“You’re one of those nuns, isn’t that right?” one of them asked.
“Never had a nun before,” the other one said.
“Oh, gentlemen,” Gemma sighed. “You disappoint me and my gods, greatly.”
* * *
Angus worked his way through the muck of the pigsty. He knew most were disgusted by such work. Most of his children were, but not him. He loved pigs! They were so friendly and funny. Each with its own personality, its own quirks.
So when they began squealing and running—panicking, actually—he knew something was very wrong.
Busy petting one of the pigs, crouched beside the animal before it took off running with the others, Angus simply looked over his shoulder. A unit of archers watched him, their bows nocked, the arrows aimed at him. And he didn’t think they had orders to bring him in alive.
“Oh . . . fuck.”
* * *
“Did the Devourer tell you to do this?” Keeley asked, gesturing to the body of the gray stallion. “To kill my friend?”
“He made too much noise. It was like he was trying to warn you.”
Keeley felt pain wash over her again. “He was. He was trying to warn me. And you killed him. And for what? Because the Devourer told you to kill a girl?”
“He’ll be king, you know. And we’ll be rich.”
“If you wanted to be rich, lads, you shouldn’t have come here.” Keeley gave a small shrug. “Actually, the last thing you should have ever done . . . was come here.”
* * *
Emma now stood on the far side of the table, staring at the men who’d invaded her home.
“You can keep moving away from us,” one of the soldiers said.
“But it will only be worse for you when we catch you.”
“I’m not running,” she told them. “Me old gran would turn in her grave if she ever knew I’d run from worthless cunts like you.”
That’s when they charged. So she gripped the end of the table and lifted, shoved, and flipped it, using the strength she still had from her blacksmith days. Her power sent it across the room, slamming into the men and knocking them to the ground.
* * *
Angus dove into one of the cast-iron pig troughs his wife had made for him their first year on the farm. He landed, grabbed the sides, and rolled it over on top of him. Arrows hit the trough and bounced off. He waited for the ping of the last one hitting and then he pitched the trough at the archers.
Hearing it strike its mark, then the barks and gasps of men’s pain, he jumped to his feet and, with a scream of soldier’s rage, Angus Farmerson ran full force into his enemies.
* * *
Feet repeatedly struck Keran, hitting her in the sides and legs and back, but she kept her head protected as best she could by curling into a ball.
She heard a male roar and felt bodies land beside her. Lifting her head a bit, she saw that Samuel had thrown himself at two of the men. Now they were down to four.
Four she could handle.
The kicks to her body continued but she waited until one reached her right shoulder, striking and striking again. When the foot pulled back for another kick, she reached out, grabbed it behind the ankle, and yanked.
The man fell and Keran quickly rolled over him. She got to her feet, clearly surprising the men as they stopped their attacks to gawk.
She grinned. From her first time in the pit she’d been beaten nearly every day, by men and women mightier and meaner than this lot.
Lifting her foot, she rammed it into the face of the man she’d climbed over, enjoying the sound of the crunch and the gurgling that followed.
“All right, lads,” she said, pushing a slightly battered Samuel behind her. “Who’s first?”
* * *
Emma ran to the table and yanked free one of the two short swords she’d strapped to the bottom of it.
The soldiers were just attempting to get out from under it, so she stepped on the wood, pressing it down to pin them there—at least for a few more seconds—and swung her weapon. She cut the throat of one, hacked off the arm and part of the scalp of another.
The last had gotten to his feet. Emma spun and swung her weapon again. The steel blade she’d created herself years ago imbedded itself in his skin, and fresh blood spurted out, hitting her across the face and bare breast.