Why they had intended it was a mystery she didn’t have time to dwell on. The ironsmith weighed a metric shit-ton, technically speaking, his body lax and his iron armor and weapons like weights strapped to his skin. She only managed to move him at all because the ground sloped inward, allowing gravity to help. It was thanks to his own magic that he was able to move and fight under such heavy materials. The law of ratios was never much of an issue with bonesmiths, but ironsmiths monitored the equation with mathematical precision.
Wren pulled with everything she had, gritting her teeth and using her legs for leverage, despite the searing pain lancing through her ankle, jostling the ironsmith roughly as she dragged his body across the ground.
The pounding hooves stopped, and muffled voices reached them. Panic spiked Wren’s adrenaline. One more good pull, and she was inside the recess. Another, and he joined her.
She was just grabbing him by his breastplate to ensure his entire body was out of sight when his eyes snapped open, and he shoved her away, his metal clanking.
But the voices were clearer now, their words distinguishable, and Wren did not have time for this.
With one hand she took hold of the arrow shaft and pushed, temporarily robbing the ironsmith of breath as she helpfully reminded him of his wound. Then her other hand clapped over his mouth, ensuring that when he could inhale again, he didn’t exhale in a shout.
His eyes flashed dangerously, and he struggled against her hold—until the sound of the voices above penetrated his anger.
“… can’t see a thing,” one of them said.
“Look harder,” the second snapped back. “The others are already retreating. The fort’s soldiers will be here any minute.”
“You got him. What does it matter if we have the body?”
At those words, the ironsmith went motionless.
“I want to make sure the job is done.”
“Look how dark it is. The fall is a hundred feet at least—no one’s surviving that, especially not with an arrow in their throat.”
Wren glanced down at the ironsmith. That slightly missed target—coupled with his powerful armor—had saved his life.
It seemed he knew that too. His expression was unreadable, but he’d stopped resisting her. Still, she didn’t dare remove her hand.
“And what about the girl?”
“Even without an arrow, I doubt she’s fared any better.”
The other man cursed, and Wren thought maybe he kicked something, because a rainfall of pebbles clattered down around them.
“Come on, we’ll figure out the rest on the road. Let’s move.”
There was a whinny, the jangle of a saddle, and then the steady roll of hooves galloping away.
Silence descended.
One breath, two, then the ironsmith batted her hand away.
Even that small movement seemed to cause him pain. He gritted his teeth, sweat dotting his brow as he closed his eyes, collecting himself.
After several panting breaths, he stared down at his chest.
Wren remained crouched beside him, on high alert despite the rough shape he was in. She watched closely, aware of every movement as he reached toward the wound. Wren thought he intended to yank the arrow out, but instead, he rested his hand on his breastplate next to the puncture. Nothing happened, though she could sense he was straining. He kept holding his breath, then releasing it in heavy gusts of frustration before, on his third attempt, the dented metal reshaped and spat the arrow out.
There was no evidence the plate had ever been punctured, yet the arrowhead that landed on the ground next to Wren was flattened at the tip. It was black in color, like all ironsmith metal, but was surely of a lesser grade than what the ironsmiths used for their armor. If she remembered correctly, ironsmiths didn’t construct any weapons for sale or wide distribution that could puncture their own plate. The ironsmith warrior must always reign supreme.
That done, the ironsmith attempted to pull himself into a seated position, but his arm caught on the whip sword wrapped around Wren’s leg. She was shocked he still held the weapon, even after being unconscious, but perhaps it was more ironsmith magic. After a moment’s hesitation, he tugged, and the whip lost its tension. Wren freed her leg from the knot, and then he flicked his wrist, the whip retracting to the hilt, fluid and snakelike, before becoming solid and snapping back into the shape of a blade.
His shoulders sagged before he pushed himself upright, leaving the weapon on the ground. He leaned against the wall, pressing a hand to his chest. He needed to remove the breastplate if he wanted to survey the damage, but Wren knew, somehow, that he wouldn’t do it with her there.
The quiet pressed in on them. Moments before, they’d been trying to kill each other, and now they were trapped here on this narrow ledge. Wren’s only chance of escape would come in the form of the Breachfort soldiers, but the ironsmith? He’d need to collect his strength and maybe try to extend that whip into something he could climb.
She reached out a tentative hand to the blade, wanting to touch it, to understand—
“Don’t,” he snapped, but he wasn’t looking at her. It seemed he could sense it.
“Why do they want you dead?” she asked. She figured she might as well, as they were currently stuck here together, and it seemed relevant.
He shook his head but didn’t speak. He continued to rub at his chest.
“Because they definitely shot that arrow at you. I thought it was coming for me, but I was on the ground, and it was way off target. Actually, if it weren’t for your stupid whip, I’d still be up there, and—”
“Shut up,” he said tiredly, pressing black-gloved fingers to his temples. He sighed. “This doesn’t make any sense.”
“No shit,” Wren said, and he shot her an icy glare, his dark eyes stark against the bonedust on his face.
She ignored him, focusing instead on trying to massage away the pain in her ankle and calf. No doubt she’d have welts on her skin, but for now she wanted to make sure the limb could bear her weight. She got to her feet gingerly, and while her leg hurt, it was usable.
“He must be planning something on his own,” the ironsmith muttered, mostly to himself. “Unless he just wants the credit himself. He’s an ambitious man…”
“Who?” Wren asked. Standing, she took a chance to survey the rest of her damage, which was primarily surface. She had both her swords, though she’d lost a throwing knife. Her bandolier was stocked, her armor mostly intact, though it had taken a beating.
He hesitated. “Captain Royce.”
“Your own captain turned against you?” she asked, surprised. “You’re sure the order didn’t come from higher up…？”
And who would rank higher than an ironsmith soldier as talented as him? He was young, but he wielded his magic with power and finesse, and his whip sword was the kind of weapon she’d only heard fantastical tales about. But how had he been trained? All their masters, all their warriors, were supposed to have been wiped out.
“I’m sure,” he snapped, and Wren left it alone.
Craning her neck, she peered out the opening in the crevasse above, which rose nearly twenty feet overhead. It was late in the afternoon, pushing into the evening, but the smoke was thick in the sky, and clouds were rolling in, bringing an unnatural darkness. Distantly, horn calls and alarm bells were ringing from Wall sentries. Breachfort reinforcements were already on the way.