Page 35 of A Kiss of Embers
Joram lifted his hand and, in a swift motion, struck her across the face. A collective gasp stole across the crowd, followed by enough shouts of disapproval and outrage that Joram’s guards had to push their own people back.
The man simply grinned, his fingers tapping on the hilt of his sword. Once more, he lowered his voice, “Ifthe girl isn’t dead already.” He chuckled darkly. Bastien hated the way he placed his hands on the branch she dangled from and leaned close. “I encouraged her from the goodness of my heart to seek out the healing water of the Glades. I reckon she didn’t get far.”
Seraphina spit in his face. “You sent her on a suicide errand.”
“She chose to go. Her stupidity is not my fault.” He nudged her side with the tip of his boot. “The joining will happen immediately. My son is ready to claim his queen.”
Bastien hardly knew Pri. He knew little about Seraphina as it was. But he remembered that night. Pri had been scared. Helpless. And oh so young. At the thought of her terrified expression and the tears trailing down her face, anger coursed through him.
His thoughts drifted to Seraphina, alone and helpless and taken against her consent for the second time. He refused to allow it to happen.
He fought against the poison in his blood and won. He ripped his ankles free from their bindings, and with Joram’s attention momentarily diverted, he slapped his feet over the flat ends of the man’s black blade. Using his tied hands as leverage for his weight, he twisted the weapon sharply until it sliced the man across the torso.
Joram cried out and clutched his bleeding wound. Bastien wasted no time as he wrenched his hands out of the bindings he’d worked on loosening around his wrists and landed on the ground with a rather ungraceful thump.
He rolled over and snatched the same sword from Joram’s belt just as guards rushed toward them with weapons drawn. He sliced the ropes from Seraphina’s hands and feet, and when she, too, landed with an ungraceful thump, he realized she didn’t have full control of her body yet.
Blade met blade as Bastien twirled in a frenzy of slashes, stabs, and blocks as he stood in front of Seraphina and protected her from the sudden onslaught of attacks.
A bolt shot toward him and barely grazed the tip of his ear. He realized with a start that the clan leader’s son held a crossbow in his hands, loading another bolt as Bastien fought with the sword.
When someone brought an arrow to a sword fight, he knew it was time to run.
In his hands, the black blade fought ferociously, cutting down several enemies and driving back several more foes. When he created enough birth between him and the enemy, he drove the tip of the black sword through his clothing to create a makeshift sheath before he stooped before Seraphina.
Another bolt shot toward him, this time piercing his outer bicep and escaping completely through the other side. Blood gushed down his arm, followed by the fiery shock of pain. But he didn’t pause as he picked Seraphina up, cradled her against his chest, and ran.
The position of her body quickly fatigued his arms, but he refused to throw her over his shoulders when the crossbow bolts could seek her as a target instead of himself.
A whizz shot past his ear, missing by a hair’s breadth. Another grazed the tips of his hair in his pursuit of safety. He weaved in and out of the trees, using his vast knowledge as a patrol guard to his advantage.
It was as if the tree roots made way for him as he sprinted through the maze of branches, only to become winding obstacles behind him to block the enemies in pursuit.
When he no longer spotted them behind him but heard the shouting of their voices only, he transferred Seraphina from his arms and draped her across his shoulders.
“Hang on,” he ordered. Her body weakly responded to his demand and tightened the smallest bit around his neck, making him realize he had to do this with her dead weight.
Using lower branches as his footholds, he jumped from one level of a tree to the next, only using his hands when absolutely necessary to keep himself from falling. By the time he reached the upper boughs of a tree, his legs shook in protest against the extra weight.
And then a bolt lodged into the trunk right beside his head.
He swore when he caught sight of the crossbow man below, now loading another bolt. Only three bolts remained in his quiver. Bastien had to dodge all three. Or die trying.
“Have you ever flown through the trees before?” he asked in a light tone, all while he focused on holding entirely still. It would be a bit more difficult to traverse the trees at night, but it wasn’t something he hadn’t done before.
“Not in the way Forest Fae do it,” she answered with a nervous lilt to her voice. “Should I be worried?”
“Immensely.”
Clink!
Bastien twisted sharply to the side, and the bolt flew past his shoulder and into the brush somewhere below. Without wasting another second, he took off down the thick branch at a sprint, silently cursing at how much smaller the trees were in Blackburrow. The branches sank beneath his weight rather than carrying him on sturdy limbs. But he’d trained on brittle limbs before. This would be no different.
He ran from tree to tree where they were tight enough together. For the others too far apart, he leaped as far as his legs allowed him, a few times only making it on a lower branch than one on the same level as before. He hoped he wouldn’t slip because he’d trained for a situation in which he might fall. But he’d never trained when falling with another person in his arms.
The next tree was just out of reach, so he ran, jumped, and braced himself for the impact of the next branch beneath his feet. But then an arrow whizzed between his legs. He yelped at the narrow miss.
Only one bolt remained.
