They plowed into the lines of the Yellowlegs, breaking them apart, scattering them.
The Yellowlegs might have had the advantage of surprise, but the Thirteen were masters of war.
Crochans tumbled from the skies as they were struck by brutal, spiked tails. Some not even tumbling at all as they came face-to-face with enormous maws and did not emerge again.
“Clear out!” Manon’s barked order carried over the fray. “Form lines low to the ground!”
Not an order for the Thirteen, but the Crochans.
Glennis shouted, some magic no doubt amplifying her voice, “Follow her command!”
Just like that, the Crochans fell back, forming a solid unit in the air above the tents.
They watched as Abraxos ripped the throat from a bull twice his size, and Manon fired an arrow through the rider’s face. Watched as the green-eyed demon twins rounded up three wyverns between them and sent them crashing onto the mountainsides. Watched as Asterin’s blue mare ripped a rider from the saddle, then ripped part of the spine from the wyvern beneath her.
Each of the Thirteen marked a target with every swipe through the gathered attackers.
The Yellowlegs had no such organization.
The Yellowlegs sentinels who tried to break from the Thirteen’s path to attack the Crochans below found a wall of arrows meeting them.
The wyverns might have survived, but the riders did not.
And with a few careful maneuvers, the riderless beasts found themselves with throats cut, blood streaming as they crashed onto the nearby peaks.
Pity mingled with the fear and rage in his heart.
How many of those beasts might have been like Abraxos, had they good riders who loved them?
It was surprisingly hard to blast his magic at the wyvern who managed to sail overhead, aiming right for Glennis, another wyvern on its tail.
He made it an easy death, snapping the beast’s neck with a burst of his power that left him panting.
He whipped his magic toward the second attacking wyvern, offering it the same quick end, but didn’t see the third and fourth that now crashed into the camp, wrecking tents and snapping their jaws at anything in their path. Crochans fell, screaming.
But then Manon was there, Abraxos sailing hard and fast, and she lopped off the head of the nearest rider. The Yellowlegs sentinel still wore an expression of shock as her head flew.
Dorian’s magic balked.
The severed head hit the ground near him and rolled.
A room flashed, the red marble stained with blood, the thud of a head on stone the only sound beyond his screaming.
I was not supposed to love you.
The Yellowlegs’s head halted near his boots, the blue blood gushing onto the snow and dirt.
He didn’t hear, didn’t care, that the fourth wyvern soared toward him.
Manon bellowed his name, and Crochan arrows fired.
The Yellowlegs sentinel’s eyes stared at no one, nothing.
A gaping maw opened before him, jaws stretching wide.
Manon screamed his name again, but he couldn’t move.
The wyvern swept down, and darkness yawned wide as those jaws closed around him.
As Dorian let his magic rip free of its tethers.
One heartbeat, the wyvern was swallowing him whole, its rancid breath staining the air.
The next, the beast was on the ground, corpse steaming.
Steaming, from what he’d done to it.
Not to it, but to himself.
The body he’d turned into solid flame, so hot it had melted through the wyvern’s jaws, its throat, and he had passed through the beast’s mouth as if it were nothing but a cobweb.
The Yellowlegs rider who’d survived the crash drew her sword, but too late. Glennis put an arrow through her throat.
Silence fell. Even the battle above died out.
The Thirteen landed, splattered in blue and black blood. So different from Sorscha’s red blood—his own red blood.
Then there were iron-tipped hands gripping his shoulders, and gold eyes glaring into his own. “Are you daft?”
He only glanced to the Yellowlegs witch’s head, still feet away. Manon’s own gaze turned toward it. Her mouth tightened, then she let go of him and whirled to Glennis. “I’m sending out my Shadows to scout for others.”
“Any enemy survivors?” Glennis scanned the empty skies. Whether his magic surprised them, shocked them, neither Glennis nor the Crochans rushing to tend to their wounded let on.
“All dead,” Manon said.
But the dark-haired Crochan who’d first intercepted them stormed at Manon, her sword out. “You did this.”
Dorian gripped Damaris, but made no move to draw it. Not while Manon didn’t back down. “Saved your asses? Yes, I’d say we did.”
The witch seethed. “You led them here.”
“Bronwen,” Glennis warned, wiping blue blood from her face.
The young witch—Bronwen—bristled. “You think it mere coincidence that they arrive, and then we’re attacked?”
“They fought with us, not against us,” Glennis said. She turned to Manon. “Do you swear it?”
Manon’s golden eyes glowed in the firelight. “I swear it. I did not lead them here.”
Glennis nodded, but Dorian stared at Manon.
Damaris had gone cold as ice. So cold the golden hilt bit into his skin.
Glennis, somehow satisfied, nodded again. “Then we shall talk—later.”
Bronwen spat on the bloody ground and prowled off.
A lie. Manon had lied.
She arched a brow at him, but Dorian turned away. Let the knowledge settle into him. What she’d done.
Thus began a series of orders and movements, gathering the injured and dead. Dorian helped as best he could, healing those who needed it most. Open, gaping wounds that leaked blue blood onto his hands.
The warmth of that blood didn’t reach him.
CHAPTER 15
She was a liar, and a killer, and would likely have to be both again before this was through.
But Manon had no regrets about what she’d done. Had no room in her for regret. Not with time bearing down on them, not with so much resting on their shoulders.
For long hours while they worked to repair camp and Crochans, Manon monitored the frosty skies.
Eight dead. It could have been worse. Much worse. Though she would take the lives of those eight Crochans with her, learn their names so she might remember them.
Manon spent the long night helping the Thirteen haul the fallen wyverns and Ironteeth riders to another ridge. The ground was too hard to bury them, and pyres would be too easily marked, so they opted for snow. She didn’t dare ask Dorian to use his power to assist them.
She’d seen that look in his eyes. Like he knew.
Manon dumped a stiff Yellowlegs body, the sentinel’s lips already blue, ice crusted in her blond hair. Asterin hauled a stout-bodied rider toward her by the boots, then deposited the witch with little fanfare.
But Manon stared at their dead faces. She’d sacrificed them, too.
Both sides of this conflict. Both of her bloodlines.
All would bleed; too many would die.
Would Glennis have welcomed them? Perhaps, but the other Crochans hadn’t seemed so inclined to do so.
And the fact remained that they did not have the time to waste in wooing them. So she’d picked the only method she knew: battle. Had soared off on her own earlier that day, to where she knew Ironteeth would be patrolling nearby, waited until the great northern wind carried her scent southward. And then bided her time.
“Did you know them?” Asterin asked when Manon remained staring at a fallen sentinel’s body. Down the line of them, the wyverns used their wings to brush great drifts of snow over the corpses.
“No,” Manon said. “I didn’t.”