Isaac sprinted through the village.
Smoke filled his nostrils. Blood thundered in his ears, and his muscles screamed in protest. This distance had once been easy, Isaac thought, but he'd been confined to a small, damp cell for months; his body wasn't used to exerting itself.
He doubled his pace. The knife slapped his thigh as he ran, a comforting, steady rhythm. Adrenaline flooded his body. He always felt better when he was moving, Isaac thought; jumping or running or fighting. It was the stillness that killed you. The anticipation of what came next. That was the worst.
He hurtled over an overturned apple cart.
Tarhalla was burning. Sunhounds chased terrified people from their homes, snapping with hungry teeth. Isaac could hear distant cries of pain, the sound of metal striking flesh. The heat felt like a brand on the back of his neck. Isaac ran on, his pulse thundering in his ears. His muscles burned, and he gritted his teeth against the pain. Just a little bit further. Just a little bit longer.
"Webb!" a voice called.
Isaac forced himself to pause.
Tristan and Owain were jogging behind him. Tristan was panting, clutching at his side like his organs were about to fall out. Owain looked fine. Isaac suspected that Owain was hanging back largely because of Tristan. He wished it didn't endear him to the other boy, but it did. Only slightly, mind.
"What?" Isaac demanded.
Tristan rested his hands on his thighs. "Where are we going?"
"You'll see," Isaac said.
"Cryptic," Owain muttered.
Tristan bent over. Isaac could see Tristan's spine through his white shirt, knobbled like an old stone bridge. A sour taste filled his mouth. Gods. Tristan had explained that Eris hadn't fed them in the tower, but to actually see it...
Isaac looked away. At least Brigid had the decency to send the occasional chunk of bread. She'd been a tyrannical maniac with an unnatural obsession with her stepdaughter, but still. You couldn't deny she'd had standards.
"We can slow down," Isaac offered. "If it's too much."
It would kill him. Kill him to slow his pace, to hold back from sprinting towards the fight. But he'd do it, Isaac thought. He'd do it for Tristan.
Tristan's golden eyes hardened. "I can keep up."
"Alright," Isaac said. "If you're sure."
He broke into a sprint. Tristan kept pace this time, panting and wheezing, his cheeks slapped red with exertion. Owain loped easily alongside them. It would have been annoying, Isaac thought, if it wasn't so impressive.
Isaac stopped in the main square.
Tarhalla was in shreds; the fountain had toppled, spitting stone fragments. Sunhounds leapt onto blue-and-yellow checkered tablecloths, knocking over almond croissants and jugs of white wine. Several bodies lay in the street, oozing red blood into the cracks of the cobblestone. The air was thick with the smell of wet fur and entrails.
"Mother of gods," Tristan muttered.
Owain's mouth was tight. "How are there so many of them?"
"Lucia's growing stronger," Isaac said.
He drew his meat cleaver. Tristan was staring at a patch of blood. His mouth was tight, as if a terrible thought had just occurred to him.
"She knows where we are," Tristan said.
Isaac raised the weapon. "Yeah."
"I don't understand." Owain frowned. "How did she find us?"
"Doesn't matter," Isaac said. "We need to get everyone out of Tarhalla. Now."
"Webb!" Sophie shouted.
She was a whirl of silver blades, her dark hair flying about her like a banner. A sunhound lunged, and Sophie dispatched it with a well-placed knife to the throat. A lump rose in Isaac's throat. At this distance, Isaac thought, she could have been Anna. Their fighting technique was almost identical.
"Webb!" Sophie threw another knife. "We could use some help."
Ah.
Right.
Isaac lunged forward. The meat cleaver cut through fur and flesh, a natural extension of his arm. A pulse pounded in his ears. He'd forgotten how good this felt; the rush of battle, the song of blood. He carved a path to Sophie.
"We need to evacuate," Isaac called.
She kicked with her good leg. "I know."
"Where?"
"Doesn't matter," Sophie said grimly. "Just get them out."
Isaac cupped his hands. "Tristan!" He swung his meat cleaver, connecting with a hound's snapping teeth. "Get people to the woods. We'll meet by the crooked tree."
Tristan hesitated. "I can help."
"You are helping," Isaac said.
Tristan fiddled with the lump in his pocket. "Okay. But you're not allowed to die, Webb." His voice was stern. "Don't do anything brave and heroic."
"Duly noted," Isaac said.
He sprang onto an overturned cart. Tristan sprinted for the nearest house, slamming his fist against the door. Owain shifted, and Isaac caught a glimpse of a white cat racing beneath a table towards a knot of frightened villagers. Good, Isaac thought, slashing with his sword; get them out. Get everyone out.
Isaac dispatched one sunhound.
Two.
The fight raged on. Isaac was lost in the rhythm of it, the push-pull of battle. His mentor Aedyon's words came back to him: look at the target, not the weapon; guard your left. His meat cleaver was an extension of his arm. Funny, Isaac thought, that the very people Aedyon had taught him to kill were the ones that he was now determined to save.
"Webb!" Sophie shouted.
He turned.
The square was clearing out; bodies lay across the cobblestone, the fountain soaking through cotton clothing. Sophie limped towards the woods; she was supporting the weight of a man that was twice her size, and her dark hair was falling out of its ponytail.
"There are too many of them," Sophie called.
A hound sprung. Isaac dodged. "I'll draw them away."
Sophie shook her head. "No need. I don't think their vision is very good." She stumbled slightly, adjusting her grip. "They won't follow."
"Is that everyone?" Isaac asked.
He slammed his meat cleaver against the sunhound's head; it tumbled to the floor. Sophie's mouth tightened.
"I think so," she said.
Isaac scanned the square. "I'll do one last sweep."
Sophie nodded. He could hear their footsteps fading, the cadence a strange click-click-shhh as she dragged the stranger towards the woods. Blood pounded in his ears. The battle was over, Isaac thought, but his body hadn't caught up yet. Every muscle was tensed, every part of him primed for the next swing.
Isaac prowled through empty houses. He flipped over wooden beams and looked under carriages. Smoke poured from burning buildings, stinging his eyes. The meat cleaver wobbled in his hand. He could feel the adrenaline seeping away, turning his muscles and bones to jelly.
He looked in a barrel. Empty.
Isaac straightened, running a hand over his face. Right. Time to go. He turned for the woods, his muscles tired and aching.
A whimper rose.
Isaac paused. The square was empty; the only sound was the trickling of the broken fountain, accompanied by distant howls. A shiver prickled at his neck. The noise came again, louder this time: a child's whimper.
Isaac squatted down.
Two children were huddled beneath a café table. The boy was about ten, dressed in a ratty white shirt and a cap. And the girl...
A lump rose in his throat.
The girl was about six years old. Her delicate blonde ringlets were coming out of her hair ribbon, and she was clutching a battered book to her chest. Her pink hair ribbon, Isaac noted, matched her pink dress. Just like someone else he knew.
Grief filled him, so crushing that it was almost painful.
"Hello," Isaac said.
The children recoiled. Smart, Isaac thought; never trust a handsome stranger carrying a meat cleaver. That was his personal motto, anyway.
"Do you know who I am?" Isaac asked.
The children exchanged glances. It was the boy that spoke first. "Mummy said that you work for the king. The bad one."
His voice was wary. Something tightened in Isaac's chest.
"She's right," Isaac said. "About both parts. Ryne can be a real sh—" He caught himself. "A real pain, especially if you get mud on his waistcoats. He's very particular about them." The children looked at him blankly. "But I don't work for the king anymore. He's..." Dead. The word solidified in his throat. "I'm on your side now, alright? And I need you to come out from under that table."
More covert glances. Isaac sighed.
"Hurry," he said. "Please."
The boy frowned. "Do you promise you won't hurt us?"
Isaac pressed a hand to his heart. "I swear on my life."
The boy didn't look convinced. Again, Isaac thought: smart cookie. He unsheathed his butcher's knife, holding it out.
"Here," Isaac said. "If I hurt you, then you can hit me over the head with it."
The boy looked uncertain. "Mummy says that we shouldn't touch the knife drawer."
"Well," Isaac said, with a surge of frustration, "Mummy ought to have a more open mind about the value of teaching children how to maim someone—"
Something sunk into his arm.
A sound ripped from Isaac's chest. Pain exploded in his shoulder, and he dropped his meat cleaver. The sunhound pounced. They rolled around on the cobblestone, a tangle of fur and limbs. Warm, rancid breath washed over his face. Someone screamed. Isaac unsheathed his iron poker and thrust it upward; there was a crunch as it connected with bone. The sunhound exploded in a puff of golden dust.
Isaac lay on his back, panting hard. His shoulder throbbed in hot pulses. Small footsteps scurried across the cobblestone.
The boy's eyes were wide. "That was so cool."
The girl clapped her hands together. "Do it again!"
A wave of dizziness washed over him. Isaac struggled to his feet, sheathing the iron poker. His shoulder burned. "Maybe later."
The boy held up the knife. "Can I try?"
Isaac ruffled his hair. "Let's see what your mother says."
They made for the woods. It wasn't far to the crooked tree — maybe about ten minutes — but it was slow-going. The children were tired, stumbling over tree roots and logs. About halfway through the journey, the girl sat down, and Isaac had no choice but to pick her up. His shoulder screamed in protest.
Finally, Isaac saw the tree.
A dozen people were gathered beneath its twisted branches. He spotted June and Tarquin sitting on a low branch, rocking a sleeping baby; Sophie and Henry were speaking in low voices. Tristan — who had been passing out flasks of water — stood as he approached.
"Oh, my babies!" a woman cried.
She raced forward. The girl reached out her arms, allowing the woman to scoop her up. The boy wrapped an arm around his mother's neck, almost taking out her left ear with the large knife. The woman either didn't notice or didn't mind. She lifted her face to Isaac; it was wet with tears.
"Thank you." The words were a gasp. "Thank you."
"It's alright," Isaac said.
Tristan stepped forward. "Your arm—"
"Doesn't hurt," Isaac lied.
Tristan raised an eyebrow but said nothing. Isaac scanned the crowd; eleven people in total, including Owain, who was amusing a child by growing white fur all over his face. Something lodged in his throat. "Is this it?"
Tristan nodded. "I'd thought..." His throat bobbed. "We'd hoped that there'd be more with you."
"Where to?" Isaac asked.
"I have no idea," Sophie said.
She limped forward. Dark smudges ringed her eyes, and her skin was white and sallow. She looked tired, Isaac thought; about as tired as he felt. He went to rub his aching shoulder but caught himself. "Someone needs to choose a direction."
"Well?" Sophie looked around. "Any suggestions?"
Nobody moved.
Tristan shuffled his feet. His eyes were trained on the ground, but Isaac could see a pulse jumping in his throat. Suspicion coiled in his chest.
"Beauchamp," Isaac said. "You have an idea, don't you?"
"No," Tristan said. Isaac raised an eyebrow, and he sighed. "It's stupid."
Isaac crossed his arms. "Tell us."
"It's not worth it," Tristan said.
"I think you'll be surprised."
Tristan fiddled with the lump in his pocket. An explosive, no doubt. "Well, when I sent a letter to Penny—"
"You sent a letter?" Sophie demanded.
Her eyebrows flew up. Tristan nodded. He looked miserable, but not surprised. Isaac thought of his friend's face earlier, the way Tristan had stared at that patch of blood as if a terrible thought had just occurred to him. Oh.
"I didn't give any details about our location," Tristan said finally.
Isaac exhaled. "Oh, Tristan. You idiot."
"It was well encrypted," Tristan said.
Sophie massaged her forehead. "That's how she found us. Of all the stupid, reckless—"
"It's done," Isaac said. "Let it go."
He looked at Tristan, who was staring at the ground. A wave of fierce protectiveness went through him. Sophie scowled.
"But—"
"We're a team now," Isaac cut in. "Beauchamp made a mistake. A stupid, careless mistake, but he's sorry for it. Aren't you?"
Tristan nodded, his eyes still on the ground.
"There." Isaac crossed his arms. "You see?"
Sophie's grip tightened on her sword. For a dreadful moment, Isaac thought she might start swinging. But she only thrust the weapon into the earth, leaning on it like a walking stick. "You had an idea?"
Tristan scratched the back of his neck. "Well, when I sent that letter — which I am sorry for," he added hurriedly, "but when I sent it, the raven flew north." He paused. "There's only one thing in that direction."
Realization struck Isaac. "You think Penny and Grayson are in Lox?"
"It makes sense," Tristan said.
Isaac's pulse raced. "If you're thinking what I'm thinking..." He looked at Tristan, who nodded. "We have to go. This could change everything."
"I don't understand," Sophie said. "Why would the Delafort girl flee to Lox?"
"Because they've found it," Isaac said.
"Found what?"
Tristan's golden eyes gleamed. "God-Slayer."