sword from its sheath.
She heard the surprised gasps and cries of her siblings and the startled stomping of the mercenaries’ horses, but she ignored it all.
Even as the mercenaries yelled at her, even as they readied their attack, she kept her focus and tossed the sword back to her mother.
Gemma crouched down and turned the headless bodies over so that both were chest down. She pressed a hand on the back of each, lowered her body a bit, and kept her gaze focused on the grass beneath them. With a growl, she began the chant.
“Gemma,” her mother urged. “Get on with it.”
But Gemma blocked her out. She had to. Even as she heard the hooves powering nearer, she kept her focus.
The chant completed, she quickly got to her feet and faced the killers riding toward her.
Closer and closer they got until the headless bodies moved....
The horses reacted before the men riding them, rearing up, and colliding into one another as they attempted to get away; fighting their riders’ demands to move forward.
As the mercenaries fought to stay on their mounts, Gemma reached for the collar of her white robe and untied it. Loosening it, she grabbed the two sides and pulled hard, ripping the garment in two.
She stepped out of it, and the first mercenary who managed to get his horse under control saw her . . . and stared. In horror.
After a few seconds, he began screaming. Loud enough that everyone could hear. Everyone would know.
“War Monk! She’s a War Monk! WAR MONK!”
* * *
The first of the new soldiers came at her, his sword raised. Keeley gripped the end of her hammer with one hand, and the head with the other. She lifted her hammer up. The soldier began to bring the sword down, but then he screamed out, his back arching, his eyes going wide as a blade tore through his chest, and blood splattered Keeley’s startled face.
The sword was torn out and the body fell, revealing Caid the Amichai.
He barely glanced at her before he slaughtered the other soldiers who’d come for her. Slashing and stabbing with brutal efficiency. When the soldiers lay dead or dying, he returned to her and the gray mare.
He glanced at the gray stallion. “I’m sorry about your friend.”
Keeley nodded. “Are there more?” she asked, pointing to the soldiers at their feet.
“Many more.”
“I see. All for my sister?”
“Yes.”
“From where?”
“They’ve sent smaller units to surround your family’s farm. But the main force is marching head-on. They’ll be coming over that hill.”
Keeley hefted the head of her hammer onto her shoulder. “All right then.”
She started off toward the hill, but Caid’s voice followed her.
“I thought you wanted to see.”
“Wanted to see what?”
“What I really look like.”
Keeley stopped, realizing the gray mare was right beside her. Together they faced Caid.
He still appeared as a human but already she saw that his eyes were different. Glowing gold in the morning suns that had come up over the hill.
Then he began to grow . . . up. His torso lifted tall, stretching a bit, even widening. And beneath his torso, his legs went from human to horse. Even his kilt turned into a horse’s bridle seconds before two more legs appeared as that part of his body stretched and grew massive. Bigger than any warhorse she’d ever seen.
The gray mare pawed the ground with one hoof and her head swung hard, her long hair hitting Keeley in the face. But it didn’t stop her from seeing.
His body stopped growing, finally. But then, from the sides of his head . . . antlers. Not massive ones to herald he was a male, but big and strong enough to be weapons.
His mouth relaxed a bit and she saw white and long powerful fangs.
Caid stared at her with those golden eyes and waited. If he was expecting her to run from him—she didn’t have time.
“I have to do something,” she told him, starting again toward the hill. “I hope you don’t hate me when I’m done.”
She patted the gray mare’s neck. “And you too, my friend.”
* * *
Laila and her unit had gotten up before the suns rose. Together, they’d silently made their way to a nearby lake that Caid knew about. There, they’d discussed next moves. Especially if the family decided to fight them on taking Beatrix to the witches.
Her father’s original plan had been to just take the young woman, but her mother had stomped that decision into the ground. And Laila had agreed. Morally.
Now, though, as