The Iron Sword (The Fae War Chronicles Book 1) (6 page)

“Dusk,” he replied. “Dusk and dawn are the two most dangerous times in the Overworld for us.”

“But you like the night,” I said, watching as Finnead gripped the handlebars of the motorcycle and eased the kickstand off the ground. He straddled the bike in one fluid motion. “And aren’t you going to wear a helmet?”

“You’re very inquisitive,” he said over his shoulder. “Yes, I like the night. I am bound to the Unseelie Court. But dusk and dawn…those are the times when the balance of the world is shifting between night and day. Things lurk on the edges of night that have no place in the darkness but cannot survive the light of day. Things that do not properly belong in your world or mine.” The engine of the motorcycle roared to life. “I would rather avoid those things.” He twisted the throttle, making the engine purr. “And I’m not wearing a helmet, Tess O’Connor, because I am very, very hard to kill.”

Molly swung her leg over the motorcycle. She placed her hands on Finnead’s broad shoulders, one delicate hand on each side. I couldn’t help but grin at Finnead’s parting shot. A plume of dust shot up into the air as Finnead leaned forward and the bike rocketed down the trail. I thought I heard Molly squeak in surprise before they disappeared down the hill. I walked to the side of the house and watched the motorcycle start to climb the next hill. Kirby, still pressed against my knee, suddenly growled deep in his throat. I scratched his ears but his lips curled up off his teeth as he snarled. I moved my hand—in the short time I’d been here I hadn’t heard goofy, lovable Kirby make anything near a sound that vicious. His eyes were fixed on something in the distance. I looked up as the motorcycle crested the next hill—and a dark shape hurtled into it. Molly’s scream floated in the darkening air like a ribbon. Kirby barked and charged down the hill, and I ran after him.

Chapter 6

T
he last threads of Molly’s scream settled on the shoulders of the dusky hills. Kirby was a white and brown streak in front of me, racing along the rutted dirt road down the hill and up the next. He disappeared over the crest of the hill. I stretched my legs, ignoring the awkward bounce of the backpack, willing myself to go faster. I heard a strange metallic sound, a sound that sliced through the air—and then there was a horrible snarling, not Kirby, because Kirby could never make a sound that malicious. I reached the bottom of the hill and attacked the upslope, picking my knees up and pumping my arms. My lungs burned. The snarling came again and then Kirby’s bark rang out clear as a bell, cutting through the bloodcurdling sound.

As I reached the top of the hill, I swung the backpack off my shoulder and opened it in one savage motion, grabbing the canister of salt in one hand and the cool firm curve of the iron horseshoe in the other, skidding a little as I stopped. “Molly!” I called out as I saw the motorcycle, lying on its side on the rutted dirt road like a wounded beast. Icy fear spread in a sudden burst from my stomach, rushing down my legs and up my spine.

Kirby barked again. He was standing, legs braced wide, over Molly. She lay motionless on the side of the path, probably exactly how she had landed when she had been thrown from the motorcycle. I couldn’t see her face because she was still wearing the dark blue helmet. Kirby’s hackles bristled and his teeth showed as he growled, his attention focused on the other scene playing out in the dying light of the desert sun.

I wasn’t usually the screaming type, but I felt a shriek catch like a bubble in my throat when I saw the creature attacking Finnead. The Unseelie Knight brandished a sword in his hand, the blade streaked by the reddish light of the sunset, his eyes riveted on the creature standing before him. My skin crawled as the creature snarled again. It looked like a wolf, but wrong—its fangs were longer, more vicious, its lips thick and black, its fur mottled black and crusted in scarlet patches, as if the blood of its victims coated its fur. Its huge legs, which led down to paws about as big as my head, bowed out slightly from its body, like those of a spectacularly large bulldog. As it growled again, I glimpsed a dark purple tongue behind its teeth. Its eyes glowed a vengeful red, the pupils crescent-shaped, imbued with a horrible cunning and intelligence as it looked between Finnead’s blade and Molly’s unconscious form.

I heard someone breathing heavily, and a heartbeat like drums pounding on the horizon. I realized the breath was my own and I was hearing my heart in my ears like a drummer’s call to war. Some strange instinct quickened the beat of my heart further as the beast coiled itself to spring at Finnead, its muscles rippling under its hideous fur.

I watched the tense standoff between Finnead and the horrible creature, gripping the horseshoe so hard my knuckles popped in protest. I knelt in the sandy dirt, eyes still trained on the beast. Finnead spoke in a language I couldn’t understand, pointing at the creature with his sword. His words hung in the air like jewels and the icy knot of fear in my stomach loosened just a little. The creature tilted its head to the side, listening. Perhaps there would be no need for Finnead’s sword after all.

I laid my hand gently on Molly’s neck, sliding two fingers beneath the helmet and pressing them just below her jaw, feeling the slow beat of her pulse in her neck. Relief flowed through me. “Molly,” I said, touching her shoulder gently. Kirby spared a moment from his vigil watching the horrible creature’s standoff with Finnead, whining softly and nuzzling Molly’s other shoulder. She stirred and put one hand up to the motorcycle helmet. I helped her ease it off, her hair sticking up wildly. She blinked at me and then her eyes drifted over my shoulder. Her hand found my arm, clenching it in a vise-like grip that made me grit my teeth.

“That’s what knocked me off the motorcycle,” she said shakily.

“I gathered that,” I said through clenched teeth.

Finnead’s voice rose and fell, reminding me of the ocean. It felt as though his words dropped straight onto something deep within me, perhaps my soul. I drank in the sound of his voice like the desert ground soaks in rain from a cloudburst. Dimly I saw Molly sit up, Kirby licking her face—but a thread of unease worked its way up my spine. The beast’s head swung toward us, and Finnead’s voice grew louder, more commanding, but the creature didn’t listen. It opened its horrible mouth and snarled, ropes of spittle flying from its glistening fangs.

Instantly Kirby was in front of Molly, snarling his own challenge at the wolf-like beast. The Jacksons’ dog barely came up to the shoulder of the creature, but he braced his legs and snarled and barked for all he was worth, digging in his back legs as if preparing to spring. The beast took a great leap toward us, faster than thought, and there was a brown-and-white streaked blur streaking for the creature’s throat.

“Kirby, no!” Molly screamed.

Kirby clamped his jaws on the beast’s throat, his silky white fur gleaming against the rancid gray of the wolf-thing’s barrel-thick chest. I heard Kirby’s growl still spilling out from between his clenched jaws. Molly’s hand tightened around my arm until I reached across and pried away her grip. I grabbed the backpack, fumbled out the container of salt and opened the spout. Turning quickly, I poured salt in a circle around us. Suddenly the knight was beside us, sword unsheathed. I spilled salt onto him as I turned and I froze. Would his skin bubble and froth with a burn? Or would he burst into flames?

“Silly wives’ tale,” he said quickly, pushing away the canister without even bothering to brush himself off. He carved a rough circle in the dirt around Molly and me, sunlight gleaming off his swiftly moving blade.

With a ferocious growl, the beast reared up on its hind legs. Kirby slashed and fought, jaws still clamped fast on his enemy’s throat, landing a blow to the thing’s head that made it keen. Then one of the huge paws, claws catching the little light left in the dusk, found its mark, swiping Kirby aside with brutal force. Finnead quickly looked over his shoulder and changed his grip on his sword, kneeling down and sketching strange symbols in the dirt, murmuring melodic words beneath his breath.

“What is that?” I asked breathlessly as the symbols flared to life.

“A sigil of protection,” he said quickly.

Kirby staggered to his feet, a sharp whimper escaping him. But he swung his head toward Molly, and put his ears forward, turning back to face the beast.

“He’ll be killed,” Molly cried.

“Stay in the circle,” Finnead said.

Finnead leapt in front of the beast, sword flashing. In a moment when the beast retreated, he made a motion toward the dog with one hand, and poor Kirby painfully limped toward us. I grabbed Molly’s arm as she leaned forward, entreating Kirby tearfully.

“Don’t smudge the circle,” I said, but Kirby somehow understood and stepped over the lines almost delicately, despite the blood matting his white and brown fur. He collapsed in Molly’s lap, and I turned my attention back to the battle.

My eyes couldn’t follow the thrust and parry of the stranger’s sword as he danced away from the supernatural speed of the beast’s razor-sharp claws. His handsome face was alight with a peculiar expression, a joy that I couldn’t fathom as he courted death, leaping and lunging after the beast, always placing his own body between the creature and Molly. And then in a lucky stroke the beast caught Finnead’s sword between two claws. The Unseelie Knight strained to hold onto his weapon as the beast brought its strength to bear.

You must help, you must help him with cold iron!
a voice in my ear said adamantly.
If he loses the Brighbranr, it will kill him!

I had absolutely no idea what Wisp—because I supposed it was Wisp somehow, the voice definitely was not a product of my own imagination—meant by Brighbranr, or how exactly I was to kill the humongous beast with razor-sharp claws and a mouth full of dagger-long teeth with an iron horseshoe. And we’d been wrong about the salt, so who was to say we were right about the iron? But something unfolded within me. I felt the emotion spread its wings in my chest like a hawk, its wingtips stretching over the bones in my shoulders, stilling the frantic beat of my heart with its warm soft breast. I felt the talons, too, pricking a little into my ribs, urging me forward in that frozen moment.

Finnead’s sword flashed as it arced through the air, torn from his hand by the beast. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw him grin grimly and draw out a dagger from a hidden sheath at his waist. He feinted and darted in close, driving the dagger into the beast’s shoulder; but that only enraged the beast further. It swept at Finnead with a huge paw, and he was not fast enough to dodge it. He went down under the staggering blow.

The sigil-circle flared as I crossed it, and a strange tingling sensation swept up my body. But there was no time to consider the odd feeling. I leapt at the beast with the horseshoe held high in my right hand, grabbing a handful of mottled fur with my free hand as I swung onto the beast’s back.

Its eye, its eye, put out its eye!
trilled the small voice in my ear. It sounded as though Wisp would be dancing with a maniacal glee, the same bloodlust as Finnead shining in his tiny eyes.

The beast jerked as it felt my weight settle onto its back and I clung to its crusty coat with both hands, squeezing with my knees as it shook its head and snarled. I shifted my body to the side, panting. Beads of sweat stood out on my forehead. The smell of death permeated the beast’s fur, rising in rank tides from it as it moved, furiously trying to dislodge me. I gagged. Finnead shouted something in that strange language again, and it was enough to make the beast pause for just a moment. I plunged one end of the horseshoe into its eye.

The wolf-beast shrieked. The horseshoe grew hot and I let go of it with a exclamation of surprise. The creature thrashed, its eye steaming, and I was thrown in a dizzying arc, landing hard on my side by the edge of the path. There was a burst of white-hot pain, but then my body quickly rejected the sensation in favor of a nauseating numbness. I looked up to see the fate of the creature.

It convulsed on its side, the horseshoe now a mass of molten glowing metal covering its eye socket. Finnead walked lithely past the beast and retrieved his sword. He calmly wiped the dust from the blade and murmured something that sounded like an invocation in that lilting language. The blade flared brightly. Placing the point of his sword against the creature’s heaving chest, he killed it with one sharp motion.

The white-hot burst of pain I had felt on my landing returned as a slow, steadily creeping tide. I closed my eyes against it, pressing my forehead into the dirt and trying to stop the ground from spinning beneath me. After a few breaths, I felt the ground tremble slightly with footsteps, and cool hands slid on either side of my face.

“Molly?” I said.

“No.”

I couldn’t bring myself to feel awed or to blush that the Unseelie Knight, so magnetically handsome, now knelt very close to me, his hands cradling my face. The tide of pain had turned into a rip current and it was steadily pulling me away from consciousness.

“Where are you hurt?” Finnead asked in his lovely voice, his tone somehow different than when he had been trying to command the beast with his words.

“Your voice sounds different,” I said, feeling dizzy. I swallowed thickly. “And there’s dirt…on your face…”

I heard him make a small sound of…amusement? Frustration? I couldn’t immediately tell and I was in no condition to overanalyze his every move. But he didn’t move to wipe off the smudge of dirt highlighting his pale skin.

“Can you sit up?” he asked.

“Yes,” I replied immediately, despite my overwhelming desire to stay very still with my forehead against the dirt. My body begged me not to move, but I suppressed its pleas brutally, rolling to my left side—I had landed on my right arm—and using my uninjured arm to push myself up. My breath hitched as a wave of pain pulsed out from my right arm, engulfing me in agony. Finnead reached out and carefully steadied me with a hand on my left shoulder.

“That was very brave,” he said, his unfathomable blue eyes catching my gaze, “or very stupid. I cannot decide which.”

“Why not both?” I answered in what I hoped was a cheeky, carefree voice. Instead, I heard the little gasps in my words, the breathiness in every syllable.

“Brave and stupid,” he said, that hint of a smile creasing one side of his mouth.

“Where’s Molly?” I tried to turn my head but stopped as the sky swung around to occupy the ground’s former space.

“She is in a bit of shock, but she is fine,” Finnead replied softly.

“Is Kirby…dead?”

“Not quite. May I look at your arm?”

“Are you a doctor?” I asked, a little more sharply than I’d intended.

He looked at me with that inscrutable aloof expression. “For what it’s worth, Tess O’ Connor, I’ve been trained in mortal physiology. Occasionally there is need for that knowledge in the Courts.”

“Mortal…physiology,” I hiccupped, trying hard not to laugh so I wouldn’t jostle my arm. “Wish that was a class I could take.” I looked over Finnead’s shoulder, needing a distraction as his long fingers delicately probed at my arm. “What do you call that thing?” I asked, staring at the hulk of the wolf-beast’s carcass.

“For everything in our world, as in your world, there are many names,” he said softly, intent on my arm. I wished he would play along and distract me.

“Could you tell me one?” I asked breathily, gritting my teeth as his fingers reached my forearm. I felt a vague sensation of warmth flowing down my arm. Finnead cursed under his breath and tore a strip from his sleeve. I reeled when he tightened it around my upper arm.

“Sometimes it is called a
garrelnost
, in the common tongue of the world below. In your language, it would be something like…dusk-killer,” he said, the touch of his fingers like a whisper on my feverish skin.

“I fought a
garrelnost
,” I said dreamily. “Won’t people notice its carcass?”

“When night comes, it will fade. It has no place in this world, especially now that it’s dead.”

“You killed the dusk-killer.” I smiled a little. Something about the touch of his skin on mine made me feel like I had been injected with morphine.

“With some help,” Finnead said softly. “From you.” He leaned back a little. “And now I shall return the favor. Your arm is badly broken, and there may be other injuries I can’t see. I will take you to the Court.”

“Isn’t that…high treason…or something,” I said, feeling distinctly sleepy. “I’m sure…there’s a hospital around…”

“A debt must be paid,” Finnead said.

“Molly?” I murmured.

“She is tending to the dog,” he replied.

“He was pretty badly…hurt,” I said.

“And so are you,” Finnead replied. “Now, if I help you, do you think you can stand?”

“Yes,” I said again. My knees promptly gave out when I attempted to put weight on my legs, but this posed little problem to Finnead—he gently picked me up, careful of my arm. Somehow the motorcycle had been righted, and was on the road, waiting obediently. “Make that a no,” I muttered, cursing my own weakness.