catches on a fallen tree and I fall headlong over it, the impact of the ground making my teeth ring. When I look up it’s in time to see a rock land ten feet away. If I’d still been running…
I roll and then scramble to the left, making for a dense thicket of larches, praying all the time that Silas, or someone, anyone, will come, as I hear the men gaining on me.
When I break through the larches I almost crash into more of them, a wall of ten or so green tunics, swords raised, charging towards me, ignoring me, running past me, and I turn in confusion to see that my pursuers weren’t soldiers at all but a group of men, fifteen or so, dressed in black and bearing down on us, spears and swords held in their hands as they hack at the line of soldiers between me and them. Their faces are covered with scarves, their armour mismatched, but there’s no mistaking the malice in their intentions.
One of the soldiers darts back to me, grabbing my arm and pulling me away from the melee. The sounds of battle echo through the trees, screams and shouts, metal clanging on metal. The air smells metallic too, and when I risk another glance back I see fire on the tips of some of the spears, fire raining down haphazardly from arrows. One of the soldiers is struck, and falls motionless into the dead leaves. I gasp, and then the ground is rising up towards my face and I have to throw my hands in front of me to stop myself from crashing for a second time into the mulch of the forest floor.
“Get up, miss,” the soldier barks, “unless you wish to die here.”
“I’m sorry,” I gasp, struggling to my feet. Then I look up and my jaw drops in shock. The soldier addressing me wears a blue sash, and he grips his sword so tightly that I can see the corded tendons in his wrist, stark beneath the raised scars made by the touch of hot metal. Last I saw him, four moons ago, he was a boy, like Lief. His dark cheeks were smooth, his brown eyes wide with fear and hope as he asked my best friend to go to the harvest dance with him.
The man before me wears a dented iron helmet, there is stubble on his chin, and even the planes of his face have altered, sharper and stronger somehow. His eyes are bright, but not with hope; with alertness, darting left to right over my head.
“Is it you?” I ask, unable to believe this lost link to my past is right in front of me.
Recognition blooms across his face and a smile begins to form. “Errin?” he asks, and I nod.
Then that terrible whirring sound again and he stumbles forward, landing on his stomach with a surprised groan.
Protruding from the back of his leg is a flaming arrow.
“Kirin? Kirin, no!” I scream, my hands outstretched towards the arrow already burning itself out. It’s then I realize my knife is still in my hand, that it has been all along, gripped so tightly the casing of the hilt has left welts across my palm.
“Keep moving, Errin, don’t stop,” Kirin Doglass says as he pushes himself back to his feet with a grunt and pulls me away, the action behind us getting louder, closer.
Arrows still fly past us, landing in the earth, and I keep my head ducked, both of us stumbling left, then right, in a bid to stay out of their paths. He half hops, half limps, his teeth gritted, his eyes on the trees ahead. I don’t look back, though I’m desperate to see if the soldiers are holding their own. The sound of sword against sword now echoes through the forest, and panic rises in me. What if they lose? I shake the thought away and move to Kirin’s side, putting my arm around his waist, helping him stagger through the now-endless forest, hardly daring to believe it when I see the end of the woods.
Only when we’re clear of the treeline does he slump to the ground, his jaw set, his eyes burning in his pallid face, his pierced leg before him.
“We have to keep going,” I say urgently, glancing behind me, sure at any moment we’ll be overrun.
“Can’t.”
“There might be golems.”
“No,” he gasps.
“You don’t know—”
“Errin.” It’s a command. “I need you to pull the arrow out.” His teeth are gritted.