We move for the gate, an Icer, a Heater, aMarked, and three Wildes. A strange and deadly combination.

Before we pass through the opening, we seethe battle in the courtyard. Compared to this, our own fight toescape was child’s play. Men play the parts of murderers in a gameof death.

Skye pulls up short, raising a hand, and weall stop with her. This is her game.

I want to look at her, but my eyes are gluedto the fight. With a hack of his sword, a rider slices off aguard’s hand, which falls like a rock to the ground, stillclutching an axe. Weaponless, the man runs, bleeding from hiswrist, which is now just a stump, but he only gets three stepsbefore the rider plows into him, trampling him beneath his horse’sfeet.

“Dazz,” Skye says.

But the rider doesn’t get far, because assoon as he kills the guard, an arrow pierces his chest. He clutchesat it with his hands, his mouth agape as if surprised, his eyes andteeth looking as white as the snow against his dark skin. He slumpsback, back, back, hanging from his horse, which keeps running witha dead man bouncing on its back.

“Dazz,” Skye says again, and I manage to pullmy gaze away from the dead rider, the trampled guard. Skye’s eyesare fixed on mine.

The others are watching me too, waitingpatiently. Perhaps only a moment has passed, perhaps several.

Skye says, “We’ll stay in front of you,protect you.”

“Nay,” I say, shaking my head. “We’ll movethrough together.”

“Yeah, we will,” Skye says. “But you need tostay alive so you can git to yer sister. Leave that to us.”

I close my eyes.

They were on their way home. A week-long trekacross the desert, a day to rest, and a week back. Fifteen daysthey wouldn’t have been here, having to fight an enemy they don’teven know—fifteen days to be alive. And now they’re going to dietoday? For me? At risk of what Buff will say later, I want to throwmy arms around all of them, hug them, thank them. For me, forJolie. For Wes.

“We’re doin’ this,” Skye says, as if shethinks I’ll try to stop her. That’s what I should be doing.Stopping them. But I can’t.

I won’t.

Not when the king’s in there with my sister.Not when the riders are fighting their way to the king.

“Thank you,” I say.

~~~

Amidst the swirling snow, we enter thecourtyard in a line, with me behind them, like I’m someoneimportant, someone worth protecting. I should be at the front,fighting alongside them, but—

Jolie.

I swallow my pride and try to keep up becausethey’re moving fast. They’ve all got weapons from before, but a fewof them traded up for the weapons of those dead outside the palacewalls. Circ and Feve found shiny new swords and Siena grabbed a bowand a satchel of arrows from beside an Icer archer who was so bentand broken he must have fallen off the wall.

Guards are everywhere, swinging double-bladedbattle axes, shooting arrows, jabbing swords at the dark, mountedwarriors, who are deflecting them with their own swords, which arelong and heavy. For the first time I notice the black riders arenot only men, but women too, fierce and carnal and full of brutalviolence that even Skye would be proud of.

The fight slams into us from all sides.

Circ gets thrown back into me by a heavilyarmored guardsman who’s using a metal shield like a battering ram.Skye deflects a blow from a passing rider with her blade. Sienastarts shooting arrows at anything that moves.

We’re fighting two armies. Having sun-kissedskin here means everyone wants you dead. And I’m with them, so I’ma target too.

An arrow whistles past my ear and I duckinstinctively even though it’s already behind me.

Distracted by the arrow, I’m falling behindalready, the others pushing forward. Everyone’s got their handsfull.

Circ manages to discard the guard with thebig shield, slipping past its edge and stabbing hard and deep,practically splitting him in two. I look away.

On my other side, Feve and a dismounted ridercircle each other, their eyes wary. Their swords ring out as theyparry but the sound is immediately swallowed by the clang and gruntand screams of the battle around them. Feve blocks an attemptedkill stroke and then aims one of his own, which the rider swatsaway too easily. Another jab by Feve, another block. Then a flurryof strokes by the rider has Feve on his heels, retreating,blocking, retreating some more.

“Dazz!” Skye yells. “This-a-way!” She’s founda seam, her and Wilde and Siena, a weak spot in the battle, a placewhere I might be able to slip through to the palace. They’reholding it open for me, keeping the path clear, swinging blades andshooting arrows and kicking and punching.

My eyes flick back to Feve, to theblack-garbed rider. Feve’s losing, getting knocked back by a heavyonslaught of sword strokes, barely keeping his footing as he stepsbackwards over a dead body. But then he slips, is forced to use hishand to keep his balance, giving the rider an opening, which hegladly takes, swinging with enough force to crush stones, slamminghis sword into Feve’s with a fierce

CLANG!

and Feve goes down, rolling onto his backamidst blood and bodies, trying to scramble to his feet, but beingforced to scrabble backward while blocking another swipe from therider’s blade.

Feve’s dead—

If I don’t do something—

Dead.

“Dazz!”

Do something!

I run toward the rider, weaponless, exceptfor my fists.

The rider doesn’t see me coming. He’s amountain lion with a mouse trapped under his paw and nothing candisturb him from his meal.

He swings again, harder than any of the otherblows, so hard that Feve—even Feve—can only throw his sword up in alast-ditch effort to protect himself.

CLANG!

Feve manages to block the strike, but hecan’t hold onto the handle any longer, and it skitters out of hishand, creating a sword-shaped hole in the snow, disappearing.

I keep running.

The rider raises his sword over his head—

I keep running, still too far away.

—thrusts it down—

I keep running, and I’m screaming now.

—and Feve rolls away, narrowly avoiding thekill attempt.

Hearing my scream, the rider turns just as Ibarge into him, leading with my shoulder, smashing into his chest,which is as hard as iron, perhaps from muscle or from some hiddenform of body armor. He lands on Feve with me at the top of thepile. Feve grabs at his face from behind, poking his fingers intothe rider’s eyes, doing anything he can to help from his precariousposition.

The rider rains down a barrage of punches onthe back of my head, his sword not in his hand, disappearing justlike Feve’s. But I don’t feel his hits. This is my territory nowand shots to the head are a way of life.

I lay into him, punching him first in thegut, and then in the face.

Gut and face. Gut and face.

I get a rhythm going while he continues topound from the back and squeeze his eyes shut against Feve’s rakingfingers.

Buff always said I had a head harder than anice sculpture, on account of how many bar fights I won with mysignature finishing maneuver. I crank it up now, still poundingaway with my fists, leaning my head back slightly, waiting for theperfect moment…

Feve’s hands slip away from the rider’s faceas he’s crushed underneath him. I snap my head forward, butting therider’s skull like a goat defending my young. I hit him so hard—toohard probably—seeing stars myself and feeling an instant throb inmy temples, but my pain’s nothing compared to what the rider’sfeeling. He screams, clutching at his forehead, wailing somethingfierce. Then he stops screaming and lies unconscious.

I pull and Feve pushes and we get the rideroffa him. We look at each other and it’s one of those moments whenyou think you should say something, but it’s impossible becauseanother rider’s swooping in and you’re both dead if you don’t getyour arses in gear.