by Gwynn White
“If you say so,” Klaus muttered, yanking the tiller. It wasn’t much of a landmark to steer for.
The longboat’s nose turned towards the rock face, only to be tugged back by the current. Panting hard, Stasha heaved on her oar to check its progress. Feral Fox and the boys did the same. With each stroke, The Sword inched against the current. She gritted her teeth, breath whistling between them as she rowed, fighting a tide determined to keep them from their goal. Their efforts finally turned The Sword enough to edge them into calmer waters.
Next was the cliff.
Hunched in her seat, she craned to see the top of the desolate crag. She, and everyone else on The Sword, shrunk to a mere speck against it. How in all the darkness would they scale bare stone to find the entrance without falling into the water? How would Klaus manage it with his mangled leg? Acid burned in her stomach, and she tasted the fae snack she’d munched on for breakfast.
“Hoist your oars,” Klaus called, some twenty feet from collision. “I need time to figure out how to do this.”
Water plopped as she and the battalion obeyed. She flinched from a spray of water that splattered across the floorboards. Momentum carried the longboat remorselessly toward destruction. Her fingernails dug into the wood as she braced for the crunch, followed by calamity. She’d asked for a disaster to unite the fae, but please not this.
Ivan swore. “What’s the point of Boa’s troops dying for us if Darien’s water kills us all anyway?”
“Stop it. At once,” Klaus snapped. “Escaping Angharad was impossible, and we did that. This will be no different.”
Hope.
She sat up straighter and steadied her hands on her oar.
“Right side,” Klaus commanded. “Stick your oars into the river to slow us up. We need to come in sideways along the cliff. Left side, use your oars as a buffer against the rock.”
She and Vlad pulled their oars around and stabbed them out in readiness to soften their impact, while Ivan and Feral Fox ploughed their oars into the water.
“Good thinking, Scholar Klaus.” Averin spoke without looking around. “You make a fine skipper.”
Klaus blushed, then rubbed his sweaty face. “We’re not safe yet.”
The edge of the cliff was just a foot away.
Stasha wedged the top end of her oar against her side and gulped in a breath as the tips thudded once and then twice against the crag. She was starting to pull her oar in for them to drift closer when Klaus called, “Left side, let the hull touch the cliff.”
She pulled her oar into the longboat, leaving the hull to shriek against the bristling rock. The Sword juddered to a deafening halt close to the spot Trystaen had indicated.
She was just turning to smile at Klaus for his precision steering when Trystaen bounded across the longboat. He sprang off it and twisted in mid-air, letting his one hand crunch into the rock face. He pushed off with enough force to spiral behind a lip in the weathered gray rock. Her mouth dropped open. Just yards from it, she wouldn’t have known it was there if he hadn’t called attention to it.
A thud indicated his boots had hit solid ground. Leather rasped. Seconds later, his top half lunged around the wall, his hands held out. “Toss me the rope.”
Stasha jumped off her bench and hooked the rope at the prow. She tossed the end to him. He caught and wound it around his large hands. Arm muscles bulging, he strained it in.
Like a fly crawling through honey, The Sword pivoted around to face him as he knelt on a narrow ledge in the cleft rock. It didn’t help that the gap was so narrow; Trystaen’s broad shoulders barely fitted between the lip and the cliff face.
“I see what he’s doing,” Klaus yelped above the sound of a tree exploding in the forest. “Right side, ease us around until the serpent’s head slots into that space.”
Oars paddling like duck’s feet, Ivan and Feral Fox nudged The Sword into the gap. As if they were a mouthful of sour ale, the rock spewed the longboat straight back out.
Despite Trystaen tugging on the rope and the battalion’s best rowing efforts, it would be a scary jump from The Sword across the water to that sliver of ledge.
Straining on the rope, Trystaen gritted out, “One at a time. Carefully. Then move up the stairs to make room for the next person.” Behind him, at least fifty narrow steps had been clawed into the cliff. Protected by that clever lip, they would be completely hidden from river traffic.
Ivan jumped off the longboat so fast, his knapsack bounced against his back. Before his feet hit the ground, Vlad followed, jerking the boat as he pushed off. Trystaen lurched backwards, and the rope slipped out of his hands. The Sword shot away from the gap.
Cursing Vlad, Ivan lunged for the rope. His foot slipped. He teetered on the edge with his arms windmilling. Vlad snatched at Ivan’s tunic, but it slipped out of his fingers. Helpless to stop a catastrophe, she dug her fingernails into her oar.
“Trystaen! Do something,” Averin yelled just as Trystaen’s powerful arm sailed over Vlad’s head and grabbed Ivan’s shoulder. He yanked Ivan back so sharply, they all toppled over. Trystaen hit the stairs with a jarring crack. Ivan landed on his lap, while Vlad flopped onto Ivan’s. It would have been funny if their lives weren’t at stake, both from the river and Pyreack soldiers waging a pitched battle with Boa on the bank.
“Idiot!” Ivan snarled at Vlad. “What were you thinking?”
“Just move. Both of you,” Trystaen growled from the bottom of the pile.
Face bright red, Vlad scrambled to his feet. “Sorry. I—I wasn’t thinking.”
“Well, now would be a good time to start,” Trystaen snapped as Ivan lumbered to his feet.
There was no room for both Vlad and Ivan. Arms flailing, they danced crazily together. It was just a matter of time before one of them slipped into the water.
Trystaen shot to his feet. He whipped Vlad up by the scruff of his neck, swung him around, and planted him on the stairs. “Move at your peril, Master Vlad.” His finger wagged under Vlad’s nose. Without waiting for a reply, he grabbed Ivan. “You. Join him.” Another wrenching tug, and he squeezed Ivan between himself and the wall.
Ivan cried out. Although The Sword had drifted more than a boat’s length away, she saw blood peppering his cheek. When he joined Vlad on the rough-hewn stairs, his elbow shot back and hit Vlad in the stomach. “Moron.”
Vlad grunted, but, strangely, didn’t retaliate.
“Stasha, throw me that rope.” Trystaen’s voice was crisp. Not a command one argued with if you wanted to survive the big fae’s wrath.
She snatched up the rope—and then her heart sank at the ever-widening gap between Trystaen and The Sword. She rolled the rope into a loose knot and then hesitated. If the end hit the water, would it call Darien’s curse down upon them? “I can’t face another round with the slinkers,” she called in a shaky voice.
“Just toss. I’ll catch it.” Trystaen’s fingers wriggled coaxingly.
“Darkness curse me if I fail you all.” She snatched in a breath and tossed the bundle with all her strength.
Her knot unraveled before it had even gone a couple of feet. Heart punching against her ribs, she watched the end flop over and tumble towards the water.
Grunting, Trystaen lunged for it, but it was too far away. Icy with helpless dread, she waited for the splash, followed by who knew what Darien had in store for them.
An oar tip flashed passed her and slid under the falling rope. Klaus held the other end. She clapped her hands with relief.
Face strained, eyes focused, Klaus lifted the oar, rope dangling off each side. Puny arms quivering, he edged the oar tip to Trystaen, but it wasn’t long enough.
Suren slipped his bow over his shoulder and hopped behind Klaus. “Like this, young scholar.” Fingers encircling Klaus’s small hand, Suren jerked the oar tip at Trystaen.
The rope sailed into the air and snaked down into Trystaen’s waiting palm. Trystaen wiped his other hand across his face. It dripped with sweat. “Good
thinking, Scholar Klaus. Averin’s right. You’re a fine leader.” Klaus’s lanky hair hid his eyes but didn’t conceal his crimson blush. How marvelous it was that he’d had an opportunity to prove his worth to the fae. Trystaen nodded at Suren, and then his face split into that idiotic smile. “And you, Suren.… We couldn’t have done this without you.”
Suren shot Trystaen a beautiful smile. “We’re in it together.”
She slumped against the railing and gnawed her lip. If a Pyreack lieutenant, a human boy, and an Atrian noble affiliated with the Zephyr royal house could work together so seamlessly to save lives, why couldn’t everyone else? An answer lay in this mess somewhere. She just needed time to chisel it out.
Klaus pulled away from Suren and called, “Grab your oars, everyone. We need to help Trystaen reel us in.”
Averin and Eliezar stood guard while she and the rest of the team powered The Sword into the gap. Trystaen knelt on the landing, clinging to the rope to keep them in place.
Klaus turned to Feral Fox. “You’re next.”
“On it.” Feral Fox hefted his backpack and scrambled to the serpent’s head. He grabbed it with both hands and swung up next to it. “Ready for me,” he yelled to Trystaen, who nodded. “Ivan! Catch me.” Feral Fox leapt off the longboat and sailed straight over Trystaen’s head to crash into Ivan’s outstretched arms. Ivan embraced Feral Fox and stumbled back into Vlad, who grabbed Feral Fox’s backpack. Short and scrawny as Vlad was, he held it tight until everyone had found their feet.
Suren brushed her arm. “Go.”
She shook her head. “You first.” Anything to delay that terrible jump. If anyone else was likely to tumble into the water, it would be her.
Suren’s brown eyes glowered at her. But he must have seen her determination. Head shaking, he rolled his eyes. “I’ve learned not to argue with you.” He swung up onto the railing at the serpent’s head and flew onto the stair above Feral Fox in one fluid movement. He landed with cat-like grace.
That left Klaus, her, Averin, and Eliezar on the longboat.
Averin’s hand brushed the small of her back. “Pit princess, no arguments. Go before I have Boa shouting at me for failing in my duty.”
“She’s way too far away to see us.”
Averin shot her a wan smile that didn’t shift the strain pulling at his eyes and mouth. “Figuratively speaking.”
She shook her head. “Sorry. Klaus first.” She glanced at Eliezar, the unspoken question—will you carry him—blazing on her face.
Averin shrugged and waved at Eliezar. “You heard her.”
“Ready when you are.” Klaus punched Eliezar lightly on the arm. “Let’s go.” Eliezar’s dark eyebrows rose. Klaus must have realized that wolfish Eliezar was no one’s chum. He blushed and studied his boots like he’d never seen them before.
A tiny smile cracked Eliezar’s cool mask, and he gave Klaus’s arm the lightest of taps. “As you say, Master Scholar, let’s go.” He hoisted Klaus onto his back and sprang effortlessly off The Sword.
Of course they landed safely on the step.
She turned away smiling to confront Averin. “You better be right behind me.”
“Like a tick on a dog.”
She grimaced. “You can’t do better than that?”
Dark eyes swallowed her. “Just go. Be safe. Please.”
She pulled her backpack straps tight, clambered onto the railing, and shouted, “Darkness curse you all if you let me fall off those wretched stairs.”
Perhaps it was the tension, but laughter rippled through everyone. Even Eliezar chuckled.
She closed her eyes and jumped. Strong hands caught her around the waist— Trystaen’s. Without flourish or fuss, he placed her gently on the stairs. It was only when she looked back at the longboat that she realized he’d let go of the rope.
Grabbing the opportunity, The Sword had sallied out of the gap and was a taunting boat’s length away.
“Averin—” She gulped.
Almost casually, Averin stood on the railing. Serpent’s head in one hand and his bow and quiver in the other, he shot her a smile and jumped. She hissed in a sharp breath. Eliezar’s hand landed on her shoulder. “Faith, Stasha. He’s a prince of the air.” She wanted to argue that prince of the air Averin might be, but he didn’t have access to his magic or his crow’s wings.
It wasn’t necessary.
Light as a bird—the crow he was—Averin landed on the step below her. A cocky grin followed. “Had you worried, did I?” The beautiful idiot didn’t even have a single strand of grimy hair out of place.
Full-of-himself prince.
She fought a smile and growled instead. “Worried? About you? Not in a million years.”
Shrugging Eliezar’s hand off her shoulder, she turned to face the stairs—and sighed. Little more than foot holes carved into the rock, they were daunting. A boot in the wrong place would lead to a tumble that could bring down the entire party.
Wisely, Trystaen had pushed passed the others and led the march. With Eliezar and Klaus on the stair above her, only Averin trailed her. Knowing how unfae-like she was, Averin would likely be on his guard.
Eliezar started climbing with Klaus still on his back. At least Klaus was in the best of hands. Or maybe the second best, given how Trystaen bounded up the cliff like a mountain goat.
She caught a whiff of smoke coming from the forest. Averin’s head canted, and she knew he was listening.
“It isn’t over yet, is it?”
All trace of cockiness gone, he nocked his bow and trained it on the forest. He gestured to the stairs with his chin. “Stasha. Climb.” She was about to obey when wind whistled. Averin had let an arrow fly in the direction of the river, not the forest.
Dreading what she’d see, she whipped around. A longboat filled with Pyreack soldiers powered toward them. Two soldiers stood at the prow holding grappling irons that were secured to their craft with ropes. They’d have no difficulty tethering their longboat at the gap.
Averin’s arrow struck the mast. He swore, nocked another, and shoved her hard. “Get up this mountain. Now.”
She turned. An arrow slammed into the rock at her feet. She started. Averin rocked into her. Her knees crunched onto the step, and the reek of Averin’s blood pinged her. “Averin!”
“I’m fine.” He clambered off her back and held out a bloody hand to her. Heart racing, she took it and let him yank her to her feet.
“You’re hurt. Where?”
“Just. Go. Now. Please.” The desperation in his voice sent her legs pumping.
She called over her shoulder, “Come with me. We stand a better chance of fighting them off from the top of the mountain.”
“Remember that tick? I’m right behind you, pit princess.” His breath warmed her icy neck.
Not caring how slippery, narrow, or steep the steps were, she bounded up the cliff face.
And still, Averin bled.
“Fresh blood,” she wheezed. “How bad is it?”
“I’ll heal. Don’t stop. If Trys has opened the door, we’ll worry about it then. If not, like you say, we’ll have to fight them on the stairs.” His ragged breath, combined with the peppery scent of his blood, cut her to the quick. She had to fight to stop from spinning to check on him.
It didn’t help when the steady clatter of his boots slowed.
“Averin?” She looked at him over her shoulder. “You’re pale. Please—”
“I’m just listening for company. They’ve moored.” He shoved her. “Go. Faster.”
She forced her aching legs to keep climbing until, panting hard and almost doubled up by a stitch in her side, she stumbled out onto a rough stone landing.
Trystaen stood with both hands pressed up against the rock face. Sweat streaked through his ponytail and stained the back of his cloak. She didn’t need to see the rest of the crews’ white, pinched faces or staring eyes to know that something was wrong. The sour stench of fear leached off every single one of them. Even E
liezar’s usual musky scent was tinged with something rank. She searched the wall for the entrance with wild eyes but found none. “Averin’s hurt. We need to get inside. Where’s the tunnel?”
“The mountain won’t open.” Klaus’s whisper barely rustled the air. “The password has been changed.”
Averin burst onto the ledge after her. His tunic was drenched with blood. “Pyreack are coming.” He must have assessed the situation because he rounded on her. “You got this?”
She wiped her sweaty brow with the back of her hand. “Of course. No problem. I’ll hold them off while the rest of you fix”—she waved a hand at Trystaen—“this.” Wishing for the umpteenth time that she could use her water magic, she dug into her core for her fiercest blue flames. Without white heat, they were the best bet against other fire-wielding fae.
Peacock-blue flames danced to her fingertips with a cackling laugh. Just when we thought the boredom would never end.
I’m glad you find this entertaining. If fire could have rubbed its hands, her flames would have done just that.
Behind her, Trystaen began chanting. A strange, foreign sound, it made every hair on her body prickle. She didn’t understand a word of it, but deep in her core, she sensed the power—the majesty—of his incantation. It had to be the old tongue. Yatresian.
The clatter of feet on the stairs almost drowned him out.
Averin moved next to her, sword in hand. Also armed with swords, Eliezar and Suren took the limited space on the other side of her. Red boots firmly planted on the stone ledge, she lifted both flaming hands. “Stand back. All of you. You’ll just be in the way.”
None of them moved.
Before she could yell at them to obey, stone groaned. A wild laugh burst from Trystaen’s lips. He sounded jubilant. “Everyone inside,” he called.
She glanced back. An invisible giant was pulling the rock apart like it was an enormous gray curtain. She could have cried with joy. Instead, she kept her chin up and her hands burning. “Not until I’ve sent a message to King Darien Pyreaxos and every single Pyreack fae who chooses to lift a hand against my loved ones.”