RISING (#2, of Crows and Thorns)

Chapter 43

I ran. The dagger in my tight fist thrummed. Wisps of shadows curled around the blade. The dagger was an ancient relic from the time of our gods, a gift given to me by the Purveyor of Rarities. One of Zrenyth's blades.

Freddie was rooted to the spot right in front of the bonfire near the outer edge of the dance. His dark hair, streaked with blonde, stood on end. The night air swirled with banks of heat, embers, and smoke. Aether danced all around him like dust motes.

Behind me, I heard the soldiers and hunters rallying—calling to one another—and people shouting and screaming. Flesh being shredded. The snapping and growling of Jurgana's beasts. And above all those sounds of madness, I heard Freddie's warbled shriek as he stared at the dog bounding his way.

I ran as fast as I could, pumping my arms, jumping over debris, dodging a new wave of people who were fleeing or had fallen over and were being helped by others.

"Batha!" Freddie gasped. His dirty cheeks were washed clean with tears rolling down his face, his trembling hands hanging limply by his sides.

My bare feet splashed through the sludge beside overturned tables and kegs. Dirty water splattered my legs, and the smell of beer and wine was an acrid stench that burnt my nostrils.

"Here! On me! On me! Here!" I bellowed, slashing the hunting knife above my head "Come for me!"

The enormous dog finally noticed me. It skidded to a halt, mud spraying from the momentum, and wheeled around. Its tarred black fur was hackled in a ridgeline along its back. The beast barked, revealing needle-sharp teeth, row upon row of them. A chill ran through me, and my stomach turned over in terror as those pitiless black eyes fixed on me.

It charged, and it moved fast, incredibly fast.

My own bloodhound howled.

For a moment, I thought I heard my name being yelled—a ringing note of terror and fury. As I ran, I swooped down and picked up a wooden chair, one that was foldable and had been pushed over in the melee and collapsed in on itself.

"Come on!" I yelled, urging the beast onward.

Oh my freaking gods!

I'd hunted animals out in the forest, but they were small critters, hares, and squirrels, never a beast birthed from a Horned God.

I slid to a standstill, bent a knee, and slammed the blade of my dagger into the sodden earth, right where I could snatch it up once more. I tossed my head, flicking the loose hair from out of my eyes as I rose, bracing my stance and centering my weight, somehow remembering in all this chaos a few things Markel had taught me.

I didn't have much of a plan—just to kill the beast. I didn't even know if I could do that. It bounded toward me, great big loping strides chewing up the distance between us. Black saliva whipped from its gaping mouth, thin black lips curled back from its fangs.

My heart thudded. I hefted the folded wooden chair, my fingers curling around the sides of the wooden backrest, getting ready to swing. My fingers were sweaty and slippery, and I feared I wouldn't keep a firm enough grip. I braced myself, digging the balls of my feet into the sloppy earth. With a roaring snarl, the beast sprang—

I drove forward, screaming—

Swung the chair as hard as I could—

And struck the dog across the side of the head. The solid impact jarred through my fingers, my hand, my arm. It was as if I'd struck a stone wall with a wet cloth. The chair exploded into matchsticks.

Into freaking matchsticks!

The creature kept coming, and I just managed to roll my shoulders, using the momentum of the swing to twist my body away, narrowly avoiding my face being bitten off.