Hauth doubled over, cursing. Blood dripped from his hand, the knife buried in his palm. His Scythe slid out of his grasp, catching the wind and fluttering onto snow.
Elm tasted salt. Not the sweat or tears or blood that had slipped down his face into his mouth, but a different sort of brine. An older sort.
Then he heard it. The thing he’d waited for around every corner, listened for in every pause.
Ravyn’s voice.
Elm.
He appeared out of nothingness and stood in front of Ione, a dark, vengeful bird of prey. Hauth’s eyes went wide and he took a step back, the only man he’d ever feared standing in front of him—marking him.
And Ravyn Yew, the stony Captain of the Destriers, grinned. He drew his sword, his eyes moving from Hauth to Elm. You look terrible.
It hurt too much to smile back. I’m still better looking than you. Elm’s breath shook. Hauth took the Cards from the chamber. They’re in his pocket.
I’m going to get them back. Ravyn lifted his sword, pointing it down the line of Destriers. “I am your Captain no longer,” he said. “My business is with your new King, and the Deck of Cards. If you wish to live, leave this place. Now.”
Hauth stood straighter. Ripped the knife out of his palm. Wherever he kept the Maiden Card he was using, it was already healing him. “A bold claim from one man—and a whore—against the King’s guard.” He jerked his head, scanning the tree line. “I assume you killed Gorse. Where are the highwaymen and Jespyr and that thing you left with?”
“Close,” Ravyn replied. “Very close. They’re waiting. Watching.”
“Traitor,” a Destrier called.
“Infected bastard,” another spat.
With a clamor, they drew their swords—pointed them at Ravyn.
Hauth looked down the line, arrogance lighting his words. “Seems they’ve made their choice. Surrender the Twin Alders to me, cousin. Or watch your family die.”
Ravyn looked at his parents—at Emory in the snow—muscles bunching in his jaw.
Don’t yield, Elm shouted into his mind. Don’t. Fucking. Yield.
Ravyn’s gray eyes found him. Follow Ione into the wood, he said. Get to her—then meet me in the stone chamber. We’re going to end this, Elm. All of it.
Salt fled Elm’s senses. Ravyn touched Ione’s shoulder, then rushed forward, went invisible.
Ione turned on her heel and ran back into the wood.
“Kill the prisoners,” Hauth commanded the Destriers. He lunged into the snow, searching for his fallen Scythe. “And bring me the Twin Alders.”
Blades lowered over the Yew family’s necks. Elm felt a knife near his jaw, its bite just below his ear. He shut his eyes. There was a deep, wrenching groan—
And the earth began to roll.
Snow shook from treetops, the world a flurry of white. The terrible groan was coming from the wood. Something was coming from the wood.
The trees, Elm realized. The trees were moving.
Roots tore from the earth, boughs whipping though the air. Twisting, the yew trees rushed into the meadow from all sides, swiping—grasping—at the Destriers.
The first tree that made contact burst through the ruins, knocking ancient sandstone pillars to the ground. It caught two Destriers in its branches—wrenched them back from Emory and his parents. With a sickening snap, the yew ground the men beneath it roots.
When the earth rolled again, Elm lost his footing. He crashed into Erik and Tyrn, the three of them a tangle of limbs. When he looked up, the meadow was a chaos of trees and snow, lit by the menacing light of the pyres. The Destriers were a whir of darkness, several of them running through the bedlam.
Running after Ione.
Chapter Forty-Six
Ravyn
Ravyn and Jespyr were practiced. Twisted and intrepid, like the branches of their namesake tree, they’d learned by now how to keep steady when the Shepherd King commanded the wood.
When the earth began to roll and the Destriers near their parents stumbled, Jespyr lunged from the shadows. She was still too weak to use her sword, even with Petyr and a Black Horse for aid. But her knives—she was strong enough for those. Two Destriers fell at the edge of her blades. When a third got to his feet and lunged at her, she dodged him, his sword grazing just beneath her chin.
Petyr tore from the shadows, knocking her assailant off his feet. The Destrier fell into snow, and then a yew tree was upon him, wrenching him away with a sickening snap.
The last Destrier that had not run after Ione was Allyn Moss. He’d been standing with his sword drawn behind Jon Thistle. But when the rumbling trees knocked him from his feet, Moss stayed down, fear washing over his eyes.
Ravyn appeared out of thin air and knelt over him—put a hand to Moss’s throat. “I don’t want to kill you.” Gorse’s face flashed before his eyes. “But I will if I must.”
The Destrier trembled. He took his Black Horse from his pocket—threw it onto the snow in surrender.
Ravyn pulled back, a familiar tremor in his hand. “Go.”
Moss fled into the night. When Ravyn glanced back over the meadow, it was just in time to see Ione disappear into the trees behind the stone chamber. Destriers—he counted eight of them—chased her. Elm and Erik Spindle and Tyrn Hawthorn were hobbling behind.
All was going to plan.
Hauth was still in the heart of the meadow, kept busy by three yew trees. They circled him—whipped at him. Hauth felled several branches with his sword, dodged and tried to slip between trunks, but the trees kept twisting, bending. Guided by the Nightmare’s sword, they would keep him at bay, distracting him from picking up his Scythe—
Until Ravyn was ready to deal with him.
But first, his family. Ravyn ran to them, drawing a knife through the ropes restraining Thistle and his parents. Jespyr was in the snow, wrapping Emory in her arms. She let out a shaking exhale. “He’s still breathing.”
“Take him back into the castle.” Ravyn handed Moss’s Black Horse to Petyr, then pressed his palm against his mother’s cheek. “Keep him safe.”
“We can help,” Thistle said, picking up a fallen Destrier sword.
“Everything is under control. Go inside.”
Fenir found a second blade in the snow. “You’ll want another pair of hands—”
Ravyn’s nostrils flared. “If you do not get your asses into the castle, I’m going to tell the Shepherd King, and then the bloody trees will drag you away. Jespyr needs rest.” He looked down at Emory. “So does he. We started this for him, and it’s almost over. So, please—pretend I didn’t inherit a lifetime of stubbornness from you, and get. Inside. The Castle.”
They stared at him, jaws slack. “I’ve never heard you talk so much,” Morette muttered.
“Best do what he says before he keeps blathering,” Jespyr said with a wink. But her face was drawn, her shoulders rounding with exhaustion. She wobbled, and Thistle caught her.
Fenir gave Ravyn a narrow glance. “See you soon?”
“See you soon.”
They carried Emory between them. Petyr stepped forward. “I’ll escort them, then I’m coming back.” He offered a crooked smile. “Or are you gonna yell at me, too?”
“Likely.”