Bloodwitch (The Witchlands, #3)

It glowed blue and seemed to pulse against her, a shivering sensation not so different from the magic that thrummed inside her chest. She had to crane her neck to take it all in. Ornate carvings were etched into the granite. Ancient, Safi thought, even as they looked untouched by time.

Another squawk from the crow. But this time, Safi was prepared. She glared right back at it. “Where,” she demanded gruffly, “have you taken me?”

The bird blinked. Then its beak clack-clack-clacked, and she would have bet every piestra in Dalmotti that it was laughing at her.

It was, as she dusted off her bloodied hands, that a new light winked in Safi’s vision. Red and flashing.

Iseult. Her gaze snapped to her Threadstone, dangling against her chest. It must have fallen out of her uniform during the roll, and now angry red light blinked up at her. It tossed bloodstained shadows across the cavern walls.

But did the stone blink because Iseult was in danger, or did it blink because Safi was? Safi had no idea, no way of telling. And before she could rise and try to gauge in which direction Iseult might be, the old crow made a move. Its wings swept up and it hurled itself at Safi.

She reacted without thought, shoving herself sideways to avoid it. She hit the blue light and toppled once more through the doorway.

Again, Safi was pulverized and pulled apart. Again, she was crushed and expanded while time sped so fast it stopped entirely. Then she was through the magic, striking a sharp, muddy slope. Light shone through a tiny crack above, but no flame hawk. No heat or rage.

Safi glanced to the blue light, now behind her. It glowed from an archway blocked by stones. Roots and weather had cleared a path along the bottom. Safi must have hit a crack in the earth beside the spire, slid into this hidden ravine … and then slid right on through that magic doorway.

She shivered. In the distance, pistols popped and people screamed, so she hauled herself up the incline, still soaked from the Well and now muddied too.

Her ankle protested the climb. It wasn’t broken again, but it wasn’t happy either.

She reached the golden spire. Voices were near—voices she thought she knew, even as they were swallowed by the flame hawk’s roar. Then she heard someone holler in Cartorran, “Is that all you have for me?” and with no concern for her ankle, Safi started to run.

“Come at me, you bastard!”

The Well appeared through the trees, still distant and hazed by fire and smoke. With each loping, uneven step, Safi saw more. Corpses in Marstoki green. Corpses in Adder black.

And the flame hawk, on the ground and limping. Each of its hops shook the earth as it stalked toward the Empress of Marstok, unconscious beside the Well.

Ten paces away was a second woman, crouched defensively. No armor, no helmet, no weapons save a single knife extended before her.

The Hell-Bard Lev.

Safi had no idea why the woman was there—or how—but relief sent her muscles spinning faster. If the Hell-Bards were in this fight, then Safi and Vaness might actually survive.

The flame hawk lunged at Lev, beak out and neck extended. Then its body passed right over, and before Safi’s eyes, Lev dissolved into darkness. Wherever the magic of the flame hawk touched her, she became a skeleton made of shadows.

A skeleton now thrusting its blade into the flame hawk’s chest.

The monster shrieked its pain—but that was only the beginning. As Safi stumbled out from the cedars, aiming toward the fallen Empress, the other Hell-Bards—lumbering Zander and lithe Caden—charged from a different expanse of trees. They rushed the hawk from behind, and like Lev, they wore no armor, no helmets. All they had were simple knives …

And the power of the Hell-Bard’s noose. The ability to withstand any magical attack, even a flame hawk’s.

The two Hell-Bards reached the creature’s tail. Then two more skeletons streaked into the firestorm. Zander attacked the wing. Caden leaped onto the beast’s back. Five bounding strides and he reached the top of the creature’s spine. He shoved his blade in, right where the wings met. Right where the hawk would feel it most. Such beasts might not die, but they could be injured. Safi had learned that firsthand with sea foxes.

The flame hawk screamed, a layered sound that split Safi’s skull. That shook the ground—that shook the very world with its pain. Somehow, Caden remained upon the creature’s back, a torch of black flame, even as the hawk attempted flight.

Stab. Withdraw. Stab. Withdraw.

Not until its massive body had cleared the trees did Caden jump. And before Safi’s eyes, he became a man again. A split second later, he plunged into the Well. And a split second after that, the hawk was gone, only smoke and charred remains to prove it had ever been there.

While Lev and Zander moved to haul out Caden, Safi staggered to the Empress, who was just coming to. Her nose bled, a sign her magic had drained. And now more soldiers coalesced within the smoking cedars.

Gods below, this battle would never end.

Safi grabbed for the closest weapon: a saber off one of the fallen, fake soldiers. It was shockingly light. Not iron, Safi realized as she straightened. Nor steel. Which was why Vaness hadn’t been able to control it. Whoever had planned this attack had planned it well, from the ambush to the weapons to the timing.

Safi reeled about, ready to face the next onslaught of soldiers, when Zander and Lev appeared beside her, a flanking position.

“Fancy meeting you here!” Lev grinned, her scarred face streaked with blood and ash. She snatched up two swords from the fallen and tossed one to Zander. “Come here often?”

Safi couldn’t help it. She laughed, a high-pitched, almost neighing sound. And when Caden moved into position on her other side, she said, “I thought you left the city!”

“Not yet” was all he had time to reply before the soldiers poured out of the trees. This time, though, Safi’s magic had nothing to say. No skittering scritch of lies, because this time, the soldiers were real. And Habim was at their head, bellowing, “Stand down, Cartorrans, or die.” As one, every Marstok behind him fixed their pistols and blades upon the Hell-Bards.

And the Hell-Bards were left with no choice. Magic they could defeat. Crossbows and cold iron, they could not.

They stood down.





TWENTY-FOUR


Iseult had no idea where she was going. What few Tirlan streets she recognized from before were destroyed, buildings collapsed, trees fallen, roads flooded.

Owl wailed against her, but at least she did not try to flee. She held fast to Iseult, and Iseult held fast to the horse—so well trained, so unflinching in the face of a battle crowding at their heels. The soldiers were giving chase.

“Left!” a voice bellowed, brilliant Threads approaching from her right. It was the prince, his face bloodied and bruised, atop a Marstoki army roan. “Take the left!”

“Why?” she shouted. “Where will that go?”