The Drowned Woods (69)

Mer sank to her knees, shoved her fingers into the damp earth and called to her magic.

The soil beneath Renfrew’s feet suddenly turned to mud. He began to sink into it, staggered to escape the sucking mire, and nearly stepped into the jars of black powder. Gryf made a wordless sound of alarm, and Renfrew stumbled away, finally catching his balance. His arm came up, the crossbow at the ready, but Ifanna was moving, too.

Ifanna had always had good aim, whether it was tossing pebbles at a window or skipping rocks along a river. She reached down, seized a small rock the size of a child’s fist, and threw it. The rock cracked into Renfrew’s wrist, sending the crossbow flying. A curse ripped from his lips and he turned to retrieve it with his uninjured hand. His foot hit the muddy ground and he slipped, falling to one side.

Ifanna darted around the pool. Nimble and quick, she dug a hand into the ground and threw a fistful of mud at Gryf’s eyes. It spattered across his face and he dropped a jar of powder, fingers trying to scrape the dirt from his eye and mouth.

Mer turned her attention to those jars. They were the true danger—if she could swallow them up in mud, she could stop this. She called to the water in the soil, draining it from tree roots and plants. Nothing else mattered—she had to stop Renfrew.

The ground beneath the powder jars began to bubble like that of a swamp.

Renfrew stepped forward but Ifanna slammed her fist into the back of his knee, driving him to the ground. For all that she’d disdained fighting on jobs, she did have some experience. Her mothers had insisted on it. Mer had sparred with her a few times, mostly laughing and mischievously sneaking a few kisses. Ifanna had grinned her fox’s smile and stolen Mer’s coin from her pocket to buy them both sweet rolls.

Now, there was nothing playful in the set of Ifanna’s mouth. She lunged for the fallen crossbow.

Renfrew seized her by the ankle and gave a terrible yank. Ifanna fell, and the sound of her body slamming into the forest floor made Mer wince. A knife flicked into Renfrew’s fingers and he slashed downward at the back of Ifanna’s leg, likely intending to slice across muscles and tendons, rendering her unable to walk.

Ifanna kicked out, more in panic than true skill, but her heel knocked into Renfrew’s elbow, deflecting the knife. She scurried backward.

Mer wished to help, but her own attention was focused on the small swamp she’d been creating. The jars were half-sunk in the mire when Gryf recovered. He threw himself flat upon the soggy ground, using the breadth of his body to keep from sinking. He plucked several jars free, even as one slipped deep into the mud. He rolled away, saving most of the them.

Mer rose to her feet, releasing her hold on the water. She seized the small throwing knife at her belt, aiming it at Gryf’s face. He ducked but the blade struck him across the ear. Blood spilled down one cheek, but he didn’t seem to notice.

Having shoved the jars onto solid ground, he charged toward Mer. Gryf had not been trained to fight; she could see from the way he raised his fists and how he stood that all his fights had been in tavern brawls. But he also weighed nearly twice what she did—and he stood a good head taller.

And he was rather motivated.

He threw a punch at Mer’s head. She darted beneath the blow, ducking under his arm and seizing it in the same moment. Using his weight against him, she wrenched him forward and drove a second knife at the back of his arm.

Gryf turned his fall into a roll, coming up a few strides away. Mer sucked in a sharp breath as his long leg lashed out, slamming into the side of her knee with bone-jarring force. She fell, landing hard on her right hand. The blade twisted from her fingers and she snarled, scrabbling for it in the damp grass.

Gryf tried to stomp on her hand. She yanked her fingers back, but she still felt the whisper of leather across the back of her knuckles. She found the knife and lashed out with more luck than aim. The knife sliced through his trousers and he hissed in pain and stepped back. The problem with knives was that they didn’t have the reach of a sword. Mer kept the point of the blade aimed at him as she rose to her feet.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “If it means anything at all, I’m sorry.”

“Tell it to the dead,” he said coldly. He lunged for her and she darted to the left—but her foot slipped.

Gryf slammed into her. It felt like being driven to the ground by a bull. Blows rained down upon her and Mer swung out with her knife.

He seized her wrist and drove her hand into the ground once, twice, and then her numb fingers let the weapon slip free. Her ribs ached and her head throbbed from using so much magic. She needed water and rest and all she wanted was to close her eyes and be away from all of this.

Gryf picked up the knife, his knee pressing hard against her chest. She felt like a mouse, trapped beneath a cat’s paw, waiting for the final blow. Sunlight glittered on the knife and he drove the point down.

Ifanna came out of nowhere.

She seized his arm, yanking him back. His weight came off of Mer and she gasped, pain flaring in her ribs. She rolled onto her side, pulling her last knife from her belt. She turned toward Gryf and Ifanna, but Renfrew’s voice rang out.

“Mer, wait.”

She looked at him. It took everything in her, but she looked at him. At the man who’d both been and not been her father. At the man who’d raised her, sharpened her into a weapon and turned her against Garanhir.

The knife in her hand shook. Her fury burned hot, but he was still Renfrew. Still the man who’d taught her everything—and part of her shied away from the thought of fighting him.