Earth's End (Air Awakens, #3)(9)

Baston’s pace had slowed, and Vhalla snapped his reins again. This was the first time the beast did not heed her command, and she felt uneasiness settle across her.

Five Northerners still jumped from tree to tree overhead as dawn began to fade into early morning. Vhalla wondered if they were biding their time for rider and mount to tire. If she were they, she’d do the same thing. Baston’s sides heaved with exhaustion.

Their presence began to wear on Vhalla, and she watched them with bated breath, waiting for the next assault. Another hour passed and Baston slowed to a trot; she expected this to be the moment they attacked. But the Northerners held fast, following from welcoming branch to welcoming branch, each bent to meet their feet and hands.

They were toying with her, like cats with a mouse.

It was a game now, a game of who would tire first. Who would make the first mistake that would result in a kill?

Vhalla slowly reached into the bag at her hip—no change above. She spared a moment to glance at the compass; relieved her direction had not changed.

A silent command must have been given around noon and the shrub trees on the forest floor began to close in around her, slithering toward her as though they were alive. Vhalla snapped the reins again and the horse thankfully heeded her demand. She dug deep into her reserves when Baston began to run, putting the wind to his hooves.

Perhaps she would outrun them yet.

Her hope was dashed with a root, sharp as a spear, twisting up from the ground. The horse gave a terrible scream and shuddered, impaled upon the wooden pike. Vhalla cried out, seeing her hopes die with the mount’s steaming blood spattered upon the ground.

This had been the moment her enemy had held out for, and she heard all of them drop at once. Vhalla turned, pulling her leg out of the stirrup. In the same motion, her hand was at her wrist, drawing the only weapon she possessed. Vhalla threw as she fell backwards off the side of Baston. The dagger swung in the wide arc of her hand. It sliced through the first vine and mostly through the second before being caught in the vine’s recoil, bending and breaking in two. But it had done its job, and both Northerners fell.

Vhalla rolled, hearing a faint, weak, beating on the edge of her mind. It was the sound of the heartbeat of the man she was trying to save, protecting her in his own way despite her distance and his injuries.

One Northerner swung back up, but two landed around her. Baston continued to stomp his last protests, trying to writhe free of the barb that was slowly killing him.

“Wind Demon,” the man growled, his sword at her chin. The other Northerner was behind her. He allowed Vhalla to sit, which was his first mistake. He spat a few words at her in a language she didn’t understand, and Vhalla took the opportunity to twist her wrist and magically jerk the sword from his hand. Vhalla turned her head and watched it impale the eye of the Northerner behind her.

A boot met her temple and Vhalla rolled, overcompensating for the man’s second sword plunging into the ground next to her. Vhalla grasped the weapon from the fallen Northerner’s face, then stood on shaky legs. The man took a careful step in a wide arc, and the forest seemed to hold its breath as she stared him down.

The tension quivered, then broke.

Vhalla lunged, letting the man disarm her. He grinned wildly in false triumph and Vhalla’s palm clamped over his mouth. His face exploded with Vhalla’s cry of anguish as she forced every last ounce of power she had in her down his throat and outward. Covered in blood, shaking, Vhalla turned her eyes skyward.

“Run!” she screamed. “Run or suffer the fate of your friends.” The last warrior hovered in the trees above her. Vhalla didn’t know if they understood her words, but she knew what they had seen.

“Run fast, for you will need to outrun the wind!”

Vhalla clenched her fists and stood as tall as she was able. The blood of the man she had killed decorated her like war paint. It must have made a fearsome picture, for the last pursuer made a tactical retreat.

She watched him go. She watched as the last of the trees bent and swayed in the enemy’s departure. Vhalla was not naive, not anymore. He would leave and return with more men and women. More she would not be able to handle.

There was one thing that stalled her forward progression. Grabbing one of the fell Northerner’s blades, Vhalla hardened her heart completely and drew it across Baston’s throat. A horse had more blood than she expected, and it coated her hands. Vhalla considered the War-strider, the noble steed of Prince Aldrik. Baston deserved to die a quick death rather than lie writhing on the ground in agony. She was beginning to have a suspicion that she would not be so lucky.

Vhalla checked her bag, running her bloody fingers through the papers. They were all accounted for. The compass in hand, Vhalla began her march upon wobbly legs. She stumbled and tripped over roots. After an hour, she collapsed for the first time. Dirt and blood mixed with hopelessness as the real possibility of death closed in upon her.

The image of Aldrik, prone and wounded, flashed before her eyes. Vhalla cursed. Elecia had been right to let Vhalla see him. With a grimace of mad determination, Vhalla pushed herself to her feet once more.

She relished the pain. Vhalla would buy his life from the Gods, her payment being her body if that must be the price. The cruel and unfair Gods, demanding and relentless; Vhalla would have thought that two lovers trapped in an eternal distance as the Mother and Father were would earn her more pity for her plight.