Page 108 of Deadly Maiden

“I see it.” His wings unfold and stretch. He crashes through the foliage we hid behind and thunders down the slope, crushing and flinging aside shrubbery, twigs, and branches. Soon, we are airborne and swooping toward the house where Andacc must already battle Kroll’s soldiers.

It’s barely a minute of flight before Rorsyd is torching a bunch of running men to the south of the green-roofed house. They’re dressed in enforcer black, and few are wearing armor. They roll in flames, screaming, batting at the fire, then screaming and rolling some more. Three of them bolt for a nearby creek.

“Now!” Rorsyd shouts, and thuds down and skips across the open ground, landing in a clear space, beyond where he roasted the men.

I’m trying to be stalwart despite my stomach churning with nausea at the smell, the screaming, the suffering. Then I’m sliding and jumping off him. He rolls a skeptical eye at me as if to saydo not get yourself killed or else, then he’s off again, rising, roaring, catching four men with a blast of fire. Four who were coming at me and Kyvin.

Kyvin? I spin, looking for where the rucksacks and canvas bags were left, find it all behind me. The undead has already undone his bag, and he wriggles out holding a sword. We chose to arm him. I dearly hope that is a good decision.

“Come with me!”

He plods forward, and I sprint toward the house, dodging the blazing grass, the dying, the crackling, burning, jerking clumps of seared flesh who once were living fae enforcers. Dragon fire is unforgiving.

I slash at the throat of a man with the bravery and presence of mind to try to oppose me. Blood gouts from his neck—he was only partly burned, and now he’s likely dead. I keep running, dodging, circle a well where a soldier sprawls, where I retrieve his small shield.

Two, no, three men guard the open front entrance.

Above the smell and the nearby yells comes the clang of metal and the shouting from combat at the rear of the house—Andacc and others. Rorsyd is busy gliding overhead, checking for anyone around me, killing the stupid ones who try. The only things he cannot do are burn down the house or Andacc’s men.

The house belongs to me, Kyvin, and whoever else breaks in from the rear. I consider skidding to a halt as I close with the three guarding the door, but Kyvin is somehow galumphing with me, in a gait suggestive of a charging glombustle, and they’rewatching him with growing horror. I keep running. One guard retreats into the shadow of the doorway, so I slant to the right and engage with the nearest.

Having slid off the roof, Anathema drops onto his face, claws at him. He shrieks in fright, tries to stab his own face, and almost succeeds.

I send my blade into his guts because it’s softer than the chest, angle the sword upward until his burbling gasp and collapse tell me I hit the right spot. I step aside, tugging the blade free. Blood gushes, making an ugly pool on the front porch.Another kill. I blink, gulp, brace myself to get past this moment.

The third man who retreated has revived his courage, but when Anathema leaps onto his leg, he cringes, shakes his leg, and tries to fight my darkthing instead of me, the insignificant girl with the sharp sword. He slashes at his leg, so I stab him in the eye. The adopted shield takes his one sloppy blow before he’s staggering aside and falling.

Kyvin has a sword lodged in his chest but with his own weapon he is hacking at the first man…who has already lost an arm. The enforcer sways and melts, his knees jelly as most of his blood seems to have gushed from the stump.

This entrance is now awash in fresh blood. Anathema has plastered himself to the wall, and I focus on him for a second and notice he’s smaller and his claws are gone. Whatever flesh he enters, he destroys, but that flesh also makes his darkthing matter react and vanish?Fuck.

My mouth is open. I shut it, nod encouragement at Kyvin, and step through the doorway.

Can an undead feel encouragement? No idea.

“Stay!” I bite that at Anathema, and he flattens his ears then prowls roofward.

Inside this thick-walled stone house it is quieter, and the screams are muted. My boots crunch on grit, and the furnitureI pass in the living room is dusty, webbed, and the floor has been scoured clean by enforcer feet. I pause in the hallway where it splits off to kitchen—empty—and then ahead must be two bedrooms and a bathroom or similar.

Muffling panting and squeaks come from the left where a white door sits an inch ajar.

Kyvin is somewhere behind me.

I nudge open the door, glimpse a chest of drawers and half of my father spreadeagled against the opposing wall. I boot the door fully open and step in. Thank the gods the rest of him is there too. Though gagged, he is breathing. He rolls his eyes from me and looks to his right, behind the door. I skip aside with my sword raised, only to have someone grab the back of my shirt, tear away the shield, and spin me into them. Their knife lies across my neck, stinging as it cuts the finest line below my jaw.

“Be still, Wyntre, unless you wish my steel to bite. Now. We are going outside, and you will call off your friends and your dragon. Then, if you’re good, your father will stay alive, though you are leaving with me. Drop your sword.”

I hesitate then drop it, scraping my feet against the floor as he shoves me forward. I’m trying to resist but he’s far stronger. He grabs my sword wrist, yanks it to the small of my back then higher, and I hiss at the pain of the hold and the bite of the knife.

“You’re cutting me.”

“Then be still. Tell your creature to withdraw!”

“Go back!” I gesture semi-blindly at Kyvin where he blocks the doorway, and it takes a few seconds for him to understand. Then he backs away. Whoever has me kicks the door. Timber scrapes as a bar falls across, locking it shut.

“I’m going to tie your hands at your back. Co-operate or this will go badly for you.”

Landos looks desperate—his eyes communicate his distress. Knowing him, it’s my predicament that’s bothering him, eventhough he has cuts all down his chest and arms, with streaks of red dribbling everywhere on his bared upper body. The old wound in his shoulder is a puckered, bright red. The waist of his pants is dark and wet from blood. He’s tied to pitons hammered into the wall, his limbs and body fastened in an X shape.

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