because it had no way to release itself. Yet Indiris didn't care. And Aislin hated her for it.
She skirted the well, thinking her mother was no doubt regretting that choice as wave after wave of invaders ran at her and fell screaming to their deaths in a flaming lump. Of coarse her mother was prevailing, but no doubt there are others in the village less fortunate. If she could weave through the chaos to get to the armory, she might be able to help the strongest of the men. She wasn't exactly a trained warrior but she knew there were swords in there as well as crossbows and quivers. The blacksmith who lived next to the armory had taken a shine to Aislin during the short time he had courted her mother, and in an effort to win her favor had shown Aislin how to wield a sword. He'd been no warrior, either, but he'd understood the dance of balance and the power of weight.
Even now, she could see that her mother's Arm of Protection, a rotund man just past his prime, was struggling against four of the invaders. She could hear her mother's cold voice as she demanded an invader step aside while he was still alive or burn beneath her fingers within a dozen heartbeats.
The distinct sound of a man's agonized shriek cut through the rest of the din and Aislin was vaguely aware that it emanated from her mother's direction. One of the marauders had evidently pumped out his dozenth heartbeat.
She tried to swallow down her fear and disgust, but her mouth had dried up like the burnt lands she heard about in folklore. She just had to keep going. Weave past the children crying for their mothers, the old women fleeing toward the walls, hoping to escape unnoticed. Some of the younger men had already fallen, too poorly trained to be of use against professional invaders. Everywhere she ran, her bare feet encountered blood and filth. But at least she still ran. She could make it. She saw the door yawning open.
A scream sent a shiver over her flesh, informing her rational mind the way only a body could. Danger. Grief creeping toward her like winter, certain and dark and all encompassing. Her tissues responded in kind, powering her muscles before she could work out possibilities or select an option. She knew the owner of that voice so well that hearing it made her mouth go dry and her knees buckle.
Kasia. Urgent and terrified.
She sent out a trilling, anxious probe for her sister and heard another shriek in response. But the crowds, the noise: The din of screaming made it hard to pinpoint where one small shriek might have originated. Aislin scanned the chaos, trying to filter through the blur of clothing and leather and metal that streaked across her vision. She lurched forward, pushing past a marauder who had hefted a young boy onto his shoulder.
There. Just past a flock of geese squabbling over a thin path to safety, beyond two burly invaders fighting over a horse. Slim arms slung around the balustrade of the vacant archers' platform, her tattoos standing out vividly against the skin of her shoulder. The girl resisted the pull of a leather-clad marauder who hung onto her with one hand as he fought off two other warriors who seemed to think that the ginger-haired girl was a possession to be taken.
It was all she needed to force Aislin's feet into a headlong rush at the trio, skidding to a stop a few paces away.
She inhaled all the breath she could, trying to force it to run down her legs to fuel her muscles. She willed herself to look commanding, drawing from the countless memories of her mother's judgments. Then she shouted. No matter that it squeaked.
"Let her go."
The first man, with his fingers still clenching Kasia's tender biceps and his other gripping the handle of the sword, swung the blade in a downward thrust as the man next to him, a heavily bearded and bare-chested ruffian, tried to pull her from the other side. The weight of the sword's descent was enough to send the blade inches into the second's man's shoulder, effectively
She skirted the well, thinking her mother was no doubt regretting that choice as wave after wave of invaders ran at her and fell screaming to their deaths in a flaming lump. Of coarse her mother was prevailing, but no doubt there are others in the village less fortunate. If she could weave through the chaos to get to the armory, she might be able to help the strongest of the men. She wasn't exactly a trained warrior but she knew there were swords in there as well as crossbows and quivers. The blacksmith who lived next to the armory had taken a shine to Aislin during the short time he had courted her mother, and in an effort to win her favor had shown Aislin how to wield a sword. He'd been no warrior, either, but he'd understood the dance of balance and the power of weight.
Even now, she could see that her mother's Arm of Protection, a rotund man just past his prime, was struggling against four of the invaders. She could hear her mother's cold voice as she demanded an invader step aside while he was still alive or burn beneath her fingers within a dozen heartbeats.
The distinct sound of a man's agonized shriek cut through the rest of the din and Aislin was vaguely aware that it emanated from her mother's direction. One of the marauders had evidently pumped out his dozenth heartbeat.
She tried to swallow down her fear and disgust, but her mouth had dried up like the burnt lands she heard about in folklore. She just had to keep going. Weave past the children crying for their mothers, the old women fleeing toward the walls, hoping to escape unnoticed. Some of the younger men had already fallen, too poorly trained to be of use against professional invaders. Everywhere she ran, her bare feet encountered blood and filth. But at least she still ran. She could make it. She saw the door yawning open.
A scream sent a shiver over her flesh, informing her rational mind the way only a body could. Danger. Grief creeping toward her like winter, certain and dark and all encompassing. Her tissues responded in kind, powering her muscles before she could work out possibilities or select an option. She knew the owner of that voice so well that hearing it made her mouth go dry and her knees buckle.
Kasia. Urgent and terrified.
She sent out a trilling, anxious probe for her sister and heard another shriek in response. But the crowds, the noise: The din of screaming made it hard to pinpoint where one small shriek might have originated. Aislin scanned the chaos, trying to filter through the blur of clothing and leather and metal that streaked across her vision. She lurched forward, pushing past a marauder who had hefted a young boy onto his shoulder.
There. Just past a flock of geese squabbling over a thin path to safety, beyond two burly invaders fighting over a horse. Slim arms slung around the balustrade of the vacant archers' platform, her tattoos standing out vividly against the skin of her shoulder. The girl resisted the pull of a leather-clad marauder who hung onto her with one hand as he fought off two other warriors who seemed to think that the ginger-haired girl was a possession to be taken.
It was all she needed to force Aislin's feet into a headlong rush at the trio, skidding to a stop a few paces away.
She inhaled all the breath she could, trying to force it to run down her legs to fuel her muscles. She willed herself to look commanding, drawing from the countless memories of her mother's judgments. Then she shouted. No matter that it squeaked.
"Let her go."
The first man, with his fingers still clenching Kasia's tender biceps and his other gripping the handle of the sword, swung the blade in a downward thrust as the man next to him, a heavily bearded and bare-chested ruffian, tried to pull her from the other side. The weight of the sword's descent was enough to send the blade inches into the second's man's shoulder, effectively
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