Page 95 of The Queen and the Half-blood
A lean figure with stringy hair flew at her, webbed claws outstretched. She drove her dagger up, and felt it punch through slick skin. The wight’s scream sprayed her with bog water.
Another Fuath lunged at her. Claws raked Lara’s throat. Stinging pain followed as she reeled back. The bog wight followed.
Salt.Mirren’s voice sliced through her terror. The pouch at her belt, sealed tight against the rain, was packed full of it.
She fumbled for her pouch as teeth snapped near her face. Her fingers closed around a handful of salt. An instant later, she flung it into the wight’s eyes. It reeled back, clawing at its face in agony.
Another took its place.
Twin blades flashed between them. Alar was there. Somehow, he’d cut through the press to reach her.
“Salt!” Lara screamed to anyone who could hear. “Use salt!”
She flung another handful. The wight writhed away, shrieking.
But they kept coming. The narrow road trapped her people in a column—perfect for slaughter. They were outnumbered,outflanked, and drowning in a sea of raking claws and eel-like teeth.
Around her, warriors caught on. Iron and salt flew together now. The wights’ screams turned desperate, raw.
Lara pressed her back to Alar’s, her last grains of salt burning in her palm. Her blade was slick with bog water and something fouler.
Bree fought her way back to them, blood streaming from her face. Her dagger opened another throat. Water crashed over them in a wave.
The screaming reached a crescendo—then silence.
The Fuath drew back into the mist, leaving only bodies and the steady drum of rain.
35: UNSTOPPABLE
BREATHING HARD, Alar turned to his wife.
Lara stood there, one hand still gripping her dagger. Her face was pale, and blood trickled down her throat. But she was alive. Defiant.
Alar’s skin prickled. He’d underestimated her. When he’d realized that the Fuath had broken through the circle of warriors defending the High Queen, and that Bree was seriously outnumbered, he’d thought Lara was done for. But she hadn’t been.
Stepping in close, his hand lifted to her throat. “You’re hurt.”
“Just a graze,” she said huskily. “I was lucky.”
“All the same … Eldra should take a look.”
She nodded. Lifting her free hand, she placed it on his chest. “You aren’t injured?”
“Just a few scratches.” He was surprised to have emerged relatively unscathed, for he’d been desperate to reach her earlier. He’d fought his way in a frenzy through the press of slippery, mottled turquoise bodies, but for every bog wight he cut down, three more replaced it—claws raking, hair whipping around him like snares, and teeth snapping.
He’d lost sight of her then, although her shout had cut through the din.Use salt!And he had.
It had made all the difference in repelling their attackers.
They stood upon the highway, ankle-deep in stagnant water. A knot of trembling horses clustered farther down the road. Fortunately, the press of the army behind them had prevented their mounts from bolting.
Around them, the rasp of exhausted breathing cut through the darkening afternoon. The Gales of Complaint still pushed against him, whipping wet hair into his eyes, but Alar hadn’t noticed during the fight.
Slowly, the water drained off the road into the ditches flanking it. However, he wouldn’t relax yet. His gaze narrowed as he scanned the marshes, listening for the telltale gurgling of voices.
Nothing.
How many warriors had fallen in the fight? A dozen at least, maybe more. Men and women Lara couldn’t afford to lose. No wulvers though, for they were divided between the advance and rear guards.
