His force and momentum are so powerful that he has no chance to reverse course.
Sander’s eyes go wide as Jaspar’s dagger pierces his gut. Jaspar’s face is monstrous and animal as he twists the blade, then wraps his arm around Sander’s torso and jerks him forward, sending him tumbling over the edge of the parapet.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Sander falls as if held up by a cloud, slow and agonizing. I see every second, and I know the screaming I hear is my own. I shove and push, calling to the wind to bear him up, and a gale swirls around us, battering the crowd. His body slows in its plunge from on high, but not enough. He hits the ground at the base of the tower, and I finally break free to reach him. I skid to my knees and wrap my arms around him. “Ansa?” he says weakly, blood flowing unchecked from his mouth, his eyes black and unfocused.
“I have you,” I say, glancing up at Sig, who has his back to me, fire still sitting on his palms—he’s making sure the mob doesn’t attack us in their frenzy. He looks over his shoulder, and I can tell by his expression that he has no hope for Sander. It squeezes in my chest, only confirming what I already knew.
“I failed,” Sander says, his voice as broken as his body. Unbelievably, his fingers are still wrapped firmly around the hilt of his dagger, as if not all of him has admitted defeat.
“You didn’t fail. You fought until the very end.” I press my lips to his bloody forehead. “And Hilma will welcome you when you get to heaven.”
He closes his eyes, and a tear slides down his cheek, the only one I’ve ever seen him shed. But when he speaks, it isn’t of his lost mate. “Get Thyra,” he says in a halting voice. “The foreign fighters . . . won’t attack us if she’s chieftain. That was the bargain . . . we made with the Vasterutians.”
I don’t want to leave him. These are the final minutes of his life, and I don’t want him to be alone. But . . . I close my hand over his—the one that holds the dagger. “Give this to me now. I will carry on your fight,” I say, my voice cracking beneath my grief. “My victory will be yours.”
He smiles. “I would choose no other warrior for the task. Blood and victory, sister.”
“Blood and victory, brother. I will return your weapon when the battle is over,” I murmur, gently laying his broken body down. His great shuddering sigh is his last breath. When I rise from the ground, the cuff around my wrist makes my whole arm tingle, power craving a target. But if I were to unleash my grief-driven magic now, it would destroy every soul in this courtyard. I look down at Sander’s weapon and pray it is enough. “We have to get to Thyra,” I say to Sig, and he nods and begins to walk forward, his hands outstretched, the deadly fire dancing at his command.
There’s a thunderous noise down the hill—the foreign fighters approaching our undefended tower, and possibly the entire able-bodied population of Vasterut hard on their heels. Empowered by new allies, I have a feeling they’ll attack us with hammers and scythes, whatever they can wield. This is a people ignited after a year of being held down. If they are not willing to honor the deal they apparently made—to spare our tribe if Thyra is made chieftain— then we will all be slaughtered. No matter that our warriors will kill hundreds before they go down. With no leader and the city engulfed in confusion, chaos will reign.
“Hurry,” I say, pushing Sig’s sweaty back. I don’t know if Nisse understands what’s at stake—the lives of his warriors may hinge on whether he keeps Thyra alive. The entrance to the castle is blocked by Vasterutians, pushing to get back inside. At first I think they’re trying to find shelter and protection from the oncoming horde of foreign fighters, but then I hear Nisse’s name, shouted over and over. They are calling for his blood.
“Can you clear that entrance?” I ask Sig. I don’t trust myself—there must be fifty Vasterutians between us and the arched doorway, and half of them are beating one of our warriors to death. Their fists are clenched, their eyes wide. They will not be denied their vengeance—or their freedom. “Try to do it without killing anyone. It would only enflame them.”
Sig chuckles, a shaky, unstable mirth. “Enflame?” He wiggles his fingers, and the tiny infernos in his palms grow tendrils, spiraling up like vines made only of sunlight.