and Phouka and the fox-girl, Twig, right behind. An arrow scraped across Phouka’s shoulder, and he whinnied and shoved past Rook as he shied away.
“Get down!” Rook shouted, and pulled Fray with him as he fell. Arrows whizzed over their heads. He peered through the waving grasses. Thirty paces away, the Forsworn were lined up, tall and proud; one of them, a delicate bird-man, pulled another arrow from his quiver and gracefully pulled back his bow, ready to shoot; two of the others held long knives, the fourth a drawn bow.
If only Fer were with them, Rook found himself thinking—she was as good an archer as they were.
The glamories of the Forsworn were dazzling under the brilliant sun and the clear, blue sky. They were too bright, really. More dazzling than a glamorie should be. Rook blinked away the glare and with his puck-vision caught a glimpse of the ancient creatures cowering behind the blaze of beauty.
“Now what?” Fray asked.
“I thought you were giving the orders,” Rook muttered. He glanced back. The Way out of the prairie lands stood open fifteen paces behind them, a wide space shimmering among the waving grasses and flowers. Phouka had galloped out of range of the Forsworns’ arrows; Twig crouched next to Fray, her sharp teeth bared, as if she was ready to fight. The bees hovered in a buzzing cloud just overhead. “I think we can fight them,” he answered. It’d have to be the bees that gave them a chance. “If we—” he started, but the Forsworn interrupted.
“Give the puck to us,” one of the Forsworn Lords shouted. “Give him to us, you Summerkin, and we’ll give you your Lady and let you go.” He stepped closer; the other Forsworn, a Lord and two Ladies, started to glide sideways through the grass, surrounding them.
Fray turned to Rook, frowning.
He could practically see her deciding to hand him over. “They’re lying,” he whispered. “They are not going to let Fer out of wherever they’ve put her.”
“You don’t know that, Puck,” Fray growled back.
“You idiot!” he snarled. “They’re Forsworn.” He gripped her shoulder and gave her a little shake. “Their glamories are hiding their lies from you. We have to fight them!”
Fray blinked and shoved his hand away. The fox-girl edged closer, watching Rook with sharp eyes.
Before the wolf-guard could make her decision, the bees made their move. With a shrieking buzz they broke away from where they’d been hovering over Rook’s head and shot through the air like golden arrows, straight toward the Forsworn.
“Come on!” Rook shouted, and as he leaped to his feet, he shifted into his dog shape and charged. He took a bound and felt an arrow flit past him, and caught a quick glimpse of Fray and Twig following him, Fray drawing her long knife from its sheath.
Hopefully they were coming to help, not grab him for the Forsworn.
Rook leaped past an archer cowering from a swarm of bees and, ducking a slash from a Lord’s knife, bore him to the ground, snarling—but, keeping his promise to Fer, he was careful not to touch him with the forepaw that had the shadow-web stuck to it. Quickly he shifted into his person shape and the Lord rolled him over in the long grass and raised his knife to stab. Rook laughed and popped the shifter-bone into his mouth, and the Lord dropped the knife to dodge Rook’s flailing horse hooves as he scrambled to stand on his four legs.
In a flash, Rook shifted again to his person shape and picked up the long knife. Panting, he held it up to the Lord’s throat. “Hold,” he shouted. The Lord froze, still kneeling on the ground. With a wild glance over his shoulder, Rook saw that Fray and Twig each had a Lord or Lady at bay, and Phouka stood over the fourth Forsworn with a hoof on her chest. The bees swooped around them, buzzing and bright against the blue sky. He shot them a fierce grin. They’d won.
Now it was time to go get Fer.
Sixteen
Fer had run out of time. Her throat was dry;
“Get down!” Rook shouted, and pulled Fray with him as he fell. Arrows whizzed over their heads. He peered through the waving grasses. Thirty paces away, the Forsworn were lined up, tall and proud; one of them, a delicate bird-man, pulled another arrow from his quiver and gracefully pulled back his bow, ready to shoot; two of the others held long knives, the fourth a drawn bow.
If only Fer were with them, Rook found himself thinking—she was as good an archer as they were.
The glamories of the Forsworn were dazzling under the brilliant sun and the clear, blue sky. They were too bright, really. More dazzling than a glamorie should be. Rook blinked away the glare and with his puck-vision caught a glimpse of the ancient creatures cowering behind the blaze of beauty.
“Now what?” Fray asked.
“I thought you were giving the orders,” Rook muttered. He glanced back. The Way out of the prairie lands stood open fifteen paces behind them, a wide space shimmering among the waving grasses and flowers. Phouka had galloped out of range of the Forsworns’ arrows; Twig crouched next to Fray, her sharp teeth bared, as if she was ready to fight. The bees hovered in a buzzing cloud just overhead. “I think we can fight them,” he answered. It’d have to be the bees that gave them a chance. “If we—” he started, but the Forsworn interrupted.
“Give the puck to us,” one of the Forsworn Lords shouted. “Give him to us, you Summerkin, and we’ll give you your Lady and let you go.” He stepped closer; the other Forsworn, a Lord and two Ladies, started to glide sideways through the grass, surrounding them.
Fray turned to Rook, frowning.
He could practically see her deciding to hand him over. “They’re lying,” he whispered. “They are not going to let Fer out of wherever they’ve put her.”
“You don’t know that, Puck,” Fray growled back.
“You idiot!” he snarled. “They’re Forsworn.” He gripped her shoulder and gave her a little shake. “Their glamories are hiding their lies from you. We have to fight them!”
Fray blinked and shoved his hand away. The fox-girl edged closer, watching Rook with sharp eyes.
Before the wolf-guard could make her decision, the bees made their move. With a shrieking buzz they broke away from where they’d been hovering over Rook’s head and shot through the air like golden arrows, straight toward the Forsworn.
“Come on!” Rook shouted, and as he leaped to his feet, he shifted into his dog shape and charged. He took a bound and felt an arrow flit past him, and caught a quick glimpse of Fray and Twig following him, Fray drawing her long knife from its sheath.
Hopefully they were coming to help, not grab him for the Forsworn.
Rook leaped past an archer cowering from a swarm of bees and, ducking a slash from a Lord’s knife, bore him to the ground, snarling—but, keeping his promise to Fer, he was careful not to touch him with the forepaw that had the shadow-web stuck to it. Quickly he shifted into his person shape and the Lord rolled him over in the long grass and raised his knife to stab. Rook laughed and popped the shifter-bone into his mouth, and the Lord dropped the knife to dodge Rook’s flailing horse hooves as he scrambled to stand on his four legs.
In a flash, Rook shifted again to his person shape and picked up the long knife. Panting, he held it up to the Lord’s throat. “Hold,” he shouted. The Lord froze, still kneeling on the ground. With a wild glance over his shoulder, Rook saw that Fray and Twig each had a Lord or Lady at bay, and Phouka stood over the fourth Forsworn with a hoof on her chest. The bees swooped around them, buzzing and bright against the blue sky. He shot them a fierce grin. They’d won.
Now it was time to go get Fer.
Sixteen
Fer had run out of time. Her throat was dry;