19

Marcus

I have to do something, and it has to be now.

The Heir of Baiseen and his company are not going to fall into enemy hands. Not like this. Not without a fight. Ash did a good job warning the others of the sheer size of what we face, but this is one situation she can’t talk her way out of. And this is all my fault.

Rain falls harder, the trail going muddy. The horses slip and slide down the track. It might be an advantage. I don’t know yet. There’s too much rage—both mine and my phantom’s—to think clearly. And the pain in my head… It’s nearly unbearable. I test the binding at my wrists, again. Nothing gives. We have to make a break for it now, before reaching a shout’s distance to the Aturnian legions. But how?

Crush them, my phantom suggests once again, and I see an image of a lion breaking out of a cage and devouring its captors.

At least he’s talking to me, and like last time, it’s not a bad suggestion. “How?”

Touch ground and I’ll show you.

Could it be that simple? The trail widens not far ahead with a steep cliff on my right and a stone retaining wall to the left. If there’s going to be an escape, it must happen in the next thirty feet. I search for the courage to act and run straight into De’ral, his presence pressing in on my mind. He’s ready. Echo knows something is up. Her ears pin back and her head juts high. Fifteen more strides. Fourteen. Thirteen.

Do it! my phantom growls.

I feign a cough, lean forward, and check the cliff’s edge. It’s between two to three yards to a rock ledge. It’s survivable. Probably. I cough again and hunch over. De’ral must rise immediately, before they shower me with spears. Another deep breath and I inch my boots out of the stirrups until only the toes press the metal bars. I cough a third time and make a huge hacking sound at the end to clear my throat, a habit Ash hates. It’s the only warning I can think of.

I fall back, slamming my spine and shoulders hard onto Echo’s rump. She startles and bunches her hindquarters. I heel her shoulders and she crow-hops forward, crashing straight into the lead mount. Sorry, girl. But it gives me the seconds I need to scissor my legs and flip off her back. The ground comes up fast and punches the air out of my lungs. “De’ral, be ready.” I tuck my chin and keep rolling, right over the edge.

Hit the dirt; raise my phantom. It’s my only thought.

But the fall breaks me in half. I can’t swallow or breathe. White lights flash in front of my eyes. Acid races up my throat and I try to heave, but that requires breathing, something I still can’t do. “Rise!” I command my phantom.

De’ral is already exploding out of the ground. I duck, shielding my head against the rocks and dirt that avalanche down. The whole cliff face rattles apart as my massive phantom rises to full height, thundering a challenge.

“Kill the enemy,” I gasp. “Harm none of our own.” A phantom shouldn’t have to be reminded, but De’ral’s untrained. By the bones, I hope he can tell the difference between friend and foe.

De’ral climbs, the ledge crumbling under his hands and feet. I drag myself out of the way to keep from being buried alive. There’s no way to gauge what’s going on above me save for the little I perceive through the tunnel-vision rage of my phantom, and the wails and chaotic shouts of everyone above. De’ral’s intent is so burning that I can’t take full phantom perspective. But I must. This attack can succeed if it is swift and quiet, before reinforcements come from the camp. We’re already far beyond silent, so swiftness is the key. The barrier between me and De’ral finally bursts and a rush of emotions flood in along with a full view of the road. Violent rage is at the top of my feelings and pooled below a sickening, oily darkness I don’t recognize, though the pounding in my head is all too familiar. Only one thing is certain. The Aturnian scouts are dying under my phantom’s crushing blows. For now, it’s going to plan.