I open my mouth to ask what could possibly be worse than an ice giant, but I never get the chance. Because at that moment, the incoming enemies make themselves known. And I find, as I take in the sight of them—their scurrying legs and clacking pincers and beady eyes—Scythe is correct.
Whatever horrors an ice giant might unleash…
This is far, far worse.
They do not come from the cave mouth, as I’d expected. They burst up from the ground all around us in a violent explosion of stone and dirt. Two dozen of them, perhaps more. There’s no time to count once the melee begins.
Centipedes.
Not the small, screech-inducing bugs I’d glimpsed scurrying across the floor of the storage closet back at Eli’s cottage. These are a giant variety I’ve never seen, never even fathomed, except perhaps in legends of old. Each as long as a horse and as wide as a barrel, with hundreds of legs jutting from either side of their armored insectile bodies. A pale, putrid white hue, they remind me of maggots. And they reek—an acidic stench that stings my nostrils and makes my eyes water.
The first of them erupts from the earthen floor just beside Farley. I watch in horror as its serrated mandible closes around his shin and, with the ease of snapping a twig, cleaves the bone in two. Even as he falls, screaming in agony, he swings down with his sword and beheads the beast in one clean strike. Green goo spurts from its decapitated body, a flood of venomous fluid. Itslegs continue to squirm and clack against the ground long after it is dead.
“Stay by the fire,” Scythe barks, gutting another of the centipedes as it rears up before him, jerking his blade free before I can so much as blink. “Cyntroedi can’t stand the flame.”
I try to respond but my throat feels fused shut. I can only watch as the men take on the vile creatures. One after another after another. Jac’s double-headed axe neatly shears half the legs off one as it plummets from an outcropping of rock overhead, leaving it limping in wobbly circles. The gray-eyed man whose name I have not learned battles two at once on the far side of the fire. On his knees, Farley continues to fight—slashing out against anything that comes within range of his sword. The final man, bald and stocky, with midnight skin, stays close to his fallen friend, firing bolt after bolt from the mammoth crossbow.
For all the bloodshed, it is Scythe I cannot tear my eyes from. I had seen him kill men before, seen his grim efficiency as he slaughtered Burrows and the other troops who lashed me to that hanging tree. But now, as I watch him whirl and slash, skewer and thrust, I realize I have not seen even a glimpse of his skill before this moment. The man who takes on a half-dozen monsters sent straight from the realm of nightmares at once appears inhuman. Impossibly fast, his motions a blur, his helm a dark gleam in the firelight.
With a wounded shoulder, no less.
He moves like a man possessed, caught in the throes of battle fury. Occasionally, between kills, his eyes dart across the cave to find mine. They seem lit from within, that fire in their depths burning bright despite the darkness, no longer an ember but a flame. His blade, too, appears to blaze red-hot, as though it has been left to heat in the coals for hours on end.
Surely a trick of the light, I tell myself, shaken by the sight.
The men, for a time at least, seem to have the upper hand. Until the earth begins to shake once more, fresh shock waves announcing the arrival of a second cluster of cyntroedi. It is at this moment that I finally come unstuck from the paralyzing grip of terror that stills my limbs. My gaze sweeps the space around me, landing on the bow. It is larger than the one I used back home—a man’s bow, crafted for killing worse prey than I was accustomed to hunting in Seahaven’s tranquil woods—but I grab it anyway, slinging the quiver across my back and nocking an arrow with familiar ease.
Mere days ago, when I saw the state of my iron-ravaged wrists, I wondered if I’d ever again be able to draw a bow. But Scythe’s salve has healing properties I’ve never seen in all my years mixing tonics and brewing teas with Eli. My skin is practically mended, the gaping wounds scabbed over in a way that should not be possible—not for weeks.
Not for a lifetime.
Yet, there is no more than a twinge of residual pain, a faint ache of protest in the tendons as I set my stance, lift the bow, and anchor it against my body. I’m breathing rapidly, the rise and fall of my chest making it difficult to take aim as I pull back the bowstring. With a steadying gulp, I hold the air inside my lungs. My eyes narrow on a centipede that has just burst from the earth behind Scythe. It skitters toward him, intent on striking him unawares.
I let the arrow fly.
I’ve always been a good shot. Since I was no more than a child, when Eli placed a novice bow in my hands, I excelled—first at the stationary targets he set up for me in the gardens, later with the distant marks hidden deep in the foliage, designed to challenge me. By the time I reached my fifteenth year, I did all our hunting, bringing home a steady supply of game to fill ourtable. Our coffers, too. I sold a fair bit of meat to villagers who were too hungry to be picky about buying from a halfling.
Thus, even with the large bow, even with my aching wrists, my shot makes impact—not precisely where I aim, not straight through the head, but in the center of the armored body. The creature gives a pained screech, its pincers clacking at empty air as it whirls around. The beady eyes fix on me, glittering, and my whole body trembles.
Faster than I ever imagined possible, the creature comes my way, carried across the cave on a hundred spindly legs. Locking my knees against the trembles of fear, I barely have time to nock another arrow and fire before it reaches me.
This time, my aim is true. The arrow slams home directly between the creature’s beady eyes. It falls to the cave floor with a thud, pincers clacking one final time as its vile fluids leak out around it in a viridescent puddle. I catch myself grinning as I reach for another arrow in my quiver.
The smile freezes on my face when my eyes turn to locate new prey and instead lock with Scythe’s. He is on the opposite side of the cave, in the process of dispatching two especially mammoth cyntroedi. He does not look pleased with me. If prisoners are not privy to information, I’m guessing they aren’t privy to weaponry, either.
Ah, well. He can brood at me later. Preferably when we aren’t under attack by stallion-sized insects.
“Jac!” the gray-haired man yells, voice tense. “Need another blade over here!”
I watch a blur of dark blond hair race by, taking down monsters as he goes. My eyes trail him, picking off the creatures who give chase, covering him as he moves. Two, four, six. I lose count, firing without hesitation. Without thought.
The acidic smell of venom thickens in the air as the armoredbodies pile up, filling the pitted floor of the cave until all I can see are legs. Legs and pincers and putrid white carcasses, an invertebrate graveyard.
A sharp whinny of distress has my head whipping in the opposite direction. My heart seizes as Jac’s gentle gray mare is taken down by three cyntroedi, no more than a dozen paces away from me. Onyx rears back and slams his hooves down on one of them, crushing it instantly. I fire two arrows in quick succession, taking down the others. But it is too late for the mare. She is beyond saving, deep scores in her hide gushing irreparably. The venom is already working its way through her system, causing damage the best healers in Anwyvn could not undo.
Deep down, I know it’s pointless, but my irrational heart refuses to admit as much. I make my way toward her, tears glossing my eyes. If I can get there, maybe I can do something. I have to at least try…
I make it no more than a few steps. Scythe’s sharp whistle sounds from across the cave. At first, I think it’s to get my attention.