Reign of the Fallen (Reign of the Fallen #1)

The Shade’s howl deafens me as it drops me. I push myself upright in time to see Lysander attack the monster from behind in a fury of claws and teeth.

Quickly, I scan the mess of glass and tar-like potion burning on the wagon floor. All the vials are shattered, but we can still stop this Shade. I’ve pushed one into a bonfire before, which means I can do it again—this time, with the aid of bigger, rapidly spreading flames.

“Cymbre?” I shout over the monster’s screeches and Lysander’s roars. “Cymbre!”

There’s no answer. She must be hurt somewhere, at the mercy of the monster and the blaze. Before I deal with the Shade, I need to get her away from the fire.

Meredy and I jump from the burning wagon together, our boots crunching as they touch down on the rocky mountainside. She offers me my sword, and I give her a nod of thanks.

“You have to run. Find a cave or somewhere you can hide, just in case . . .” My words are lost to a fit of coughing.

“What about you?” she demands, eyes narrowed against the smoke. “It’s my job to protect you, remember?”

“I have to find Cymbre. Then I’m going to stop this Shade.”

“Odessa—”

A burst of noise from the wagon cuts her off as the last of its canvas top collapses, sending up a shower of sparks that fleck our hair and arms, sharp as bee stings.

“There’s no time to argue,” I growl, edging farther away from the blaze. “Just go!”

Meredy calls out to Lysander—who’s still in battle from the sound of things—as I dash to the front of the wagon, sweat already beading on my brow. The horses have fled, their tethers torn and trampled. Master Cymbre slumps across the driver’s seat, firelight dancing along a deep gash down the side of her face.

At least her pulse is still strong.

“Master Cymbre.” I gently shake her shoulders. “You have to hide. Our potions are gone, and I’ve got one nasty Shade to shove into a fire.” I shake her harder, and when that does nothing, I realize I’m going to have to carry her out of harm’s way. I hang my sword at my side and slide my hands carefully under Cymbre’s back.

With any luck, Lysander will force the Shade into the flames while I’m struggling to lift a woman who weighs more than me.

But the Shade must have tired of the bear—or worse. The monster plucks me off the ground, forcing me to drop Master Cymbre. An arm, skeletal but strong, snaps off my belt as I reach for my sword, then lifts me toward its mouth as it unhinges its jaw. Even with my heart sticking in my throat, I manage to kick the Shade in the spot where its eye should be, hoping to make it stagger backward toward the fire. But all my kick does is make the monster gnash its teeth in what appears to be excitement.

Icy breath blasts against my legs.

The last time I came face to face with a Shade, I remember my blood spilling out like buckets of paint. I remember that, after the initial gut-wrenching agony, I didn’t feel much at all. Only this time, there’s no Danial to heal my wounds.

The first scream tears from my throat as the Shade sinks its teeth into my leg.

And drops me with a piercing wail.

I land facedown, spitting out a mouthful of dirt and fallen leaves. I guess I taste worse than I look. As I scramble away from the monster, dragging myself toward my blade along the rocky ground by my elbows, a bright-orange glow washes over me.

The Shade claws at itself, tugging on a burning arrow lodged in the softest part of its chest. But it’s too late. It’s already engulfed in flames.

Several paces back from the wagon, looking immensely pleased with herself, is Meredy. She drops her bow at Lysander’s feet and rushes to my side. “You’re lucky I had Lysander carrying my things instead of storing them in the wagon. Are you hurt?”

“No. Not bad, anyway.” But my head spins when I touch my aching lower leg, and my hand comes away slick with blood. “Check on Master Cymbre.”

Frowning, Meredy hurries to where Cymbre fell. I catch my breath, watching the Shade melt into ash.

There’s something odd about the way it appeared on this particular mountain, when there are dozens of trails like this one leading into Elsinor, and the only people who know our chosen path to Abethell Castle are back in Grenwyr.

It’s as if the monster knew exactly where we’d be tonight.

I peer into the shadowy forest surrounding the wagon trail. But other than the lonely call of an owl, I don’t see or hear anything. There’s no sign of Vane or anyone else.

The Shade’s skeletal body hisses and pops. Or maybe that’s the wagon, blazing with all our spare clothes and rations inside. Rubbing the pin on my tunic, I stare into the fire and wonder if I did my duty as Serpent when I didn’t make the kill. I didn’t even help.

“Where’d you learn to shoot like that?” I ask as Meredy drags an unconscious Master Cymbre off the trail. I try to stand, but the stabbing pain in my leg forces me to stay down, and I crawl toward the woods until I can no longer feel waves of heat on my back. Lysander joins me, grumbling deep in his chest.

“In Lorness,” Meredy says at last. She props Master Cymbre against a tree, then rests with her hands on her knees to catch her breath. “I learned from my teacher, so I could survive in the wild if Lysander was ever too sick or hurt to hunt for us.”

“I’m surprised, is all.”

Meredy’s smile is bright like the moon. “The world’s full of surprises. You’d know that if you just looked around once in a while. Like Valoria. Did you even know she’s an artist? She drew me the best picture I’ve ever seen.”

Somehow, she still manages to irritate me moments after saving my life. “I’m aware of her talents, seeing as she was my friend first. What’s the picture of?”

“We need to get out of these woods soon,” she mutters, apparently ignoring my question.

She’s right, though. The blaze is spreading, catching on dry leaves and twigs and blackening the ground between us and the charred wagon.

There’s no sign that a Shade was ever here, thanks to this Serpent and her questionably loyal protector.

“Can you walk if you lean on me?” Meredy extends a hand and I take hold of her. “Have you ever considered that . . . maybe raising the dead isn’t worth the risk?” she asks quietly. “That it causes more suffering than healing?”

All the time, I want to say. Ever since Evander died. Since she asked me to raise Firiel.

Before I can reply, I hear a faint voice drifting on the night wind. “Anyone out there?” It sounds like a man’s deep tone.

I put a finger to my lips, looking around, then point to a lone torch bobbing up the mountainside from slightly east of the direction we were headed in before the attack.

Lysander growls as the torch bobs nearer. Meredy puts a hand between his furry shoulders, calming him within a few heartbeats. We wait in silence until the light of the wagon fire lifts the cloak of darkness from the haggard face of a man some years our senior. He has a bow strapped to his back and an axe hanging from his belt, but his eyes are kind.

Meredy and I exchange a glance, and she nods. If we’re wrong, I can take him, even with my leg a bloody mess.

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