Veronyka was one of those working the knives, sawing with all her might into the rope Tristan had first tried to cut, while he backed up several paces, standing on the same crate as before and pointing his bow down, flush against the wall. It was a difficult angle, but it was the danger that Veronyka faced that made his muscles tense and his palms sweat. If she didn’t cut the rope, or if he missed his shot, she would be the first thing the soldier saw when he mounted the wall. She would be his first victim.
Veronyka seemed oblivious to the danger, slashing relentlessly at the rope, which had begun to fray from her efforts. Her forehead was damp with sweat, and she’d rolled up the sleeves of his oversized tunic.
Scuffs and grunts reached his ears, and he looked down again to see the climber rising steadily. The man was armed with a battle-ax strapped across his back and several daggers on his belt. Pausing for a moment to gather his breath, he looked up, and their eyes met.
Next to Tristan, a triumphant “Aha” was followed by a loud snap. The metal hook hit the ground with a heavy clang, and the severed threads of the rope disappeared over the edge of the battlements. Tristan looked back over the wall as the climber dropped soundlessly into the chasm of darkness below.
Veronyka didn’t stop to celebrate. Gasping, she took up her knife and attacked another rope farther down the line.
Across the courtyard, another hook rattled to the ground as a second climber fell, this time crying out as he dropped from the wall. The surge of happiness that flared inside Tristan was quickly stifled. For every rope that was cut, two more flew up in its place.
A handful of Tristan’s arrows found their mark, but it wasn’t enough. The stream of climbers seemed endless, and the time it took to cut them was longer than the time it took for new soldiers to make the climb. Soon they would crest the walls, and all his best fighters were in the village.
The grappling hooks flew up in waves, usually sets of two or three, with a few minutes’ lull in between—climbers trying to find better positions, Tristan guessed, or dodging their fellows as they hurtled back to the ground. At this rate, the stronghold would be lost before the village gate fell—a shocking realization, with the sound of groaning hinges and splintering wood echoing from below, along with the steady thump, thump, thump of the battering ram, pulsing in time with the rapid beat of Tristan’s heart.
He had to change their strategy, but how?
During the pauses between the waves of grappling hooks, the defenders traded positions, giving those hacking at the ropes a chance to attack, while those who had been firing arrows or dropping stones took up a blade.
Tristan forced Veronyka to take a break and drink some water, while he held her serrated knife, weighing his options. He could call Captain Flynn from his position on the village wall, but he hadn’t sent a reply to Tristan’s first message about the battering ram, which meant he was either too busy to report—and to help—or that something much worse had become of him.
“You know what you have to do, don’t you?” Veronyka said, still gasping as she tried to catch her breath.
“What do you mean?”
“You’re a Rider, Tristan. Ride.”
He looked down at her, at those familiar eyes, and shook his head. “I . . . I can’t. We have no battle experience. That’s what they want us to do. They want us to die out there.”
He grabbed the waterskin from her hands and raised it to his lips, but he didn’t drink.
“Then let me go,” she said. When his head snapped in her direction, she twisted her lips, then said, “I’m bonded. That new female, the one I tamed in the courtyard? She was—is—my bondmate.”
Tristan realized that distantly he’d known this—had figured it out during the fight with her sister in front of the enclosure—but he’d been too distracted to consciously make the connection.
Regardless, it was out of the question. She had less training than him. “No. It’s too dangerous.”
“I know it is, but you can afford to lose me, even if you can’t afford to lose the others.”
He tossed the waterskin aside. “If you think I’d willingly sacrifice you just because you’re a girl”—he said the last word in a low, vehement whisper—“or because you’re not a trained Rider or whatever it is that you think, you’re more messed up than your sister.”
Her lips parted in surprise, but she didn’t respond.
Tristan’s chest heaved. He wanted to keep yelling. He wanted to punch things. He wanted to burn the damn ropes that carried their enemies toward them.
The thought made something clunk into place in his mind. Of course he hadn’t thought of it yet—Tristan did his best to never think of it.
Fire.
He snatched a nearby lantern, dumping the cold oil onto the closest hook’s rope, and called for a lit torch from a brazier below. When he held the flame over the oil-soaked rope, hands shaking slightly, it took a long time to catch, burning low and blue before winking out. That’s what the waxy resin was—it was the same fireproofing sap they used on their own gear.
“Tristan,” Veronyka said, gripping the front of his tunic to regain his attention. “If this place falls, we’re all dead—servants and villagers, Riders and phoenixes. You’ve let the people fight to defend their home; now let the phoenixes. Can’t you feel it?” she finished quietly, looking toward the Eyrie.
When Tristan focused there, and not on the battle raging around him, he did feel it. Heat, waves of it rippling from the stony chasm beyond the archway, followed by bursts of anger and aggression. Rex was there with the others, his volatile emotions stoking the flame of Tristan’s own wild feelings. Rex wanted to fight, and Tristan had forbidden it. He’d made all the Riders tether their mounts to keep them inside the Eyrie, just like the females in their enclosure.
“You’re right,” he said, and Veronyka released his tunic, as if surprised to have won him over so easily. “This is their home, these are their bondmates, and they should be allowed to fight. Besides,” he added, nodding to the oil-soaked rope and swallowing the wave of fear that surged up inside him, “nothing burns hotter than phoenix fire.”
“Will you ride?” Veronyka asked as they crossed the courtyard.
“No,” Tristan said, despite wishing otherwise. He’d rather be in the air than down here, amid the burning flames. “We can’t afford to lose the apprentices on the walls—they’re some of our best fighters. Besides, the phoenixes are safer without their Riders. We weigh them down, and the metal fastenings on their saddles catch the light. Without us, they can fly almost invisibly, and be seen only when they want to be—when they ignite.”
Passing Anders on his way across the cobblestones, Tristan explained what he intended to do and told him to spread the word to the other apprentices. They’d have to guide their bondmates through the battle from the ground.
“And what of the females?” Veronyka asked, as Anders rushed off and Tristan strode purposefully toward the Eyrie.