Page 129 of Steel Heart Iron Claws

We begin to circle one another. Sunlight winks off his blade. My arrow is drawn but aimed downward.

He moves first, feigning a stab forward, but at the last minute, kicks a rock with exceptional aim at my head.

I bat it away, ducking.He’s testing my reflexes.

When I straighten, I use the momentum to swing the end of my bow at his midsection. He dodges, then tackles me from the side, slamming me down to the streambank. We grapple in the mud, boots spilling and sliding. I try to wrestle the blade out of his hand.

“Mortal weapons can’t kill me,” he reminds me. “And if you maim me and break the terms, then I win.”

“Guess I’ll have to be clever, then. Think like a fae.”

I wedge my leg between us, boot against his chest, and throw him off me. While he scrambles to his feet, I draw my own knife and slash against his leg.

“Bleeding is allowed,” I growl. “I could just drain you. Tire you out.”

I rush him, slashing again, this time at his arm. He evades me with an upper block, cuts his blade across my shoulder, then slams the hilt into my solar plexus.

I double over, gasping for air, then come up shoving my shoulder into his midsection and throw him back into the pond.

He lands with a splash. I stomp in after him, sheathing my knife, then grabbing his vest lapels to shove him under the water.

He burbles, struggling for air.

My arms burn, but I throw all my weight into holding him underwater. His flailing leg manages to hook around my ankle, and he knocks me down with him.

We both splash in the water, struggling to go after his knife. He tries to pin me under the surface, but I twist away, crawling back onto the shore.

I grab my bow, breathing hard as I get to my feet.

He emerges from the water, hands empty. His eyes dart to his bow lying in the grass at the base of a rocky slope.

“Go ahead,” I grunt. “See if you can make it.”

His eyes flash, calculating. In a burst of speed, he lunges for his bow. Immediately, I nock an arrow in my own—but don’t aim for him.

Instead, I swing my arrow toward a thin root halfway up the slope that holds back a mass of dirt and rocks.

I let my arrow fly as Artain grabs his bow.

The root snaps in half—without its support, a landslide begins.

Artain can’t get out of the way fast enough. Dirt rains down the slope. Rocks follow. Some the size of my fist. A few as large as a wooden chest.

I jump back, bracing my hands on my knees, as I scan the slope.

When the dust finally settles, Artain is buried up to his neck in loose rocks.

Limping forward, I spit in the dirt. “Try to get out ofthat.”

Where dirt doesn’t cover his face, cuts and bruises do. As he strains against the rocks, he spits, “Your victory is also your death sentence, don’t you get it?”

“You don’t begin to understand what I’d do for Sabine.” Gripping my upper arm, I secure my bow behind my back, double-check I have my sheathed knife, then splash into the shallow water toward the beaver dam.

I pause, sniffing.

There’s smoke in the air.

It’s faint but undeniable. Blowing in fromthe west, about a quarter mile away, where the forest buts up against the jagged Vallen Mountains.

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