Her men knew how to fight.
They knew how to fight against ridiculous odds.
But they were being overrun. If they didn’t get help soon . . .
“Damn it, where are they all coming from?” Lo growled. Then he looked at Syn and said, “If you’re going to do something, now’s the time, Captain.”
She nodded and dismounted. Her feet had barely hit the ground when her baern launched his massive body into the throng of demons, stomping, crushing, using his powerful jaws and neck to grab one of the Jorniaks and send it flying. She hoped he’d make it. She loved the animal.
Taking cover behind her men, she took a deep breath. “Cover me,” she said, her voice flat and hard. Hopefully none of them sensed the fear inside her.
Staring at the demons, she started to gather the energy. In her mind, she spun a web of flame. They came boiling out of the woods like ants, more and more. Dozens of them. She waited until they were as close as she dared let them get—the more of them she could see, the more of them she could kill.
Then she flung the fire net at them.
Screams filled the air. Enraged, filled with pain. It echoed around them and Syn continued to call the fire, until she sensed no more life in the demons in front of her. But there were more. Coming from all around.
So many more.
The time would have passed quickly—logically, Syn knew that. But it felt as though she’d been fighting for hours. Gather the energy, form the fire, force it on the demons, burn them to ash and then start all over again.
But even with the earth feeding its energy into her, she could only call the fire for so long. After setting a third line of demons ablaze, she had to stop. Her control was too shaky, and even with an anchor, she had to be able to direct the fire or she could kill her own men instead of the monsters.
Adrenaline fueled her muscles and she relied on her weapons instead of her magic. Somehow, she found herself fighting shoulder to shoulder with Vena, guarding the fallen as best they could.
Lo was one of them. Although blood gushed from a nasty, jagged bite on his arm, he was on the comm-unit, contacting Bron.
Bron—with the reinforcements. Where in the hell were they? And Xan . . . she hadn’t seen him.
“Syn—Commander—drop.” Lo’s voice was ragged and harsh with pain.
They dropped as one and over their heads came a wide, pulsating burst of light. She felt the heat of it singeing her skin, close—too close, but she didn’t let herself flinch. Both the heating blasting over her head and the Jorniaks were just an arm’s reach away now.
Lo was a wizard with weapons—whatever piece he’d invented this time, he would have tested it and he trusted it enough—
The stink of burning Jorniak flooded her nostrils, and she swallowed the bile that climbed up her throat. Their bodies were in a burning, grotesque heap in the ground as she stood and turned to face yet another line of the monsters.
And another.
To her left, she heard a sharp female scream and she turned, jerking up her pulsar, but she was too late. Vena was down, blood bubbling from a vicious wound in her throat. A Jorniak grabbed her ankle to drag her away and Syn unloaded on him, reaching deep down for some remnant of her magic and delivering a fireball straight into his face.
The demon went down. But Vena was already dead, her throat laid open in a vicious, bloody smile of death.
It seemed forever before she heard Lo’s voice say, “Backup is here.”
It seemed almost as long before she was able to lower her weapon without fear of having her own throat ripped out the second she relaxed her guard. Bleeding from gashes in her right arm and left leg, she stumbled to a tree and leaned against it. Fumbling in her pack, she pulled out a couple strips of leather.
The injury on her thigh was ugly and painful, but not too deep.
The one on her arm was a different story. It was still pumping out far too much blood.
“Let me help.”
She looked up, dazed, to Xan.
Dazed, she reached up and touched his face. “You’re okay.”
“More than I can say for you, Captain,” he muttered, his voice nothing more than a growl. He reached for the strip of leather in her hand, and she let him take it.
He was bleeding, too. Under the gore splattered on his face, there was a long, sliver-thin cut. “You got that pretty face of yours cut up even more,” she said. “Gonna have more scars.”
“I’m told women like scars on their warriors.”
He wasn’t gentle as he tied her arm off. She bit her lip to keep from crying out. Focusing on the ugly mess of her arm, she said, “Well, the girls are just going to love me, then. I’m going to have some damn pretty scars when these heal up.”
He used the bandages in her kit to field-dress her major injuries, but when he moved on to the lesser ones, she waved him off. “I’m good. We need to stand guard in case they come back.”
“They won’t come back,” he said.
“Don’t be so sure.”
Famous last words. With the blood still roaring in her ears, she could barely make sense of the clamoring inside—whispers. Voices whispering to her. She squeezed her eyes closed and concentrated, focused.
She wasn’t a strong witch.
For short periods of time, she could burn things like nothing else but that was it. She knew her gift, though, had honed it to a razor’s edge, and right now, it was screaming.
The demons were doubling back.
“Elina . . . Where’s Elina?”
She came striding out of the bloody melee, dressed in the casual clothes she wore when she wasn’t on duty. She had her weapon belt strapped over it and blood splattered her arms and face. “I’m here.” She reached out a hand, caught Syn’s. “You feel it?”
Syn squeezed. “I feel it. We need more than just fire-power if we want to make it out of this.”
Elina nodded. “I’ll do it, though. You can’t handle it right now.”
“I can—”
“No.” Elina shook her head. “When it comes to the magic, I outrank you, and you can’t maintain.” She gave Xan a hard look and said, “Get her to camp. I don’t care if you have to throw her over your shoulder and haul her ass out of her. Get her to camp now.”
Xan nodded.
Elina called to Bron across the field. He was barking out orders but at the sound of Elina’s voice, he stopped. She gave him the signal to fall back and he nodded.
With Syn wounded, he was in charge.
“Round up the wounded and haul ass,” he called out.
One of the medics said, “We need to stabilize—”
“Now,” he interrupted. He glared at the medics and said, “If we don’t move, it won’t matter if the wounded are stable or not—they’ll die.”
Xan didn’t know what Syn had sensed—it was something. He had seen the naked terror in her eyes before she locked it down. He boosted her into his arms as she ineffectually shoved against him. “I can walk—we need your hands free.”
He pushed his pulsar into her hands. “You be my hands—you can’t walk fast enough to keep up.”
“Then put me down, damn it. I’ll guard the retreat.”
Like hell. The ice-cold fear he’d seen in her eyes had him tangled into knots. He ignored her weak struggles, blocked them out of his mind. If she was so weak she couldn’t dislodge him, then she must have lost a lot of blood.
They almost made it.
Bringing up the tail, Xan cradled Syn against his chest and whispered, “Hold on. We’re almost there.”
He could see the walls of the camp. Could hear the voices just ahead.
But then he heard the growling behind him. He shot a look behind him just as the demons broke through the trees. Swearing, he grabbed his pulsar and looked around, searching for somebody who could take Syn. But there was nobody.
Elina—where in the hell was the witch? But then he figured out the answer. Within the woods, smoke billowed. She w
as burning them, and from the amount of smoke, she was burning up a whole hell of a lot more than the eight or nine demons at a take like Syn had been doing.
She hadn’t gotten all of them, though—too many of them were still rushing the ragtag, injured fighters.
The buzz of her magic thundered through the air, hot and powerful. Shit, every Warlord within a day’s walk would feel her power this time. There was nothing hidden about it. She had her hands full, wherever she was.
Bron was all but dragging a soldier toward the camp gates, and all of those able to walk were doing the same thing as Xan and Bron—aiding the injured. One of them tried to come up and help Lo, but the red-haired soldier shoved him off. “I’m on my own two feet, damn it. Find somebody that isn’t.”
Xan caught Lo’s eyes. The man was pale from blood loss, but the look on his face was grim, hard and determined.
“If we buy them a few minutes, they can get a team out there, protect the gate,” Lo said, his voice grim.
Buying them time against that many demons—it was a suicide mission.
“Syn won’t make it,” Xan said quietly. He glanced at the gate and then back into the forest. He might make it—if he ran. But more of the soldiers would die if they didn’t cover their retreat. He eased Syn to the ground—she was unconscious now, her face a deathly shade of gray.
It all but ripped his heart out as he stood over her body.
Lo lifted his pulsar and said absently, “Do me a favor—if you make it through this, tell Janis I love her.”
The two men began firing as one. Others joined them. Shrieks filled the air.
Not all of them came from the demons. Hot, red blood splashed against his face. He couldn’t turn his head to see—couldn’t take his one good eye from the enemy coming at him.
But it was human blood.
Jorniaks didn’t bleed red.
Hurling his pulsar down, Xan reached for the blades at his back. Pulsars were nice little weapons to use if you had some distance between yourself and the target. He had next to no distance. Besides, he preferred the bladed weapon over the blasting kind any day.
He fell into a fog—a fog made of his own driving need to keep the demons from Syn and their fetid, hungry breath clogging his every breath.
Then there was only one demon.
He lifted his blade to take it down, but it hit the ground before he could strike.
A man stood there, just behind the demon.
A blond man, with midnight eyes and fresh, black demon blood splattered across his face.
The feel of him made Xan’s skin crawl.
Power—a Warlord’s power, and this man had it in spades.
The stranger glanced behind him, his gaze lingering on Syn.
Lips peeling back from his teeth, Xan lifted his blade. “You can’t touch her.”
“And you can barely stand, you fool.” The blond circled around him and knelt beside Syn, tearing away the makeshift bandages.
Warmth pulsed through the air.
It knocked Xan back—a palpable force. From the direction of the camp, he heard voices calling out. He looked away from the man for just a moment—good—help. Thankfully. Finally. Gripping his blade, he went to attack the unknown Warlord, although he barely had the strength to stand.
When he looked back, it was just in time to see the back of the blond man’s head as he disappeared into the forest. “Get the hell out of here,” he muttered. Away from Syn.
Swearing, he crouched down by her side and reached for the discarded bandages. But when he went to press them to her wounds, he realized they weren’t needed. The deep, gaping gashes in her arm were no longer deep, gaping . . . or open. Fine ridges of deep red scar tissue were there instead.
Startled, Xan lifted his head and stared into the trees. He couldn’t see the other man anymore.
A healer . . . ? Not a medic or some sort of herb witch, but a real healer.
He lifted his gaze and looked around. A healer—they could use a healer.
But then he realized . . . no. They couldn’t use a healer. Syn was no longer bleeding and those still standing might need medical attention, but a healer’s gift would be wasted on them.
And nothing could help the fallen.
Including Lo.
NINE
Syn came awake to find Elina leaning over her.
A familiar, unwelcome smell filled her nostrils, and she promptly closed her eyes. “I’m still asleep,” she said baldly.
“Nice try. Now sit up or I’ll pour this shit down your throat.” In a taunting voice, the witch added, “And you’re really not strong enough to stop me.”
Syn hated to admit it, but the bitch had a point. Popping one eye open, she glared at Elina. “I don’t need that stuff. I’m fine.”
“You’re not. You could have lost your arm and there’s an infection settling in the bite wound in your leg.”
“My arm?” Now Syn sat up. Elina moved back but more to keep the hot tea in her hand from spilling onto Syn’s chest. She lifted both arms and stared at them. She saw right away which one she’d almost lost. Her left arm had three raised ridges high on it. Deep inside the arm, she ached. She could feel the pull of healing muscles and the itch of healing flesh. It looked like an injury that was a few weeks old. But she hadn’t had it that morning.
A memory flashed through her mind.
She could remember Xan, hauling her back to camp even as the Jorniaks and Raviners swelled around them. It was bizarrely dreamlike—just outside the camp, Xan had stopped, put her on the ground.
Lo had been there. A few others. She heard screams. Heard howls. Smelled the blood.
Then nothing—a brief flash of darkness, followed by one startling clear memory. A man’s face, surrounded by a shock of pale hair, followed by the rush of a healer’s touch.
“Morne.”
Elina cocked a brow. “I assumed as much. Nobody else around here can do what he does. All the smart healers do the same thing the smart witches do—stay very, very far away from the Gates.”
Syn closed her eyes and slumped back against the jelapad. One nice thing about getting injured—the patients in the medicon got all the good beds. The bed conformed to her body, cradling her. “Guess that means he’s not as smart as we always thought he was.” With a smirk, she added, “And neither are you. After all, you left and then came back.”
“Yes. I guess that means I’m either very, very foolish or just a glutton for punishment.”
The smell of the insian tea grew stronger, and Syn could feel the heat of the cup close to her cheek. “Come on, Syn. Drink up.”
Syn turned her head aside and held out a hand, grimacing. She could either drink the shit and feel better shortly or fight Elina, feel like a fool when she lost, and she’d still have to drink the damn stuff. “Fine. Give me the damn thing, and go find Kalen. I want a report on the losses.”
“He’s already on his way. I buzzed him when I knew you were waking up.”
Forcing her body upright, she gulped the tea down in four big swigs. It was hot, burning her tongue. Not enough to kill her taste buds, though, unfortunately. It was like drinking water laced with mold and fecal material—utterly vile.
But it worked.
Within a few heartbeats, the pain in her arm eased, as did the lingering headache she hadn’t even been aware of. “You would think there would be something to make that crap taste better.”
“There is—grinding it down into a powder and making tablets out of it.” Elina smirked and added, “But we kind of lack the technology to do it out here and the bastards back east are too stingy to share the good stuff, I guess.”
Syn was only marginally aware of Elina’s voice. She was remembering—trying to work past the cloud of pain that fogged the memories.
Xan.
Lothen.
The cloud of death she’d sensed, even before the attack had begun.
Somebody had died.
“Elina.”
&
nbsp; The blond witch sighed and settled down on the bed next to Syn. “What, honey?”
“You do know that you’re about the only person with the guts to call me honey, right?” Syn smiled, but it wobbled and faded as she looked up and met Elina’s gaze. “How bad was it?”
“Pretty bad. From all accounts, there were a couple dozen Jorniaks, at least, probably more. There were also Raviners.”
Syn swallowed and said, “I remember calling for everybody to fall back. The demons doubled back, didn’t they?”
“Yeah. They didn’t catch up until your men were almost at the camp—we sent men to get the injured. I was able to catch some of them with fire. Still, we would have lost even more, but . . .” Elina stopped talking and swallowed.
Screams echoed in Syn’s ears. She remembered.
“Xan and Lothen guarded the retreat,” Syn said softly. “I remember it. I was going in and out, but I remember him carrying me. Then he put me down and I heard them—heard one of them scream; then I was gone again.”
Elina reached over and covered Syn’s hand. “Lo’s dead.”
Syn nodded. Lo—one of Bron’s best friends. A guy about her age—he was goofy and liked to tease, liked to laugh. Fought like a demon. Had a thing going with one of the medics—Janis—he’d adored that woman.
Now he was dead.
“Was it quick?”
Elina nodded. Under the warm gold of her skin, she was pale. Very pale. Grim-eyed, she said, “The secondary units went out to sweep for survivors. They brought his remains back. He died fast. Very fast . . . and I . . . Well, he didn’t hurt much.”
Syn blew out a breath, tried to breathe past the pain knotting inside her chest. “What about Xan?”
Elina nodded her head toward the medicon doors. “He’s standing guard outside. Very grim look on his face. I’ve got to tell you, Syn, he’s a sexy piece of work.” She wiggled her eyebrows and gave Syn a wicked, somewhat forced smile. “And the way he watches you, it’s something else. I’m kind of surprised he’s not already in here.”
Syn didn’t have a chance to even think about how to respond to that one, because the door opened and Kalen came striding in. He stopped in the middle of the room, arms folded over his chest, a dark look on his face.
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