Total pages in book: 88
Estimated words: 84840 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 424(@200wpm)___ 339(@250wpm)___ 283(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 84840 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 424(@200wpm)___ 339(@250wpm)___ 283(@300wpm)
His face is pale, sweat beading at his forehead. Each series of stabs into the dome saps him further. He doesn’t speak, but I know what he’s thinking. I’m thinking it too. Even with the Wyrd army halved, the Skeldars are outmatched. More and more are marching onto the bridge, are running over our heads. We’re simply overwhelmed.
We’ve failed to keep the soldiers safe, Ragn safe. My king safe.
I tighten my hold on his reins and mine. Our legs are pressed together tight from the knee down and I press more. “Get out of here.”
He grabs my thigh, squeezing hard as he leans in to growl. “Going to throw yourself in front of the spear again? Will your last words be a plea to save my people?”
He stops my reply. “If I don’t leave with you. I don’t leave at all.”
My hand slackens around his reins and as it drops, he glimpses the deep cuts on my palm. He snatches my wrist and lifts it carefully, inspecting the wounds with a hiss.
“It’ll be fine.”
His fingers shift over the edge of a cut and I jerk. His lips twist, displeased. He pulls out the flutette from under his shirt, presses the end to his mouth, and hauls me in close. I’m half out of my saddle but his arm around me is strong and steadying, even through the punches of pain that roll through him as soldiers mercilessly barge over the shield. Through the slithering blue, sunlight filters into the dome, casting a shifting dappled light over us. Dark eyes meet mine, imploring me to stay still. Gently, he slides his hands off me, and fingers flitter over his flutette. Soft music vibrates in the air, tickling over my face. The magic in each note is familiar—my own from a long time ago.
The tune is soft and elegant. He’s practiced in the months we’ve been apart.
Quin plays, closer and closer, until the end of his flute brushes my lips and I’m gulping in the sound, and the healing magic with it.
The sting in my palm lessens until I can’t feel it, and the rest of my body fills with warmth and energy. When he finishes, he keeps the flute between our lips and his eyes on mine.
My hand comes up shakily and lowers the flutette to his chest. “I could have used something from my pouch.”
“I didn’t want you to.”
“Because magic works better.”
He covers my hand. “Because I wanted to kiss you.”
A wall of metal shields slams against the dome. Quin retches and gasps. The shield shudders, its shimmery walls cracking in a jagged web, each line throbbing with light. Quin clenches his jaw hard and his entire body convulses as he fights to hold the dome in place.
Wyrds are pressing forward in endless waves, a sea of soldiers set to slaughter anyone in their path. The bridge groans under the weight. Two people, against this.
Quin forces himself upright. He glares at all the Wyrds, unyielding. A promise he will fight. “Keep your back to the side of the bridge.”
He draws out his Wyrd sword, shadows of intense determination layering his face.
I rummage through my pouch and grab knock-out powder. It won’t hold off many, but I must try to defend myself. So he doesn’t get distracted.
A bitter laugh escapes me. Absurd, at a time like this. But my bout continues as I stare at the impossible chances of survival.
Quin raises a brow as he lifts his sword towards the thinning dome and the Wyrds beyond.
I murmur, “Fate is truly left to the gods.”
The dome splinters, light glaring with each fracture until with a blinding flash and a sound like thunder, the dome explodes, blasting back the closest Wyrds in a tumbling wave that quakes across the bridge.
Quin remains steadfast on his horse, sword unwavering. His voice cuts through the chaos, heavy; full of absolute promise. “I will be your god.”
The declaration silences even the war cries for a shivery, breathless second.
He spurs his horse forward, and the steed rears with his furious cry. His blade glitters through the air and Wyrds fly back with the force, collapsing atop one another in a pile of steel.
He swings and swings, forcing a path. I fling out powder to the sneaky soldiers who pass him for me, but they’re few and far between. Quin is a blur of movement as he furiously defends me.
When I’m out of powder, I cast my gaze about for a weapon. I only have my pouch and the basket at my back, which—
My fingers fumble at the basket straps. The Wyrds are closing in, their blades catching the light in sharp glints. There’s no time. I cut the reins with a jagged slice, tying the leather to the basket handles as quickly as I can. The weave is tight—tight enough to hold river water, just long enough for one last desperate chance.