Rose Thorns (The Cimmerian Cycle #3)

Chapter 19 - Part 2

An arrow bounced off her shoulder. She slid backwards, tangling her hands into the reins so that she would stay on the horse. The chain links were bent and she felt a bruise blossoming on her skin. She gritted her teeth and pulled herself upright. She was being targeted by men on all sides.

She kicked her heels into Nutmeg and sent him charging forward out of harm's way. Arrows snapped into the ground and she had to manoeuvre to avoid them. Every time one passed in front of her she stopped breathing for a fraction of a second.

She pushed out of the mob of people fighting and retreated back a little, hiding behind a falling wreck of a wooden tower. She had acquired a cut on her hand and she wiped the blood away onto her pants. It stung but not as much as the dust in her eyes.

Her eyes watered and she couldn't tell if it was simply because of the dust or because they were genuine tears of exhaustion and fear. She wiped her eyes with her uncut hand. There would be time to curl up and cry later.

She clung to Nutmeg's neck with her blade outstretched and dove back into the madness. Arrows were homing in on her once more. One found its mark.

It skimmed across the outside of her thigh and burned with pain. She let go of the reins and fell backwards. Nutmeg kept running forward while her foot was twisted in the stirrups. Her sword was lost and she was bleeding freely as she was being dragged across the ground.

She was pulled over broken bodies and discarded weapons. She tried to leverage herself up so that she might grab the reins.

"Nutmeg stop!" she said as she attempted to reach up. The horse couldn't hear her.

Her shoulder hit a rock. Her helmet came a little loose and she jammed it back on her head. Giving up hope of climbing back onto Nutmeg she unsheathed her dagger which was still in her possession.

She barely managed to grasp the stirrups and hold herself still enough to slice the metal through the leather. She tumbled to the ground, rolling until she at last came to a stop. She stood and found herself completely lost. The wall rose up beside her but the fighting around her held no answers.

She stood frozen while a Windsmen soldier plunged his blade into the chest of a Dayrian soldier. Evrart felt sick as she watched him convulse, hands around the blade as if trying to remove it. He collapsed, blood spurting from his mouth and his eyes rolling backwards into his head.

Her mouth tasted sour and she swallowed with great difficulty. The Windsmen warrior was dark and skinny and he removed his blade from the Dayrian's chest. Evrart felt as though her time was being cut short. She sheathed the dagger just as he turned around to search for his next victim. She picked up an axe that had fallen onto the ground during the course of the battle.

It slipped within her grip for the handle was thick with blood.

He turned around. Evrart cursed and then prayed to the Ancestors in a single breath.

His sword was coated with blood. Evrart was transfixed by the drops that fell from it. She tightened her grip on the weapon and got ready to fight for real.

His sword came down by her shoulder. She threw the axe out to block his blow. The metal screeched as sent sparks into the air. She struggled to stop the blade from dipping into her shoulder. She pushed as hard as she could.

He then pulled his sword away swiftly and Evrart's axe, which was hooked over the edge of the blade, came away with it. It skittered across the ground and Evrart stood, now exposed. She did the one thing that was left to her.

She dived under his next blow and ran as hard as she could. He chased after her. She took her dagger and paused to defend herself as he struck again. His sword fell from his hands before he could unleash the blow and Evrart saw a sword tip piece through his stomach. She didn't stop to thank her saviour and took the chance to turn on her heel and escape.

She held her dagger in her right hand and pushed through the fighters. She sent her blade into enemy necks or backs wherever she could but she kept on running. Each stab felt so real, so dirty. Her hands were covered in a mixture of blood. She tried not to think too hard about the horrible sound they all made with their final breaths. It was like a prayer almost, an acknowledgement of death. She wondered if they still believed in their gods now.

Evrart was not built to fight like this. Her real weapon was her tongue. The daggers and blades were all for show. Each step was heavier than the last and she was seeing double.

She limped as she ran, for the arrow that had scraped across her leg was bleeding profusely and putting her in pain. Her breathing was shallow and she felt light headed. Her arms swung around uselessly around her and the arrow in the back of her knee was the final shove.

She fell forwards, her helmet flying off, and she hit her head on another soldier's helmet. The world went black.