The Drowned Woods (72)

Ysgithyrwyn.

The chief of boars.

Gryf’s arm fell slack to his side as he gazed at the creature. Ifanna darted out of his grip and ran to Mer’s side. The act drew the boar’s attention.

Such a large creature should have lumbered, but the boar moved faster than Mer’s eyes could follow.

The boar lunged forward and sank one sharp tusk into Gryf’s chest.

No one moved to help him. No one dared so much as draw a breath.

Gryf opened his mouth—and blood spilled across his chin, dribbling into his shirt. His face was blanched of all color, his eyes strangely glassy. The boar had killed him—Gryf was dead, even if his heart was still beating. It was only a matter of time.

There was a terrible power and grace in the boar’s movement. It gave a jerk of its head, yanking its tusk free. Gryf fell limply to the ground.

Then Ysgithyrwyn opened its mouth and bellowed.

The sound shattered the stunned silence; Mer’s heart tore into a frenzied gallop. It was the kind of roar that sent prey scattering, that made flocks of birds take to the air, that would have had hardened soldiers quaking.

The boar charged at Renfrew. Renfrew dove, rolling out of the boar’s path and coming up with the crossbow in hand. He fired off a bolt, but it glanced off the boar’s heaving shoulder.

Ifanna didn’t even try to fight; she leapt and grabbed a tree branch, swinging her legs and pulling herself upward and out of the boar’s charge. Mer recoiled, holding her knife even as she realized it would be as useful as a twig. A small knife would not even pierce its hide.

A hand landed upon Mer’s shoulder. She looked over and saw Fane, his face tight with dismay, as he pulled her out of harm’s way. Spatters of the Wellspring water still clung to him, and when they touched Mer’s bare skin, it felt like being struck by tiny bolts of lightning. Power surged into her, making her muscles clench up. It wasn’t her magic, but it was still magic—coaxing her power to the surface, riling it up the way a person might tease a hound.

Mer squeezed her eyes shut for a heartbeat. She sensed the water in the air, the soggy soil, and the beads of foam at the boar’s mouth.

It was all water. She had to use it.

The boar rounded on Renfrew, snorting as it lowered its head and charged a second time.

Mer raised her hand, called to the water in the ground, and froze it beneath the boar’s cloven hooves. Renfrew lunged to one side as the boar suddenly found itself veering out of control. The creature was so large that its weight worked against it. Ysgithyrwyn slammed into the trees with such force that one of them cracked.

Ifanna let out a wordless, startled noise as the tree she’d been clinging to gave a mighty lurch. She fell to the icy ground and tried to stand, but her feet went out from under her. She shifted onto hands and knees and began trying to scurry away. Ysgithyrwyn heaved itself upright, snorting billows of steam in its fury. Pulling free of the undergrowth, the boar turned upon Ifanna. Its golden eyes were molten with fury. It lunged forward, but Ifanna rolled, her arm lashing out. Something silver glinted in her hand, and Mer realized it was the fallen crossbow bolt. Ifanna opened up a small line of blood on the boar’s belly.

One of the boar’s hooves stomped down so close to Ifanna’s leg that for a moment Mer thought the blow connected. Such a strike would have flayed open flesh and muscle, likely to the bone. Ifanna rolled again, this time dodging a tusk. In a moment, she’d be wounded—or dead, just like Emrick and Gryf.

Mer called to the water in the boar’s eyes. But this time, she did not freeze it.

She boiled it.

Ysgithyrwyn roared. The boar’s scream was inhuman, utterly monstrous and loud enough that the birds overhead all took to the air. The boar pawed at its face, trying to rid itself of the sudden agony.

“Do something!” Mer cried, glancing at Fane.

He stood beside her, his body poised as if to fight—or run. She couldn’t tell which. Trefor was at his ankles, lips peeled back and body vibrating with a growl.

“I cannot,” said Fane. “If I fight that thing, I’ll die. And I swore to return to Annwvyn.”

“Then what good are you?” Mer turned her attention back to the boar. Ifanna scrambled away, rounding the pool and rushing toward Mer. Her hair was tangled and face bloodless, but she looked unhurt. “We have to go now!”

“I am in full support of this plan,” gasped Ifanna. She leaned on her knees for support, breaths coming hard. “How?”

The boar writhed and screamed, but Mer’s hold on the magic was beginning to wane. Ysgithyrwyn snorted and rubbed his face on the grass, wiping away the burning moisture. Renfrew was nearest the creature; he had gone back for the jars of black powder, and they were bundled into his cloak. He raised a crossbow with his free hand and fired.

The bolt sank into the flesh of Ysgithyrwyn’s snout. He roared again, thrashing from side to side, his swollen eyes on Renfrew.

And that was when Mer realized what she had to do.

It was an unforgivable thought.

Because it was what Renfrew would have done.

“Run,” said Mer urgently. “Both of you—go east, now. Don’t look back. I’ll catch up in a moment.”

Ifanna hesitated but Mer gave her a hard shove. “Go,” she snapped. “Trust me.”

Ifanna turned and sprinted out of the grove. Fane lingered a heartbeat longer, his gaze heavy on Mer’s. As if he knew what she intended. Then he, too, was running with Trefor at his heels and a small cooking pot bouncing at his side.