The ironsmith remained in a crouch, poised for action, but he watched her, waiting for the go-ahead.
Wren itched to start climbing, but there was a chance the patrol was large enough to ride with forward and rear scouts. Sure enough, seconds before she was ready to throw caution to the wind and go for it, a larger group of riders could be heard moving past, followed several minutes later by another pair.
Finally, when those last hooves receded, Wren looked to the ironsmith. She nodded. “Now.”
They both rushed to the edge of the cliff, and she had to concede that he moved much better now that there was work to be done.
He withdrew his whip sword and transformed it in a snap, flicking his wrist down so the inner cable extended to the ground, the blade segments sliding out along its length. It coiled at his feet while he stared up at their target.
“Step back,” he ordered, and Wren did, watching as he flung it upward in a wide, shining arc. He wielded physical and magical strength, using his muscles to get things moving and relying on his magic to aim and guide the whip. It was a common tactic that Wren herself used, allowing a smith to preserve energy. Doing the same thing with magic alone would be exhausting, and he was in no state to push himself to the brink.
Though the whip reached the sky above and disappeared from view, it quickly slipped back down, failing to grab hold of anything.
The ironsmith’s eyes narrowed, and he tried again.
And again.
“There were some roots—” Wren began, but he quickly spoke over her.
“I know.” His voice was tight with suppressed frustration, and sweat dotted his temples.
Wren closed her mouth, waiting, until finally, on the fifth attempt, the whip caught and held. The ironsmith gave it a few hard tugs, then glanced over at her.
She stared at him blankly until she realized she should go first in case there were any lingering Breachfort soldiers about. It gave her the upper hand to a certain degree—she could try to push him off or betray him—but as they were climbing an iron-whip-turned-rope, Wren very much doubted she’d be able to do any such thing.
Not that she intended to. She needed him.
For now.
She approached, the ironsmith holding the handle loosely to keep the whip steady. While his hands were gloved, hers were bare, so she had to be extremely careful as she held the cable, avoiding the blades, though they provided handy footholds.
There was no time to hesitate, no time to worry if it could hold her weight. No time to wonder if it would slither around her throat and strangle her.
With both hands gripping just around head height, she nodded to the ironsmith, and he released his hold. She jumped, her arms taking her weight while her feet sought the nearest blade segment below.
She managed it without too much struggle, though it wasn’t the same as climbing the librarian’s shelves—or even climbing her own swords up that muddy grave in the Bonewood. Now she dangled over the chasm below, nothing holding her up but her own muscles and this strange iron whip.
Her breath started to come in short, sharp gasps, and her hands ached from holding too tight. Muscles she swore she’d never used before began to burn, her arms and chest trembling from the effort. But stubbornness won out, and she gritted her teeth as she climbed, feeling the shift when the ironsmith was on the whip beneath her. It swayed wide, causing her to curse vehemently, and continued to bump and jostle now that there were two of them.
She started to use the blade segments for her hands, too, finding a way to hold the inner seams while avoiding the outer edge. When she finally dared to look up, she realized they had not fallen as far as she’d thought. She was already near the top.
Once she got there, she saw that the whip had indeed been anchored to a tangle of roots she recalled seeing before they pitched over the edge. She looked around but saw no sign of any riders or torchlight. She tried to look up at the Wall, but the copse of trees blocked her view—which meant it also blocked their view of her, obscuring whatever the darkness didn’t.
They might just pull this off.
With one last burst of strength, motivated by the ironsmith coming up behind her, she crested the ridge, gasping.
He joined her soon after, but with a bit more dignity, resting his hands on his knees to catch his breath before calling the whip up and reshaping it into a sword once more.
Wren got to her feet, peering into the darkness. Behind her, the fires had been put out, and she could just discern the outlines of the bone palisade in front, her magic sensing and filling in what her eyes missed.
Then she looked at the two of them. Her bone armor definitely stood out, paler than skin against the darkness, but it was nothing to all his iron. It reflected the scraps of moonlight that poked through the haze of smoke and cloud like flashes of sunlight on water.
But the time it would take to remove it—not to mention the risk that posed if they were found or pursued—would potentially put them in even greater danger.
Their eyes met, and Wren knew he saw what she saw.
They had only one option: run like hell.
Together they tore off for the bone palisade, stumbling over uneven ground and leaping rocks and debris as they loomed up out of the shadows.
Wren kept her senses sharp, the presence of the bones ahead keeping her on course. She glanced back only once, but everything behind her was darkness save for the lanterns atop the Wall, and they were dim and shrouded in smoke.
The palisade finally reared up before them, and they both slowed their pace, coming to rest behind one of the towering bone sentinels, using it as cover while they caught their breath.
Wren leaned against it, letting the familiarity of the material calm her racing heart. They had made it away unnoticed.
Now they just needed to find the Gold Prince.
FOURTEEN
After they’d both caught their breath, they started walking east, putting distance between themselves and Breachfort territory.
Once the palisade was no longer in sight, Wren looked to the ironsmith for what came next.
As he walked, he sheathed his whip sword and withdrew a staff instead, also strapped to his back. It was unremarkable-looking save for its unique color, which marked it as ironsmith-made.
Wren realized then that they hadn’t exactly introduced themselves. They’d gone from fighting each other to hiding together and now… whatever this was. A shaky alliance.
With an ironsmith.
Wren’s stomach twinged with unease. She would definitely need to fudge that detail when she told her father all about her heroic rescue of the prince. Luckily, she was a practiced liar.
Still, they would be allies for the foreseeable future.
“I’m Wren, by the way,” she said.
He seemed to have been lost in thought, because he startled when she spoke. His dark eyes flicked in her direction.
“And you are…？” she pressed when he remained silent. “I heard them talking to you—before they tried to kill you, that is. James? Jules…” His face spasmed at that. “If you don’t give me a name, I’ll be forced to make one up, and I suspect that will only cause things to further deteriorate between us.”
“Julian,” he said with exasperation. “My name is Julian.”
“Nice to meet you,” she said. He shot her a glare. They had met under the worst circumstances imaginable.