Page 11 of Trial of Bronze and Blood
Wrenching out of Marcus’s grasp, she leaps in the archers’ direction.
With their backs to her, she takes her time sneaking up quietly behind them, waiting in the shadows for them to re-notch their next arrows.
Moving as quickly as she dares, she reaches the olive trees sheltering them in a dozen bounds. Dagger already in her grasp, she softly approaches the first archer, thrusting the blade beneath his jaw from behind and sinking it in to the hilt before he even knows she’s there. Blood coats Dru’s hand as he gasps for breath, choking on it.
Dropping his bow, he falls to his knees, the sound no louder than the pulse in her ears. Crimson gurgles out of the corners of his mouth and throbs from his neck, splattering onto her sandals.
Behind her, a bowstring draws.
Yanking her dagger from the flesh of the dead man and letting him crumple to the ground, Dru spins on her heels. Blood arcs from her blade, the metal flashing in the cinder-light. She drops to her knees, rolling to the side right as the arrow flies over her head.
Finding her bearings quickly, she lashes out, slitting open the back of their calf. They scream, knees buckling.
But they draw another arrow from their quiver before she can bring her dagger around again. Grasping it like a weapon, they attack wildly, a grunt wrenching from their throat. The sharp obsidian tip rips across her face, splitting her cheek open.
She barely feels it, knowing they’ve left themselves vulnerable.
Grinning, she leaps at them, tackling them to the ground beforethey can swing their weapon back. Her hand circles their neck and squeezes, the tip of her dagger pinned at their ribs.
“Why?” they choke out before she can strike the final blow, face paling.
“You killed my friend,” she seethes. “A life for a life.”
Digging their nails into Dru’s forearm, they must catch the inside of her arm out of the corner of their eye and recognize her tattoo peeking out of her cloak.
“You’re one of the Faithless.” Desperation livens their bloodshot gaze. “Don’t do this—please, we want the same things. We have the same enemy.”
Ovidia’s life was worth more than any of that.
“Right now, you’re my only enemy.”
With a guttural yell, Dru thrusts her dagger between their ribs.
Surprise flits across their face only for a moment before the light leaves their eyes.
She climbs off of them before the blood can reach her sandals, wiping her blade on their cloak and sheathing it. Looking down at the two Namican archers, her heart remains hard, her vengeance unquenched. She hoped it would make her feel better, avenging Ovi’s death. But, as often as she’s been ordered to do it, killing people doesn’t appeal to her the way it does to others. And taking their lives won’t bring Ovi back.
Sorrow grips her chest and throat in a vice, making it hard to breathe. Only time will tell if she’ll come to regret what she’s done.
Leaving their bodies to the mercy of the Phaedran army, she walks back toward her horse. The bard cowers on the other saddle, hugging his lute as if protecting a child. Marcus stands between her horse and his, holding both their reins. She makes no attempt to read his stony expression. What good would it do? Her soul has been ripped apart and scattered across the river beside Ovi’s body, and there’s nothing he can say that’ll change what happened.
“I’m—”
The sharp look she sends his way snaps his jaw shut, forcing him to drop whatever half-hearted apology he had planned,.
With Marcus’s help getting back on her horse, Dru gallops off without another word spoken. She has no idea where she’s going, only that she needs to keep moving.
The more distance she puts between her and Ovi, the tighter her heart constricts, leaving her breathless. As much as she wants to, she can’t stop to give Ovi a proper Faithless funeral, to burn her body and spread her ashes over the earth.
No, Ovi will be left to the whims of whatever country wins this meaningless battle. All Dru can hope for is kindness and a shred of decency. Though the Imperium has never shown proof of either.
Any sorrow she might’ve felt for the soldiers on either side of this skirmish died with her.
She heads straight for the Pelagus River, turning her horse to ride alongside its steep bank. The current keeps pace with her beast’s hoof-falls, the black waters ebbing in white-tipped tendrils. She barely notices, numbness enveloping her like an icy blanket in a northern winter storm.
She glances over her shoulder to see the last of the Namican soldiers touch solid ground, meeting their enemy’s steel with their own. War cries pierce Dru’s ears. Her head spins at the sound, her own memories drowning her, of the brutal attack on her own village, of her mother screaming.
Dru squeezes her eyes shut, just for a moment?—
