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…
With a hard tug, the ironsmith dragged her backward, and Wren knew she’d need to find a different strategy. She rolled onto her back to look up at him. Hesitantly, she raised her hands. She abhorred the idea of it, but maybe surrender would save her life… or maybe she’d forfeited it when she’d thrown herself at this ironsmith in the first place.
A smile tugged at his mouth, but then Wren saw movement out of the corner of her eye.
Apparently uninterested in her surrender, the distant rider let his arrow fly.
It was as if time slowed, the air bending around the oncoming projectile as it barreled straight for her.
No. Not for her… the trajectory, the angle, it was all wrong. This arrow was meant for him. His back was to the others, and the ironsmith had no idea he was about to be shot. No matter how impressive his armor, there were always gaps—and who would know them better than one of his own?
Though he didn’t see it coming, he did see her expression. He turned, but he was too slow—the arrow too fast.
It thunked into the top of his chest, and the impact sent his body careening back toward the mouth of the chasm Wren had been desperately seeking. The chasm that, as the ironsmith fell, she was pulled inextricably into, the whip still tightly coiled around her leg.
She struggled—but it was pointless. She had only enough time to gasp in surprise as her body slid after him, dragged into the abyss.
TWELVE
There was nothing to grab hold of, nothing to stop their sudden, desperate fall—until there was.
Wren’s heart lurched into her throat, only to slam back down into her stomach as she landed on a hard, rocky surface. The impact rattled her bones, her head ringing, and it took a second for her to understand where she was and who was with her.
The ironsmith had landed first, but his body lay unmoving as she struggled to sit up.
It was dark all around, the smoky gray light from above only just illuminating his prone form, the iron plates glinting dully. Beyond… nothing but emptiness.
They’d landed on a ledge, and Wren didn’t want to know how deep this crevasse went beneath it, how much farther there might be to fall.
Especially as the ironsmith currently teetered near the edge. Wren shuffled nearer to him, afraid any sudden movement might cause the shelf to give way or his body to slide beyond her reach and drag her down with him.
She needed to move him. Fast.
She tugged at the iron coil around her leg, trying to unravel it—but the segments had twisted and locked together. Cursing, she reached for the ironsmith’s arm instead, tugging him toward her.
He made a mumbled protestation—proving he was dazed but not wholly unconscious. Or dead. But he was out of it enough not to realize the danger he was in.
The closer he got, the better Wren could see that the arrow had landed in his breastplate, right below his collarbone—but there wasn’t any blood. Ironsmith armor was stronger than anything they could make in the Dominions, and whatever that rider used to tip his arrow, it wasn’t able to punch all the way through.
The ironsmith would have a wicked bruise, but his heart still beat in his chest, and his blood still pumped through his veins.
As she dragged him toward her and the wall of the crevasse, where she assumed the ledge was more stable, the distant rumble of horse hooves echoed down, and she looked up, realizing how exposed they were. If that archer came to check his work, if he and his companion peered over the edge—which Wren suspected they were about to do—they’d see that she and the ironsmith had survived. Then it would simply be a matter of a couple more well-placed arrows, and they’d finish the job.
But looking over her shoulder, she saw that the wall behind her was steeply angled, providing a substantial recess—and perfect hiding place, if she could get them to it. From above, it would appear as though they’d continued to fall past this stony ledge, down, down, into the dark. The kidnappers would have no choice but to assume the worst—that both Wren and the ironsmith were dead, as they had intended.