“Not far now,” Jac calls, turning in his saddle to grin at us. “There’s a clearing up ahead where we set up camp last week. Let’s hope there’s something tasty in the cook pot.”
His spirits are high. He even shoots me a playful wink toprove he’s done punishing me for my outburst two nights ago. But Uther’s face holds no such playfulness as he slows his mount, falling back to ride alongside Onyx. His voice is grim as he meets Penn’s gaze.
“No scouts,” he says on a whisper.
Penn stiffens, his chest turning to a slab of stone. “None?”
“Not at the last two posts we passed.”
“Fuck.” Penn’s curse is a low rumble. He pauses for a beat, then mutters, “Eyes open, blades close. We go in slow.”
Uther nods and presses his heels to his horse’s flanks, urging it slightly ahead. He has one hand on his reins; the other is reaching for his sword. Beside him, Mabon already has his heavy crossbow at the ready.
“It’s just an oversight,” Jac insists, though his face is pale with sudden dread in the late-morning light. His hand fiddles with the carved wooden hilt of his battle-axe. “I’m sure all’s well…”
But all is not well.
This is abundantly clear the moment our horses nose out of the forest, into the clearing where the men made camp. The tents are still pitched, the fires still burning low beneath the cook pots where thick porridge bubbles. The soldiers had been in the middle of breakfast.
Now, every last one of them is dead.
Carnage.
That is the only word I can think of—the only word that encompasses what I am seeing. The horror of it. The barbarity. An entire unit of men, their blood staining the snow in a river of red. A pile of butchered corpses, reaching toward the sun.
Jac’s roar of agony rends the sky.
Vomit rushes into my mouth, bile burning at the back of my throat. I swallow it down, gasping for breath. There is no time tofall apart. No time to do anything at all. Because, in that moment, they come—running out of the trees on the other side of the clearing, their battle-axes swinging with lethal promise as they charge headlong in our direction, their faces streaked with black war paint as they fix us in their sights.
Reavers.
Penn dismounts beforeI can blink, grabbing the reins and jerking his horse back behind the shelter of the tree line. On instinct, I bend low over Onyx’s neck, my cheek pressed to his coat, my hands clutching his mane. I try to glance back—to keep track of Mabon and Uther and Jac as they spur their own steeds straight toward the crush of barbarians—but I never get the chance.
Penn’s face appears before mine. I flinch at the savageness darkening his expression. There is death in his eyes, a vow flaring in their fiery depths—for vengeance, for retribution. For the blood of his enemies. His hands are itching for his hilt.
“Take this,” he barks, voice rife with impatience as he shoves the hunting bow and a quiver of fresh arrows into my fumbling hands. I had not even seen him retrieve them from their strappings. “Ride back up the pass to where we made camp last night. You should be safe there. If anyone follows you, shoot them through the heart.”
“I’ll stay,” I say, slinging the quiver over my shoulder. “I’ll fight—”
He is beyond listening. “Wait for me there. I will come for you.”
“Penn—”
“I need you to go.” His voice cracks—a desperate sound thatmakes my heart stutter and my words fail. His eyes never leave mine, and I swear I see a promise of a different nature burning there as well. One that has nothing to do with bloodshed or battlefields. “I need you to stay safe. Stay alive. Even if you have to kill to do it. Even if it offends your damn morality.”
“Penn—”
His hand reaches up, and before I can react, his fingers thread behind my neck, fisting in the thick fall of hair at my nape. He hauls me closer, so our faces are a hairsbreadth apart. His eyes move to my lips and seem to get stuck there.
I stop breathing.
For a split second, I think he’s going to do something insane, something inconceivable—like crash his mouth down on mine and kiss me. I’m not sure if I’m more relieved or disappointed when he doesn’t. His gaze jerks back up to meet mine, and the look of exquisite torment simmering beneath his battle fury shakes the foundation of everything I’ve come to believe about our relationship.
“If you run out of arrows,” he whispers, his face so close each word tingles across my lips. “Don’t forget you have another weapon at your disposal.” His other hand rises, pressing through the fabric of my cloak, directly over my Remnant. “Use it.”
At that, his hands disappear, he steps away, and with the crack of his palm against Onyx’s rump, he sends us flying back the way we came. Over the thunder of hooves and the distant echo of pained male screams, I hear the sound of his sword sliding from its sheath. The crunch of his boots on snow, carrying him into the clearing.
By the time I get the reins under control, find a firm seat in the saddle, and whip around to look for him…