged by the weapon. When Petrik throws it a third time, Kymora’s soldiers are finally ready. The third guard has his bastard sword out and nicks the staff as it reaches him. Making contact, the spear flies back to Petrik.
That’s when the enemy finally advances.
Twenty-nine guards left. They all but ignore Petrik and come running for me and Temra. My sister is prepared, her sword ready for the onslaught, but she can’t take on that many trained soldiers.
And I’m useless in a fight. Temra is far too close for me to pull out Secret Eater. I’d risk hurting her or Petrik.
“Get behind me,” Temra says, stepping forward to block my body with hers.
I’m both touched and infuriated by the gesture. “They won’t hurt me. Kymora wants me alive to build weapons for her army. You get behind me!”
They’re almost upon us. Petrik sidles closer, preparing to throw again.
And then we’re surrounded. The three of us put our backs to each other, eyeing the soldiers. Kellyn is among them, forming ranks as if he’s trained with these men and women.
We must make a truly pathetic spectacle. Two guards grab me by the arms, easily separating me from the rest of the group. A third takes Secret Eater from my side.
No, not the sword!
I kick and yank with my arms, but it does no good. They’re firm with me, yet they don’t retaliate with any strikes of their own.
I watch as another soldier tries to wrest the staff from Petrik. He tosses it straight up into the air and then sinks to his knees on the ground, waiting for the stick to come back and strike the guard right on the head. But it isn’t long before another red-breasted soldier takes the weapon from him and cracks the stick in two across one knee.
“No, you fool!” the woman barking out orders says. “Kymora ordered them and their weapons brought back to us. One of these girls is the smithy gifted with magic.”
Realizing his mistake, the guard takes off running.
Is Kymora’s wrath so terrible as to send a grown soldier fleeing from a misunderstanding?
My captors drag me toward the soldier in charge. One of these girls, she’d said. They don’t know who is who.
“I’m the blacksmith,” I say hurriedly. “You don’t need my sister. Let her go. I’ll come quietly.”
Temra has already been disarmed, though she certainly didn’t go quietly. The men around her are covered in cuts and scrapes.
“Let her go,” I say again. “Please.”
“We don’t need the spare,” the soldier responds, “and we’re not about to leave witnesses.”
That fact sinks low in my chest.
“I’m the spare,” Temra and I say at the same time.