Alaric’s guards fan out behind him like wraiths. They melt into the shadows, seeking an ambush. One thing I learned from Caleb after he took the oath was that if you see Alaric followed by one of the warpainted guards, you can be sure that there are three nearby you don’t see. We hear two yips and a yowl from one of the guards signaling outside the perimeter of armored carts, and all of our heads snap around toward it. Woven. A moment later we hear an inhuman howl. We reach for knives and form a circle around our sachem while the air blossoms with screams.
A flock of part avian, part insect Woven burst from the underbrush. They’re over ten feet tall with huge, land-strider legs. They trap the unfortunate under three-toed feet as their long beaks stab the killing blows. Crinoline-thin wings flutter uselessly over their heads. One fixes its black eyes on me and strides forward, its insect wings buzzing. I stutter step and dodge between its big legs, slicing the backs of its ankles as I tuck and roll. The Woven squeals and tumbles to the ground behind me.
When I pop up onto my feet again, I see a second wave of Woven behind the large insect-avian. They’re smaller, hodgepodge Woven—some are like lizard-dogs with scaly skin while other have tufts of fur puffing between the joints of their exoskeletons. I start hacking my way through them, using my knife like a scythe to mow them down. After I cut a decent-sized swath, I feel a hand on my shoulder whirling me around.
“Get back to Lillian,” Alaric yells in my face. “I want her alive!”
I see Caleb as he takes off into the trees, following the retreating Woven to their nest.
I’ll find you and follow you to the rendezvous point, I tell him in mindspeak.
I run the other way through the darkness, back toward where I left Tristan guarding Lillian. I leap over low bushes and feel branches whip my cheeks. My heart is rattling around in my chest. I’m afraid, but not for myself.
I barrel into the clearing where we caged Lillian, and see her. She’s safe. A wave of relief nearly washes the bones out of my legs, but she sees me and cringes. She’s terrified of me.
Tristan asks after Caleb, and I answer. Then I say, “We have to move her.”
“Where are you taking me?” Lillian asks. She’s clutching at herself, like she thinks I’m going to attack her.
I unlock her cage and pull her out of it harder than I probably need to, and Tristan calls me on it. I feel like a fool—an angry fool. Gallant Tristan saves the princess from the dirty, violent Outlander.
“Then you take her,” I say, shoving Lillian at him. “But if she bolts for the woods, her death is on you.”
“Fine. It’s on me,” he says out loud, and then adds in mindspeak: What the hell is wrong with you?
Lillian doesn’t give me a chance to answer. She tilts her freckled nose up at me and puts on her haughty face, saying that she’s responsible for herself. I see anger staining her cheeks pink and brightening her eyes. Her mouth is just inches from mine and I’m aching to kiss her. I’m sick with it, and sick because of it. She rambles on about monsters (she knows they’re called Woven) and then says, “I’m not a frigging moron. And I don’t appreciate being ignored, Rowan whatever-your-last-name-is. Where are you taking me?”
“Like I’d tell you that.” I’ve never heard the world “frigging” before, but I get the gist of its meaning. Pretending not to know my last name was an inspired touch—even I almost believe that she doesn’t know me. And I bury this, but it hurts. “She’s all yours,” I tell Tristan. Let him deal with her. It’s what he’s always wanted, anyway. Maybe something did happen between them—that would explain why he’s always dogged after her. I’m choking on the thought as I turn my back on them.