Page 3 of A Court of Truth and Thorns
“Don’t touch Kal,” Trace tells him.
“Apparently not,” the older man murmurs.
The heat coming off my face could warm the entire campsite. “Of all people, Trace, you are the least qualified to offer humanitarian advice.” I take a breath. “My apologies, Master Calvin. It’s been a—” I cut off midsentence and spin back to the woods. Something is still there. Watching me. Getting ready to pounce, now that it’s dark.
“Kal?” I’m uncertain who speaks, but it quickly stops mattering as a patrol of six men rush us with weapons raised.
2
KALI
The girls scream but I feel calmer than I have in hours. With the adversary finally before me and a sword in my hand, I can forge my own outcome instead of waiting for it to spring upon me from the shadows. I feel rather than see Trace at my back, his muscles flowing with the lethal grace he takes for granted.
The six-man rose patrol splits into pairs, four men going after me, Trace, and Luca, while the remaining pair heads straight for Wil.
The shift of Trace’s weight is all the signal I need; he wants me to move closer to the prince. Before I can oblige, the first attacker is upon me, his face concealed in his hood’s shadow. I parry the sword aimed at my gut, the force of the blow rattling my still-healing bones. The man winds his sword over his shoulder, readying his next strike. He has the advantage of strength and reach, and his eyes say he knows it.
His sword falls in a sweeping arc. I throw myself to the ground, staying beneath the deadly blade. The moment itpasses over my head, I spring to my feet, only to block the next blow. And the next. My balance wavers. The man grins, his white teeth flashing in the moonlight. With his next attack, the sword slips in my sweaty grip and I fall to my knees to keep hold of the blade.
A thread of true fear twists in my gut. I’m a decent swordswoman, but nothing approaching Trace or Luca. Half-healed, exhausted, and lacking my throwing knives, I’m little more than a nuisance in the attackers’ path.
Had I gone after Leaf like I wanted to, I’d be long dead by now.
Trace’s sword stops a blow that would have split open my skull. The lack of reprimand stings like salt on raw flesh. Trace is proving himself more right with each of my failings.
Flushing, I jerk my mind back into the fight. Trace’s parry has forced my foe’s sword wide, creating an opening. I see the space, claim it, and slide inside. With my next breath, I’m close enough to inhale the attacker’s scent, its familiarity stirring my gut. I block off my thoughts. With our bodies so near, the man’s sword is useless. I must keep it that way. Must keep him from regaining space to swing his weapon.Close. Stay close. Fight close.Snaking my hands behind the man’s neck, I snap his head down onto my rising knee.
A bone cracks. The man grunts. Warm blood running from his nose seeps through the cloth of my breeches. Before he can recover, I lift my knee for another blow.
He crosses his forearms to block the attack.
My knee strikes something hard and uneven beneath his sleeve. A vambrace with weapons. Knives. My fingers rip cloth, moving by feel to a weapon’s hilt.
The man yanks his arm away, a single throwing knife staying behind in my palm. He wipes his ripped sleeve over his face, our eyes meeting for the first time.
“You?” His nasal voice is a punch to my gut. His eyes widen, the whites gleaming in the darkness of night. “Goddess. You. How—”
He never finishes. The throwing knife in my hand ismyknife, and it flies true into the base of Nasal’s neck. Bile rises and burns my throat, the obsidian wall of memory trembling in recognition of my captor. Nasal’s body falls to the dirt, the shocked look frozen in death. I’ve the wherewithal to spin around and take the measure of the fight before lowering my guard.
The small alcove is littered with bodies, but the melee itself is finished. Wil stands with a bloodied sword in his hand, a man’s corpse at his feet. Luca is bending over one of the girls, Jasmine. Trace holds the last living attacker against the base of a tree, a sword pointed to his throat.
I take the rest of my throwing knives and vambrace from Nasal’s corpse and numbly strap it to my arm.Don’t think,my mind orders.Don’t remember. Focus on now.
“Samuels.” Trace’s clipped tone turns my attention to the prisoner.
“Aye.” The man rubs his mustache, the mole at the corner of his mouth bobbing with the movement. “I wish I might say ‘well met,’ guardsman, but...” He clears his throat. “I imagine you are not inclined to release me, so I’d be obliged if you hurried up with my execution.”
“Wait,” I call, quickly stepping to Trace’s side in case he decides to fulfill the request too quickly. My breath is ragged, but the words come clear enough. “How long have Viva Sylthia rebels been serving in the Holy Guard?”
Samuels chuckles. Trace presses the tip of his sword harder against Samuels’s skin. “The boy asked you a question.”
“I heard.” Samuels spits blood onto the ground. “Kill meor let me go, Trace. We both know those are the only choices you have within you.”
Trace’s nostrils flare. “What were your orders?”
Samuels raises his chin, exposing his jugular to Trace’s blade. My jaw tightens, acid burning my throat. Soft footsteps tap the ground behind me as Calvin joins us.
“Sergeant Samuels, is it?” The older man leans on a walking stick, but his quiet voice carries an ice-cold edge that has Samuels’s breath quickening. Smiling without humor, Calvin squats down to eye level with the prisoner. “I think you are quite right about the guardsman here—Trace can do little beyond end your life. Shortsighted of him, perhaps, but it’s true. Just goes to show that professionals should stick to their own trades.” He pauses, his voice dropping lower. “Speaking of professions, do you happen to know mine?”
