Winter Glass (Spindle Fire #2)(63)

He is here to defend Deluce.

They both are.

Just then, another Vulture lunges at William from behind.

From the widening fear in Gil’s eyes, William must sense the soldier’s approach. He turns just in time, but the Vulture has slashed at the backs of his legs, and midspin, William falls to the mud.

Without thinking, Gil leaps over the prince in defense, staving off the Vulture’s next blow while William gets to his knees.

“Can you stand?” Gil screams, unable to take his eyes off the Vulture to check on the prince. He ducks as the soldier swings feistily at him, and then Gil shoves his shield at the soldier, suddenly moved by the moment—moved by the need to protect the prince at all costs. His focus and drive have returned.

The Vulture is huge. He lumbers back with a growl that briefly unnerves Gil. Remembering the stunned reaction of the previous Vulture, Gil once again goes for the mask, knowing his advantage will be in revealing the man’s face and making him vulnerable. Rain falls hard in his eyes, and Gil knows that one false move will leave him dead. It takes several tries, and he sustains a dizzying blow to the head and the gut, making him stumble and heave, before he slashes through the dense mask, tearing it off the man’s face.

And then he realizes why the hulking figure is so terrifying.

He’s the same man who was sent in to fight Aurora, gladiator style, in LaMorte—and almost killed her. The one the queen called off before he could finish the job. He is no Vulture at all, but another one of the queen’s vicious pets. And Gilbert has witnessed his strength.

But the man, the monster, isn’t after Gil—doesn’t seem to recognize him, or if he does, to care. No, he is after William. The prince. The prize.

They all are. Gil takes in with horror the flood of soldiers—four more Vultures gathering around them now, surrounding him and the prince. They are outnumbered, and William has only just now limped to standing, but he looks like he’s on the brink of collapse. Blood pours from his knees down into his boots, which look bloated with blood and rain. If those wounds fester, the prince will die. Gil feels like he’s going to be sick, but there’s no time to react.

Malfleur’s monster tosses his wild, sand-colored hair and roars like an unleashed beast. Removing his mask doesn’t seem to have softened him at all.

Gil thrusts his sword, terror becoming action, even as he sees from the corner of his eye that the prince has engaged one of the other approaching Vultures.

The man is powerful, and wild. Too wild. Gil thinks of Freckles, the mare no one could tame but Isbe. He realizes his opponent’s wildness could be Gil’s way in. He is disordered, has no real training. Like any wild animal, he might be skittish, hungry, and reactive. Gil feels that, even as the soldier lifts up his war hammer and swings.

Gil barely dodges, then leaps at him, ramming his shoulder into the man’s side to unbalance him, then trying to drive a halberd up through the armpit opening in his armor—but he’s not strong or fast enough, and the man throws him off into the mud. Gil scrambles, frantically scanning the mayhem for a distraction.

He sees the prince is down again, a Vulture on top of him, and Gil rolls to his side, dropping his sword and lunging on top of both men, grabbing the Vulture by his cape and flinging him off Prince William. But just as soon as he has that Vulture restrained, Malfleur’s special soldier comes at him, grinning scarily. Gil is weaponless, but lifts up the struggling Vulture he grabbed, like a shield. The monster launches his weapon at the Vulture Gil is holding—straight at the Vulture’s face—instantly killing one of his own. The man has no allegiance.

The Vulture slumps, his weight now yanking Gil off-balance. He shoves the dead man to the side as the prince leaps up and tackles the monstrous soldier from behind. The soldier roars again, swinging around as the prince’s arms wrap around his throat.

And then time seems to slow as a word carries toward the men on the wind.

“Heath?” A woman’s voice, somehow both soft and piercing.

A startled look comes over the monstrous man as he makes eye contact with whoever cried out his name.

And that pause is all it takes. Gil finds his sword in the mud and slashes it across Heath’s middle.

Heath falls.

Gil throws himself on top of Heath, flipping Heath onto his back and holding him down while the prince pulls a dagger from his boot and plunges it through Heath’s neck, sending a fountain of blood up onto the prince’s mouth and chin, dripping down his chest, as though he has just coughed it up himself. Gil too is covered in Heath’s blood, but there is no time to process, because the other three Vultures are flying at them at once.

And then something strange happens. Their grimaces all seem to freeze on their faces as a flickering sound whizzes over Gil’s head.

All at once, the three of them drop to the ground, and Gil sees a series of tiny darts—poisoned, presumably—sticking out of the necks of the Vultures.

There is a clearing. He turns to see a woman with long black hair and skin the color of new leather, bedecked in men’s armor. It’s the girl Aurora refused to kill for Malfleur. She runs to Heath’s side, bending over his blood-drenched body, weeping. The prince is still kneeling nearby, looking dizzy. He is losing his own blood rapidly.

Through the thicket of bodies and blood spray, he sees Aurora, not far behind the girl.

“Aurora!” Gil cries out, and she runs to him. “Here, take his side.” Then, “We need to get you out of here,” Gil says to the prince.