I lay into him, punching him first in the gut, and then in the face.
Gut and face. Gut and face.
I get a rhythm going while he continues to pound from the back and squeeze his eyes shut against Feve’s raking fingers.
Buff always said I had a head harder than an ice sculpture, on account of how many bar fights I won with my signature finishing maneuver. I crank it up now, still pounding away with my fists, leaning my head back slightly, waiting for the perfect moment…
Feve’s hands slip away from the rider’s face as he’s crushed underneath him. I snap my head forward, butting the rider’s skull like a goat defending my young. I hit him so hard—too hard probably—seeing stars myself and feeling an instant throb in my temples, but my pain’s nothing compared to what the rider’s feeling. He screams, clutching at his forehead, wailing something fierce. Then he stops screaming and lies unconscious.
I pull and Feve pushes and we get the rider offa him. We look at each other and it’s one of those moments when you think you should say something, but it’s impossible because another rider’s swooping in and you’re both dead if you don’t get your arses in gear.
Feve cracks a strange grin, dives for the snow, somehow finds his sword, slashes at the rider, and knocks him off his horse, which keeps on running without him. When I just stand there, Feve yells, “Go!” and I take off, sprinting in the direction I last saw Skye.
But she’s not there anymore and any path is all closed up. There are so many bodies, alive and standing and fighting, dead and crumpled and broken, that I don’t see how I’ll get through them all. Then I spot them, Skye and Siena and Wilde, and now Circ too, moving off to the side, looking back for me and Feve. Skye spots me.
She waves me over and I run, run, run, ignoring a fallen guard with a sword in his gut who cries out for help from the ground, leap over the lean flanks of an injured horse, which blows steam out of its nose, whinnying in pain, give a wide berth to an axe-wielding guard who’s facing off against a sword-swinging rider.
While Siena continues to let arrows fly at anything that gets close, Skye, Circ and Wilde hack their way to the wall. And then Feve is with us again, still grinning, his sword slick with red.
We move along the palace wall, only having to fight foes on one side now, which makes all the difference. None of the guards or riders get anywhere near me, because the others are so good at keeping them away. We inch our way forward, skirting the battle, which continues to rage hot and fierce, neither side seeming to gain an advantage. Small wooden supply structures burn along the edge—the source of all the smoke we saw earlier—but we run past them, barely feeling the heat.
I’m coming. I’m coming, Jolie.
We reach the pillars that hold up the roof just before the palace entrance. A wall of guards blocks the way, fifteen, twenny of them. Too many to fight our way through.
But it’s not just us. The riders want to get through just as badly.
A half a dozen riders charge the line.
We charge the line.
Chapter Thirty-One
An axe arcs over my ducking head.
I raise a heavy boot and kick the guard in the midsection, launching him back into a mess of other guards who are attempting to hold off a pair of riders.
Something slices at me from the other side and I turn too late, only seeing the rider’s sword in time to watch it cut me into Dazz-steaks.
But then he slumps over before he can finish his swing, dropping his sword at my feet. His horse keeps running and I see the arrow sticking from the rider’s back as he passes. Siena stands back a ways, wearing my coat, bow strung with a new arrow, as if saving my life was just a small act, and she’s already pushed it from her mind. Her arrow flies and pierces the shoulder of a guard who’s fighting Circ. The guard staggers back and Circ slashes him down, flashing a smile in Siena’s direction.
I search frantically for an opening in the mess of bodies, but it’s all just violence and falling snow and armor and swords and—
There.
A rider cuts down three guards in quick succession, splitting the wall of men in half. He charges through, riding right into the palace. He’s going for the king!
Jolie! I scream in my head as I charge through the gap, ignoring the killing that continues on either side. I’m two steps from the door, two steps from getting inside, but then I see him.
A rider, hot exhalation steaming from both his and his horse’s mouths, galloping toward me, sword raised. It’s the same rider who cut down Buff’s father, who let my mother and Buff’s brothers and sisters live. The merciful murderer.
Heat flares up in my chest as I charge him.
~~~
When we’re so close that I can see the individual spots of blood on his sword, I dive to the side, narrowly avoiding getting trampled by his horse, which pulls up sharply, lifting its hoofs in the air, bucking at something that’s spooked it.
With a cry, the rider falls back, tumbling off and landing awkwardly. The horse returns to all fours and gallops away, leaving a clear view beyond. Skye stands stalwart, her blade raised, her brown skin steaming in the cold as her sweat vaporizes the moment it leaves her skin.
I stride toward the fallen rider, but Skye says, “Go. Save your sister.”
I glance at the rider, who’s struggling to his feet, looking dazed, then back at Skye. She walks toward him.
I run through the doorway.
Tapestries flash past me as I run, full of blood and dark men and violence—all of it having come to life just outside the doors. One of them, the one depicting the battle between the people living on the water and the riders, is shredded in half, each side hanging limply from its frame. Sliced by the rider who already came through.
Fear rises up, dwarfed only by the red hot anger that continues to pulse through my veins. As I pass the throne room I can’t hold back the images. Wes in chains, being led into the dungeons; Wes holding his bloody gut; Goff on the wall holding my sister. Goff. Icin’ freezin’ Goff.
The fear disappears and I’m all anger and it’s okay—it’s okay this time. Necessary. Right, even.
The steps to the dungeon go by on my left and I keep running. A ceramic vase lies broken in jagged shards on the floor. Knocked over by a horse that’s not used to running inside?
I turn a corner to find a staircase and a horse. The horse chews on something, ignoring me, as if I’m just another person and today’s just another day. The stairs wind up and up. A tower staircase. The central palace tower, the one that splits the clouds and allows the king to see the sun even in the worst storms, like the one today.
Rushing by the horse, I take the steps two at a time, tripping once, banging my knee, but scrambling with my hands to stay on my feet. Two steps, two steps, curving, climbing, around and around and around. Higher and higher, my lungs burning, my mouth dry, my hands fisted, higher and higher.
There are windows every twenny or so steps, but I can’t see anything except gray and white.
Higher and higher, around and around.
My legs are aching, not in one place, but in every place—but that’s nothing. Nothing.
I realize I’m speaking out loud between ragged, heaving breaths. “Jolie. I’m coming. I’m coming, Jolie. Don’t hurt her. Don’t. I’m coming.”
I don’t stop running or mumbling. Both things are all I have and they give me hope.
I reach a landing and there’s a door, a vacant room beyond. I keep going.
My legs aren’t working the way they should and I have to switch to one step at a time. With each stride they protest, but I tell them Only one more step, and then I take it. Repeating my empty promise, I take another. And another. And another.
Just when I think the tower goes even higher than they say, stretching all the way to the stars, I step onto a landing. My head’s down, between my knees, but I manage to tilt my chin enough to look up. And there aren’t any more stairs. Just a stone ceiling.