He didn’t move. “They’re here for me,” he said. Around them echoed the clash of metal and the twang of bowstrings and, in the distance, the steadily growing roar of flames.
“You don’t know that,” Wren countered, though she didn’t really believe it. Everything had lined up too perfectly for this to be anything but a premeditated attack.
He continued to stare at her, as if waiting for something, but eventually heeded her order and headed deeper into the forest.
Wren split her focus between their forward progress and the sound of the battle behind them. The horses that came from the south had already passed them, and with the thick tree growth, she and Leo were currently out of sight. She just hoped they could remain so long enough to get out the other side.
As branches snagged against clothes and thorns scraped exposed skin, Wren withdrew one of her swords. Her blades were designed to cut through ghosts, not trees, but she was nothing if not determined, and she hacked and tore and shoved her way through, Leo following close behind. He kept looking over his shoulder, fearful of pursuit, but thus far their passage went unnoticed.
Eventually, each slash of Wren’s sword caused flashes of daylight to spill through the shadow of the trees, revealing a patch of grass, a scrap of sky…
And a booted foot.
“Fuck,” Wren breathed, halting midswing—but it was too late. Another blade met with the trees from the other side, and this one was not made of bone and designed to cut through incorporeal spirits.
It was a sword made of iron, designed to cut through anything.
“Back,” Wren said, turning away from the swinging sword and shoving at the prince, but then a gloved hand gripped her shoulder and tore her from the trees.
Her hand, meanwhile, was locked tight around Leo’s forearm, so the pair of them went sprawling into the dirt, utterly exposed.
Standing over them was a warrior, dressed head to toe in gleaming plates of metal, face obscured behind a helmet.
The armor was not like that worn by Dominion soldiers. It didn’t shine with the familiar, silver-gray gleam of steel. No, it was made of pure iron, nearly black in color and molded by magic.
It couldn’t be…
They’d all died in the Uprising. Their leaders, the Knights, had been defeated, and the rest of them wiped out, like Odile had said.
Or not.
Because standing before Wren was the unmistakable sight of an ironsmith.
Fear lanced through her.
They were the most dangerous warriors in the Dominions, and here one stood, looming over her, black sword drawn.
Every piece of armor fitted him perfectly, shifting and sliding as smoothly as scales. The helmet—with its pronounced cheek guards, long nose piece, and razor-sharp iron plume—gave him a distinctive ironsmith silhouette and covered the entirety of his face… until pieces started retracting before Wren’s very eyes, folding back for better visibility without him having to lift a finger. Ironsmith gear was renowned for its strength, sharpness, and clever design. In short, ironsmith armor and weapons could do things regular armor and weapons could not.
While his features remained shadowed, it seemed the ironsmith had seen all he needed to. His attention fixed on Leo, he stepped over Wren’s prone form, dismissing her in pursuit of the prince—clearly his intended target. Leo might be the spare’s spare, but he was still a prince, a son of the king. He was valuable, especially in the wrong hands.
Frozen in fear, Leo stumbled backward, but there would be no running. There would be no escape. Wren glanced around, spotting two mounted riders heading their way. They were dressed like light cavalry, armed with bow and arrow and wearing gleaming black chain mail rather than plate—meaning they weren’t ironsmiths, thank the Digger—and riding small, fast horses.
Like the ironsmith, they, too, were focused wholly on the prince, which meant she might be able to get away, if she was quick enough. They might let her go. But the prospect of one more failure laid at her feet was more than Wren could bear.
And Leo had called her a friend. She wouldn’t abandon him.
Besides, despite how convenient it might be given the current circumstances, Wren Graven did not like to be ignored.
She got into a crouch and sprang, colliding with the ironsmith and taking him to the ground, his hand still outstretched.
The impact knocked the breath from her lungs, his various iron plates digging into her flesh with enough force to break bones—she just hoped they weren’t the ones inside her. His sword went flying, joining Wren’s in the dirt, but they had barely landed before the ironsmith regained the upper hand, rolling her onto her back and pressing a hand to her throat.
She stared up into his shadowed features, her vision growing dark—until a loud clang echoed through the white noise in her mind, and the ironsmith fell to the side, his helmet knocked clean off.
And there stood Leo, with the ironsmith’s dropped sword in his hands, his eyes wide.
Idiot. He was the one they wanted, not her! He was supposed to run when Wren tackled the ironsmith, to take the chance that she had not. Now they were both in trouble.
Leo could barely hold the sword upright and was forced to drop it as the ironsmith stirred, the other two riders fast approaching.
Wren needed a distraction, immediately.
“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.