Page 83 of Arranged For the Dark Elf

Cold spreads from the old wound. It reaches between my ribs, sharp enough to disrupt the next breath. I lock the sensation behind control and turn toward the lower slope.

Fiona remains mounted within the ring of guards.

She is not screaming. She is not staring at the blood or the bodies. Her pale blue eyes follow the road, the cliff, and the dark shapes moving beneath us.

A waira breaks through the rear line.

It strikes a guard’s shield and drives him against a pack equus. The animal rears, tearing the lead rope from another soldier’s hands. Fiona leans from her saddle and catches the loose rope before the equus can bolt over the edge.

“Release it,” I order.

“It carries the medical supplies.”

“I said release it.”

Instead, she winds the rope around her saddle horn and guides both equus away from the cliff.

The waira lunges again.

Joran’s blade opens its throat.

“Six above,” he calls. “At least eight below.”

The pain beneath my scar deepens. Heavy magic feeds it, waking the curse embedded in flesh a decade ago. My own power recoils whenever I direct it toward the wound. Chaos can break stone and unmake living bodies, but it cannot touch the necromancer’s mark without turning against me.

I ignore it.

A creature launches itself over the shields.

I catch it in midair with a twisting strand of magic and drive it into the mountainside. Stone cracks beneath the impact.

Another replaces it.

The waira are not retreating from my power. Hunger might overcome fear in one or two. This many pressing forward means something beyond hunger drives them.

“Rhysandir,” Fiona calls.

“Remain inside the line.”