Two scarabeo dove at Dante.
He stabbed and slashed, hidden by a tangle of claws and mandibles, and she sent a burst of flame to assist.
The scarabeo fell, screaming, over the cliff’s edge.
Dante dropped to his knees, clutching his bloodied side, his sword abandoned beside him.
Dante could heal himself. He would heal himself. He had to.
But while soldiers battled around her and the Fontes, keeping the area around them clear, Dante was unprotected.
The roiling darkness coalesced as another wave of scarabeo saw easy prey.
Alessa snatched a scythe from the ground and ran, slashing it toward the scarabeo bent on reaching Dante. The curved blade at the end of the staff lopped off every leg on one side, and the bulk crashed down on the peak, nearly crushing Dante.
“Help him,” she shouted at the nearest soldiers. “Keep them away until he’s healed.”
Fontes waited, hands at the ready, for Alessa to resume the fight, but everywhere she looked, there was nothing but chaos.
She was doing her best, but it wasn’t enough. Too many scarabeo got past her, descending on an army lost to panic. She flinched as two soldiers, fighting beside each other, were ambushed and snapped in half.
If only her army could communicate without words, too.
A desperate idea lodged in her mind.
Time to break all the rules.
Fifty-Two
Alla fine del gioco, re e pedone finiscono nella stessa scatola.
When the game is over, the king and the pawn go in the same box.
The dying scarabeo twitched violently, legs curling in like a dead spider.
Alessa lunged, her bare hand closing over one smooth claw.
She retched as an oily power flowed into her, but she didn’t let go until it reached the core of her gift.
Like falling out of bed mid-dream, something inside her came awake with a lurch.
“Regroup,” she ordered, but the word wasn’t merely spoken aloud. It was an order, a mental compelling, a dozen thoughts condensed into one, like a brain signaling a body to stand.
The army—her army—snapped to attention, thousands of warriors tuned as one. Through her eyes, through each other’s eyes, they saw the fight from every angle, countless minds woven together into one.
The scarabeo gave one last shudder and went still.
“To me!” Alessa shouted at her Fontes, and they found her side. Already, the scarabeo’s power—she couldn’t think of it as a gift—was fading, the precise symmetry of her fighters falling out of rhythm, but as she sent a storm of ice and lightning to fell a swath of scarabeo, the soldiers below fought with renewed purpose, united once more.
They might actually get through Divorando.
She regretted the thought as soon as it came to her. Never tempt the gods. Never.
Fire tore through her. A fire she’d lived through once before.
Nina screamed.
She’d heard that before, too.
Alessa looked down at the front of her slip of a dress, at the sharp limb, thrust into her belly with a scarabeo’s death spasm. The creature curled in on itself.
Blood soaked through the links of her chain mail.
Screams. Clanging blades. Her Fontes and guard burst into motion, fighting to surround her as she stumbled.
Dante couldn’t slow her fall this time. He was already on the ground. A wide gash ran from his chin to one ear, and he was covered in so much blood she couldn’t be sure if they had matching fatal wounds or different ones. Hands clutched at her, trying to break her fall, but she smelled dirt, tasted it. Dante lay a few feet away, a flicker of sunlight across his face.
The army would have to take care of the rest. She wouldn’t be saving them.
Dante’s eyes opened, and his pupils shrank as he focused on her. He lifted his head. Fingers clawing at the dirt, he dragged himself closer, then stopped to cough. He didn’t bother wiping the blood from his chin before he began to drag himself again.
One arm’s length. Another.
His gift might be enough to save him. It wasn’t enough for them both.
So many memories she’d never make. Kisses they’d never share. Sunrises and sunsets they could have watched together.
She focused on him, detaching from the raging battle. She couldn’t help them anymore. She couldn’t even help herself.
The darkness spread inside her, but she held on. Dante was trying to get to her. She had to stay until he did.
What was one more death, or two, on a day when countless had died already?
Everything.
Somehow, he made it to her. Trembling on one elbow, his eyes fixed on hers, and he brushed her cheek with the back of his fingers.