You need to move.
She rolled to the side, wincing when lights flashed across her eyes. Her stomach rebelled, and, somehow, she found the strength to push onto her hands and knees to retch. Her body convulsed, and her ears rung. She wiped at her mouth and scooted back against the wall. Her eyes teared up against the thick black smoke and dust that choked the air. The wind tugged at her hair, and she glanced to her right.
The entire wall was gone, exposing the chapel to the raging storm. What kind of weapon could blow through stone like that?
Her head gave a vicious throb, and she lifted her hand to massage the pain away. Vaguely, she registered rain pelting her skin as she pulled away. Her fingers were warm and sticky with blood.
A head injury. Not good.
She blinked a few more times as bright stars moved across her vision. She must not pass out. Even though her ears rang and the wind howled, she could hear screams and the dull ring of steel against steel.
Wren coughed and reached for the nearest beam. How long had she been out? Where was her family? How many were injured or killed? Where was Rowen?
Bile burned the back of her throat as she forced herself to her feet. She swayed and gagged as the wind pushed some of the smoke away, revealing the carnage.
No.
Not nearly enough people had escaped. Too many bodies littered the floor.
A grunt, followed by the clash of swords registered.
Wren jerked and moved farther into the smoke. The fighting was close. Too close. The enemy had made it into the keep. She jerked up the hem of her torn dress and pulled the short dagger from her thigh sheath, painfully aware that she needed something more substantial.
She pushed a wet strand of her hair from her face and once again pressed against the remains of the wall behind her. The smoke wasn’t ideal, but at least it gave her cover, and, thanks to the wall, no one would be sneaking up on her from behind. A man bellowed to her left, and her fingers tightened on the hilt of her blade. She held perfectly still when she registered the silhouette of a warrior creeping in her direction. She didn’t think he’d noticed her yet.
You have the element of surprise. Strike hard and fast.
He moved within striking distance, and the smoke dissipated some. Wren sagged against the wall, her eyes widening, dagger held to her chest.
“Rowen?” she gasped.
Her betrothed scanned her from head to toe, his eyes wild and far away, his bloody sword in hand. He motioned to keep silent before he took her right hand and led her through the smoke. She struggled to keep her steps quiet, but it was almost impossible. They passed through an arched doorway, and Rowen pressed her against the wall, his attention focused on his right.
“What—” Wren coughed, struggling to find her voice through the smoke. Her throat hurt so much; trying to speak was like having shards of shell stuck in her lungs.
He turned back to her, his face hovering above Wren’s. He’d clearly taken a beating. Both his eyes were black, his lip was split and swollen, and dried blood covered the left side of his neck.
“Are you okay?” she asked, but he was just staring at her. “Rowen?”
“I thought you were dead,” he rasped. His body trembled slightly. “I couldn’t find you. I couldn’t—”
“It’s okay,” Wren soothed, making sure to keep her voice low. “A blow to the head and bruises. Nothing more.”
“You’re covered in blood,” he whispered.
“Head wounds always bleed more.” She swallowed hard. “My family? Your family?”
“They all made it out.”
She nodded, her head aching with the motion. “Who attacked? The Verlantians?”
“Yes.” Rowen’s expression darkened. “They broke the treaty. We’ve paid the tithe all these years, and yet, they still stabbed us in the back.”
“We can talk about this later,” Wren said, her own gaze straying back toward the ruined dais. “The blockade?”
“It’s gone up. My father is down with the navy now.” His jaw tightened. “They never should have been able to get this close.”
Wren froze. Not unless someone led the enemy through the coral reefs. “A traitor,” she breathed.
“It seems logical.”
She’d deal with that bit of information later. “Is Britta safe?” she asked. Her younger sister was the only heir to the throne.
“Near your parents,” Rowen said, pushing back to pull a bow and quiver from his shoulder. He held it out to her. “Can you run and shoot?”
“I have to.” Wren knelt and sliced off the bottom of her dress so it wouldn’t slow her down. “How bad is it?”
“Much of the battle has moved to the keep already. We need to get out while we still can.”
“Rot it.” No one had ever breached the Lorne Keep before.
“You ready?” Rowen asked gruffly.
“Where you go, I go,” she said resolutely, standing.
He swooped down and gave her a quick bruising kiss before pulling away. “I’ve got your back.”
A dark smile lifted Wren’s lips. “Let’s go hunting.”
5
Wren
Grim determination strengthened Wren as she ran through the wreckage, cutting down anyone that got in her way as she rushed toward her family. She stumbled only once as her comrades fell beneath the enemy’s swords.
The Verlantian soldiers, with their pointed ears and black, gilded helmets which obscured much of their faces, fought anonymously and constantly, never seeming to expend much effort in their slaughter. It was as if they were inhuman. Perhaps they were. The dark elves were always the monsters no one wanted to speak about.
She had never seen a Verlantian before, and it struck her as odd how beautiful they were. Even covered in the enemy’s regalia and the gore of her people, somehow they were ethereal and alluring.
Wren hated them.
Pretty monsters were all they were.
They were ruthlessly, hopelessly efficient. They were entirely impersonal. The crowd in the chapel were merely victims to be conquered.
She blocked out the cries of her people and focused on the weapons in her hands. Wren was not useless, nor were her father’s outnumbered warriors as they fought with everything they had to combat the pointed eared monsters invading. The people of the Dragon Isles had always been accused of being savages. Today they accepted the title with relish. They screamed as they landed blow after blow, fighting despite the wounds they sustained. Their war calls spurred Wren on, her blood boiling as she began loosing arrows left, right, and center with Rowen at her back.
Dark satisfaction filled her when she never missed her mark. More than a few Verlantian soldiers fell—or at least let out a cry of pain—when her arrows struck true. The vicious part of herself almost wished she had more time to take out all the bloody monsters as she reached the throne room.
Screams and the ring of metal against metal echoed around the stone room.
Her gaze snapped to the dais where her parents fought off a few soldiers.
Fear trickled down Wren’s spine.
Britta wasn’t with them.
Heart pounding, she scanned the room, chest heaving with rising panic. Where was her sister?
Calm down. They would have secured the heir above all else.
An arrow whistled through the air, and she ducked. It embedded in the scarred wooden door behind her. Rowen grabbed her from behind and wheeled her around.
“Found Britta,” he breathed. “The table.”
Her attention honed in on a table strewn with wedding gifts. One of the wrapped boxes had fallen to the floor, exposing its contents of delicate silver candlesticks and jeweled goblets for all the battle to see. A gift from the south, going by the craftsmanship. A little hand snuck out from beneath the tablecloth and pulled back one of the silver candlesticks.
Good girl. Britta knew to secure a weapon no matter what.
The little girl peeked out once again, her eyes widening in terror.