stump in bursts, soaking the riverbank a deep red. After a moment, Kelsea realized that she was watching the rhythm of the manâs dying pulse, his heart pumping out his lifeblood onto the sand.
Dimly, she realized that she should do something. But her legs still werenât responding, and her ribs ached horribly. The two remaining Caden came at Mace from each side, but Mace ducked them neatly and buried his mace in the side of one manâs head, crushing it in a spray of blood and bone. Mace didnât recover quickly enough; the last assassin reached him and sliced him up the hip, his sword tearing cleanly through the leather band at Maceâs waist. Mace dove beneath him, rolled once, and came to his feet with the grace of an animal, swinging the mace with crushing force against the assassinâs spine. Kelsea heard a snap, a sound like Barty breaking a branch of greenwood, and the Caden thumped to the ground.
Behind Mace, Kelsea saw that the black-cloaked men had arrived and dropped from their horses with swords already drawn. Mace whirled and charged forward to meet them while Kelsea watched with a sense of disappointed wonder . . . it seemed such a waste for him to die here. Sheâd never heard of anyone beating one Caden swordsman before, let alone four. She took her hand from her neck and found it slick with blood. Was it possible to bleed to death from a shallow wound? Barty had never covered death or dying.
Someone reached beneath Kelseaâs arms and flipped her onto her back. Black spots danced in front of her eyes. The gash in her neck tore wider and began to pulse with warm blood. Her legs splayed out, the feeling in them reawakened to horrible life as though shards of glass were being driven into her calves. A face loomed just above hers, a face the color of pale death with fathomless black holes for eyes and a bloodstained mouth, and Kelsea screamed before she could help it, before she realized that it was only a mask.
âSir. The Mace.â
Kelsea looked up and saw a second masked man standing in front of her, though his mask was a mercifully plain black.
âKnock him out,â ordered the man in the white mask. âWeâll take him with us.â
âSir?â
âLook around you, How. Four Caden, all by himself! Heâll be trouble, for certain, but it would be criminal to waste such a fighter. He comes with us.â
Kelsea hauled herself up, though her neck shrieked in protest, and reached a sitting position in time to see Mace, bleeding from numerous wounds now, surrounded by several black-masked men. One of them darted forward, quick as a weasel, and brought his sword hilt down on the back of Maceâs head.
âDonât!â Kelsea cried as Mace crumpled to the ground.
âHeâll be fine, girl,â said the white-masked man above her. âGet yourself together.â
Kelsea dragged herself to her feet. âWhat do you want with me?â
âYouâre in no position to demand answers, girl.â He held out a flask of water, but she ignored it. Black eyes gleamed behind the maskâs eyeholes as he studied her, peering closely at her neck. âNasty. How did that happen?â
âA Mort hawk,â Kelsea replied grudgingly.
âGod bless your uncle. His taste in allies is no better than his taste in clothing.â
âSir! More Caden! From the north!â
Kelsea turned northward. A cloud of dust was visible across the acres of farmland, deceptively small at this distance, but Kelsea thought that the party in pursuit must be at least ten men strong, a reddish mass against the horizon.
âAny more hawks?â asked the leader.
âNo. How shot one down.â
âThank Christ for that. Tie up the horses; weâll take them with us.â
Kelsea turned to look at the river. It was deep and wild, the far bank covered in trees and shrubs that overhung the water for at least five hundred yards