Page 164 of Cursed Shadows 4

He ducks, I duck.

He stops, I stagger.

He pauses, I falter.

Hand still fisted around the stone, I stuff the anchor into the collar of my sweater as I run.

The cool touch of its gloss slides down to my breastbone, an instantly uncomfortable sensation. The distraction slows my run down, but I need the dragon eye secure on my person—one wrong step and Mother can suck me into the abyss, the place of her forever rest, and all that will keep me on this plane is the anchor.

And I’m getting closer.

I mimic Rune through the thickness of the smoke—until it starts to clear. It doesn’t disperse entirely, but it lessens into wisps and shadows that, with each step, are peeled away layer by layer.

Rune throws a wild glare at me.

The look freezes me on the spot, crouched to the snow.

There’s instinct in it, the look, the flare of his eyes.

Then—

“Run.”

That is all he says before he whirls around in a blur.

In a heartbeat, his back faces me, and he is blocking an incoming strike from a suddenly appearing litalf and his descending sword.

Rune throws up his own sword just before he can be struck. The clash of metal is a force violent enough to push the pair apart with staggering steps.

That’s the moment I make a run for it.

The litalf is distracted by Rune.

And Rune gives me passage.

I bolt out of the smoke—and into the clear, motionless air of the battle.

A blend of black and brown leathers clash over the crisp snowfield. Blood of crimson and ink blend into streams and trails, tangled.

The last stand of the litalves, the last fight of the dokkalves, and it costs heads, decapitated and rolling over blood pools, limbs that whack into my side, thrown from their bodies. A stray sword spins through the air.

I throw myself to the ground before it can hit me.

It whirls above my head a mere heartbeat after I’ve landed on the snow. I cringe with a hollow sound escaping from between my frosted, chapped lips.

The sword strikes the leg of a litalf—and I jerk back with a cry. The litalf must have advanced on me from behind, out of the smog, and I didn’t see him coming.

The sword is my saviour.

It sinks into his thigh—and gives me enough of a moment to roll onto my boots, then rush through the battle.

It’s not a straight line ahead.

The short distance between me and the Mother Stone is blocked by littered battles. I duck the cuts of weapons, dodge strikes and blows, stagger around raised kicks and falling bodies.

I scamper around the fights—until a fist collides with my spine and I’m thrown to the ground.

Facedown, I choke on a wheeze. My legs squirm on the snow, frail, a strangled ache in my chest.

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