They just need a little nudge.
By waiting until dusk, we’ve made it easier to sneak up to the camp unseen, but we’ve also made it difficult to see. Mara must be able to see well enough to distinguish an Invierno from the others.
I mouth “Closer,” and Mara nods.
Slowly we weave toward them, using the massive trunks for cover. I’m so much quieter than I used to be, my steps light, my balance assured. Humberto would be proud.
Mara holds up a fist, and I duck behind a tree as she does the same.
“I say we leave,” comes a man’s low voice. “Now. Take the horses and get away from here. Do you really think the Invierno dogs will take us inside their capital city and then let us live?”
It’s the perimeter guard. They’ve drifted much closer to the camp than they should, no doubt drawn by the arguing. “I don’t feel right leaving the commander with them,” comes another, gruffer voice.
The din of argument turns to shouting.
“We must decide quick!” says the first man. “They’re intent on their mission. If we move fast, they’ll not take the time to pursue.”
Mara slips from behind her tree, draws her bow, sights.
“And the commander?”
“We slit his throat. Better that than whatever the dogs have planned for him.”
Fear stabs through me, as merciless as a dagger.
The fletching is tight against Mara’s cheek as she holds steady, waiting for Belén’s signal. She won’t shoot the men nearby; instead she will shoot over them, or maybe between them, into the throng below. I peer slowly around my trunk to get the lay of things. The two guards are less than a stone’s throw away, but hardly more than black shapes among the trees. Their backs are to us. Beyond them, several others are silhouetted against a glowing campfire.
Belén’s signal sounds: the caw of a mountain jay, three times in quick succession.
I hold my breath as Mara’s arrow flies. It skims so close to one of the guards that he puts a hand to his ear is if batting away a mosquito.
It impales a tall figure below in the back. He topples face-first into the campfire, scattering embers and sparks. Silently I count. One.
“You filthy Joyan animals!” comes Storm’s unmistakably Invierno voice. “I knew you’d betray us!”
I freeze, worried that he has overplayed it, but I needn’t have, because the camp erupts into chaos.
Steel rings on steel. Someone roars an order to form up. Another body topples into the campfire. Two.
The guards launch down the slope toward the fight, but Mara sends arrows flying, two in quick succession. One guard drops to his knees, an arrow sticking out of his neck—three—but Mara’s second shot goes too far left and the other man whirls, shield up, and spots her.
He charges. Mara notches another arrow.
My Godstone pulses with energy, and I fill up like a cauldron, ready to boil over with power. My stone wants to unleash its fire on the world. And I want to let it. Not yet, Elisa. I grip my daggers tighter.
Mara’s shot flies a little wide, scraping his arm. He bellows rage.
He reaches the spot where I crouch hidden. I launch at him, right arm raised high. He whirls, whips ups his shield, and blocks it neatly. My shoulder aches from the impact, but already I’m swiping low with my left hand. The blade lays open his right thigh, and he drops to the ground. Mara sends an arrow into his chest.
Four. Only eleven to go.
I take the barest moment to catch my breath before whispering, “I’ll find Hector.”
“Be safe.” She notches another arrow and heads down the slope.
I skirt to the left toward the horses. The sounds of fighting fade. They’ve figured out that they’ve been tricked. I just hope they damaged each other sufficiently first. I risk a small prayer. Please, God, lend strength and speed to my friends.
A bolt of blue fire sears my vision and smacks a tree near the campfire. Dry pine needles burst bright, then plunge to the ground in a shower of ash and sparks.
If Storm is using his Godstone, it means I’ve little time.
The horses loom before me, huge black shapes in the growing dark. They toss their heads and snort as I weave through them. Everything is so dark now. Black lumps could be bushes or boulders or people. If only I had more light!
I agreed not to use my Godstone unless things became desperate, to save my strength in case someone needed healing, but surely this is desperate enough. I draw on the zafira, and my daggers begin to glow. The light catches on something ahead—rope wrapped around a tree trunk, bright against the bark. I snuff the power inside me, and the world goes dark again as I rush forward.
“Hector?” I whisper.
A gasp. Then . . . “Elisa?”
I drop to my knees and attack the rope with my dagger. The sounds of battle are growing furious. “Are you injured? Can you fight?”
“Am I hallucinating?” Oh, his voice. So achingly familiar—deep and slow and precise. But he’s talking from someplace far away.
I smack his shoulder. “I need you in the present moment, Hector. Can you walk, at least?”
He laughs, though it ends in a cough. “Yes, I can walk. I have a broken rib, two broken fingers on my right hand, and a concussion. My shield arm is fine. If you have a spare shield, or even a dagger or short sword—”
“I brought an extra dagger for you. God, this rope! I can’t saw—”
“An Invierno, coming this way. A giant with a very long sword. Please tell me you have a bow?”
I leap to my feet and place myself between Hector and the approaching enemy. He rushes at me, and I plant my legs and center myself the way Storm taught me, drawing strength from the earth, becoming one with it.
The zafira fills me up. I focus it all on the daggers in my hands. They begin to glow, revealing the desperate face of my attacker and the long line of steel in his right hand.
I swing my right dagger around my head and slingshot a firebolt toward him. He dodges left, and it grazes his shoulder. But he keeps coming.
I sling a smaller dart from my weaker left. It hits him square in the belly, and he bends over, his tunic blackening. Still, he stumbles forward.
The power is draining from me. I don’t have time to gather more.
“Watch the sword arm!” Hector yells.
The Invierno raises his blade. Time slows. I know exactly what to do.
I block with my left dagger—just like Belén taught me—while thrusting with my right. I take him deep in the belly as the impact shivers down my forearm and pounds my shoulder socket. I jerk upward with my dagger until the blade lodges in the bone of his sternum. His sword clatters to the ground.
I try to yank my dagger out, but it’s stuck. He topples, his hot blood pouring over my hand. I put the flat of my foot against his ruined belly and shove him off. My dagger jerks free, and I stumble backward. Five.
The earth sways. I spent too much magic too quickly. Or maybe I’m trembling because I just flayed open a man’s belly. I stagger toward Hector and fall to my knees beside him, gasping. “These ropes. Too tough. I can burn them, but need a moment to . . .” My voice trails away as finally, finally, I look at him.
His gaunt face is covered in a curling beard, his left eye is swollen shut, his lips are cracked and peeling. But he stares at me with the same intensity as always, and it feels like coming home. I reach up with a forefinger and gently trace his eyebrow.
“Elisa,” he whispers. “I need you in the present moment.”