I’m mistaken.
He is calling his horse.
Onyx responds instantly to his master’s signal. He trots to my side and, with an intelligence far surpassing that of a normal horse, herds my body back toward the safety of the fire. His glossy eyes are rolling with white, infused with the same fear that churns though my veins. I let my hand stroke his flank just once to soothe him before I turn back to the battle with my bow aloft.
“Need some help over here!”
It’s the stocky, bald soldier this time—the one fighting beside Farley. Alarm fills me when I see he’s been drawn away from his post, pulled deeper into the crush. Leaving Farley on his knees, wholly unprotected. The cyntroedi are encroaching on his hard-fought patch of territory, enticed by a meal so close to the ground.
Sidestepping Onyx, I rush around the fire to his side. I’m running low on arrows, but I don’t think about that as I reach into my near-empty quiver and fire. Once, twice. A third time. My arms are aching fiercely, the exertion catching up with me. It’s been too long since I used my body for anything except running, hiding, and cowering. I’ve withered away to nothing.
Skin and bones, Scythe’s voice whispers inside my head.
He’s right. Even if I had unlimited ammunition, I’d still be useless, unable to lift my arms to fire. That grim realization haunts me as I reach for my final arrow.
“The lads say I’m a handy shot,” a hoarse voice says from beside me. “But I’m nothing next to you, Ace.”
I glance down into light green eyes. They are hazy with pain. Farley’s face is pallid, his breaths coming in rapid pants. His left leg is bent at an unnatural angle and I know the bone is in pieces below the knee. A difficult break to set. Even with the best treatment, he’ll likely walk with a limp for the rest of his days. The fact that he’s still upright—still swinging his sword—instead of curled into a ball of limbs, sobbing freely, is a measure of his self-discipline.
It is a miracle that he killed the beast so swiftly when it attacked. Had he not, it might’ve taken his leg clean off. Or worse, punctured the skin with life-sapping venom that would’ve stopped his heart in seconds. By comparison, a break is a blessing.
“If we live through this, Penn should recruit you for the Ember Guild.” He grins through his agony. “Might be worth living with a bum leg, just to see that play out.”
I don’t know what he’s blabbing on about, but I grin back at him nonetheless as I nock my arrow.
“It’s my last,” I tell him, drawing back the bowstring with a shrug.
“Use it well,” he murmurs, lifting his sword as anothercentipede bursts from the earth five paces away and comes at us. We take it down together—my arrow through its left flank, Farley’s sword through its right. When the creature lies twitching, I set down my useless bow and slip the empty quiver off my shoulder. Farley watches it clatter to the ground, then looks up at me.
“You should run.”
My mouth gapes. “What?”
“No need for you to die here with us.” He jerks his chin toward the center of the cave, where the soldiers rage on—Scythe, Jac, and the two others still in death grips with what seems to be a never-ending onslaught of colossal, carnivorous predators. “They’ll keep coming. Wave after wave.” His eyes hold mine, steady despite the suffering in their depths. I strain to hear his words over the constant clash of weaponry. “You stayed. Helped. Did what you could. That’s good. Doesn’t make you cowardly if you save yourself now.”
“But I don’t even know where—”
“There’s a passage just behind us. It’s not far from the fire. A dozen paces at most, tucked in behind a boulder.” His chest heaves and I know his injury is draining every bit of energy he has left. “Run. Don’t stop. When you come to a fork, go left. There’s a set of rock steps, straight up into the mountains. Once you make it there, you’re safe. These things”—another chin jerk, this time toward the pile of twitching, skeletal bodies—“stay down here in the dark.”
I hesitate. I don’t know why. He’s just handed me a chance at freedom. A chance I should snatch as soon as it is offered. I owe no allegiance here—not to the injured man at my feet, certainly not to the fearsome one across the cave who fights like a general trained by the God of War himself.
Scythe is not my friend.
Not my protector.
Not my savior.
But…
He gave you socks.
He brought you salve.
He kept you warm and fed and safe.
He saved your life on more than one occasion.
I silence the unwelcome voice of conscience in the back of my mind with a swift shake of my head. Scythe only did those things for his own benefit. He needs me—for what purpose, I’m not certain, but I doubt it is anything good. He believes the mark on my chest is some kind of sigil, a power source to be tapped. For all I know, he plans to sacrifice me on an altar of blood as soon as we reach our destination.