32

LORD FAINTREE

The door was locked. From somewhere inside, Mordag’s call rang above an unfamiliar voice. Drest dropped to her knees. With any luck, this door would be like the prison’s trap. She thrust her dagger into the crack and slammed it up.

The unmoving bar shot an ache through her arm.

Mordag began a wild string of caws.

Drest held her breath and pushed again. It was as if she were pushing her dagger against a cliff.

Beyond the door, a shout exploded, followed by a crash.

Then Emerick’s cry.

Hearing his voice sent a shock through Drest, then a new bolt of rage. She drove the blade against the bar and, one hand clasped over the other, rose from her knees, trying to funnel her motion into her arms.

The bar moved. Barely. Then more. Then it was lifting, and Drest threw all her weight against the door.

She fell into the room just as the metal bar hit the tiled floor with a thunderous crack. Drest’s dagger dropped from her sweaty hands and clinked after it.

“Drest!”

Tig—his face clean, his black hair tidy, in a blue tunic with black hose—seized her wrist and dove to the side. Drest followed as a knight slashed his sword against the door where she had just been standing.

“Get out of here!” he roared, yanking his blade from the spot where it had embedded in the wood.

The red-faced knight.

The lavish chamber had been turned upside down, the tables flipped, the curtains around the bed slashed into wavering pieces. An alcove with a wide window that hung open to the sea lit the far wall, and against it hunched Emerick, his face shaven and pale. He wore no hose, only a long white tunic that was torn at the neck.

Drest and Tig scrambled out of the way of the knight’s next blow, which crashed against the tiles. Her dagger was just inside the door, out of her reach.

“Did you hear me?” bellowed the knight. He went for her, but she was quick and feinted toward the door, while Tig clambered back.

“Where’s Borawyn?” Drest shouted. “Where’s my sword?”

“Out the window and in the sea,” said the knight, and laughed. “That’s where you’ll go too, if I don’t catch you first!”

He came at her again. Drest dove to the side and grabbed the nearest object—an iron candlestick almost as long as a sword—and blocked the knight’s blow. Thick yellow candles rattled over the floor. Drest had done well with her unusual shield; the knight’s surprised eyes showed her that.

She blocked his sword at her feet, then at her head, each with a resounding clang. But though she was forcing him off and damaging his blade, Drest knew she wouldn’t last long with such an awkward defense.

Behind her, Tig tried to crawl to safety. The knight saw the boy’s movement and rushed for him.

Drest didn’t have time to run; she threw the candlestick at the knight’s knees. It struck him hard, and he fell with a crash. She grabbed Tig’s arm and lunged toward the alcove.

Directly beside Emerick.

Drest turned to the red-faced knight, who had kicked away the candlestick. “Give me your sword! I will slay him!”

The knight laughed. “I don’t know who you are, boy, but I’ll give you some advice: Cherish this moment, for it will be one of your last.” The knight began to stalk toward her.

“Drest,” said Emerick, his face twisted. “Is that what you truly want? Revenge?”

“Is that not fitting? I protected you and saved your life and you—you lied to me.”

A gust from the window chilled Drest’s head, and she glanced out. The sea lay below, but so did a bed of rocks; she could see the foam around their points.

The knight gave another laugh. “The window? If you wish, boy, you may throw him out upon the rocks and jump after him.” He stepped closer.

Drest straightened. Her life was now at risk.

Never falter before yourself or the enemy.

Accept no defeat: Always fight.

“You should cherish your own last moment,” Drest told the red-faced knight. “And you’ve the brain of a minnow if you can’t see that I’m a lass. I’m Grimbol’s youngest, his only daughter, and I’m his most powerful weapon. I’m a legend, see.”

He charged at her, but stopped and gave a cruel laugh as Drest recoiled. “A skittish weapon.”

Drest’s fingers tensed on the wall behind her—and brushed over a faint ledge in the stone.

It was same kind of ledge she had found in the prison, the ledge where the stones and mortar met.

The whole castle had been built with such ledges.

Drest gave the red-faced knight her most insolent smirk, despite her thundering heart. “Sometimes you need to waver to make the blow strong. But you wouldn’t know that, would you; you’re not just a traitor and a coward but a toad-faced boar’s bladder.”

He let out a booming laugh. “Do you think yourself brave to call me names?”

“Nay, everyone should call you names. You’re a craven pile of fish-guts and you smell like them too.”

The knight’s eyes narrowed. “I’m coming for you, Grimbol’s daughter, and I’ll end your legend for good.”

“Is that what you think? You’ve a head like a pig’s stomach and it’s full of the same muck.” With her fingers on the wall, her legs ready to leap, Drest waited.

He lunged.

Three seconds.

Two seconds.

One second away from running her through.

Drest turned and leaped into the window, grabbing at the stone bricks above it on the outside, and yanked herself up.

Just barely avoiding the blade that plunged after her.

It extended through the window, glittering in the sun. The knight’s arm followed, then his head as he stared at the cliffs below.

“Up here,” called Drest. The sea wind tugged at her, but her holds were secure. “See if you can get me.” He wasn’t out far enough for her to dislodge with a sudden movement, but if he reached out more, he might be.

Growling, with a scrape of chain mail, the knight pushed his shoulders through. Now most of his weight was at the top half of his body. If she could make him lunge for her, he might slip.

Only—

The knight was crawling out, his feet on the window’s sill, one hand on the stones, finding ledges just as Drest had, the other holding the sword aloft.

And now Drest was within his reach.

Trapped.

The knight raised his small, cruel eyes to her and his sword began to sweep up on a relentless path that in seconds would strike and knock her to the rocks below. “Farewell, Grimbol’s daughter.”

But as he finished his final word, the knight’s eyes changed—from triumph to terror.

The power in his swing had dislodged his balance, and his feet were no longer on the sill. With his sword in one hand, his other hand alone could not support him.

With a howl, the red-faced knight fell—down into the sea’s hungry maw.