Truthwitch (The Witchlands 1)

Iseult sensed Safi’s Threads behind her—burning with dark green readiness as she crept through the shadows of the forest. If Safi was ready, then Iseult would be ready too. Initiate, complete—just in reverse this time.

Thirty paces.

Iseult braced her heels, sucked in a breath …

Twenty paces.

She ran.

Shadows swallowed her whole, but gray light shone ahead. Cobblestones and storefronts.

Footsteps followed behind. Even in their soft boots and with lightning crashing closer every second, there was no missing the drum-roll of Marstoki feet.

Iseult skidded to the end of the alley, turning hard and aiming right. Street—a wide one. It was exactly what she’d hoped for, and it headed diagonally up the hill, toward some distant place that might be a courtyard.

That had better be a courtyard.

Broken doors and shattered windows coursed along the sides of her vision. The wind was still at her back, pushing her forward. Rain fell now too. It splattered on the street—made the cobblestones slick.

In the back of her mind, Iseult considered how to account for the rain when she reached the courtyard. It would affect her defenses …

Or not, since there were definitely more men pouring out of the street ahead. The ones on the pier must have moved up the hill to cut her off.

Iseult had run herself directly into a corner and her plan was ruined before it had even begun.

No, no. She could not let panic claim her. All she needed was a moment—just a brief second without Marstoks breathing down her neck.

Iseult twisted sharply left; her feet slipped; she tumbled forward … and caught herself on a signpost. She lost precious time doing it, but no time to regret. Gulping in air, she punched her legs back into full speed. Surely this alleyway would lead her to another main road. Surely she could find a moment to think.

Iseult honed in on individual cobblestones. On slamming one heel in front of the other and sucking down one more breath … Then one more after that. Stasis. Stasis. She could do this.

She wheeled onto another wide lane.

Where there were more Marstoks—barreling from another alleyway ahead. One after another, they sprinted at her. She was trapped. Or …

Iseult skidded left—right through a broken door.

Her shoulder shrieked at the impact. She bit through her tongue, filling her mouth and her mind with the bark of pain and the taste of blood. It was exactly the distraction she needed. Calm briefly swept in and allowed her to scan her terrain: a shop with a counter and a doorway beyond.

Iseult launched herself over the counter. The window exploded, and the storm bawled through.

Soldiers too, but Iseult was already uncoiling and hammering out the back door into an alleyway. She skirted right—sharp and fast. Lightning flashed and wind gusted overhead, but the buildings protected her.

Iseult hit a corner, swooped around … and poison darts skittered into the wall behind her. Which meant there were Poisonwitches in the mix now. Marstoki Adders.

Suddenly the buildings opened up. Light and wind sprayed down, and Iseult found herself in a courtyard. The courtyard she’d hoped for. A stained, ancient fountain stood at the center. It was the Nubrevnan god Noden—all carved muscles and coiling hair—waiting on His coral throne.

Iseult hopped onto the knee-high fountain rim, slick with wet algae and bird crap. It made spinning toward the Marstoks easier, but didn’t offer much stability.

All the while, the sailors tumbled toward Iseult, a swarm of rain-soaked uniforms and focused Threads. Small and lithe to enormously broad-chested, decidedly female to could-be-anything-really.

With the wind and the rain thrashing down and with black clouds churning overhead, Iseult’s ears were useless, her skin hammered to wet numbness.

Then the first soldiers reached the courtyard … and slowed. They eased to careful stops, and a female voice bellowed over the tempest’s howl, “She isn’t the one!”

Iseult’s gut cracked. Her left hand flew to her head. No kerchief. Her black hair was soaked through and fully visible.

“Find the real domna!” the woman ordered. “Back to shore!”

The ice in Iseult’s stomach spread upward. Choked off her air. They were going to leave—just like that?

“Wait!” she shrieked, springing off the fountain. If she could engage a few of them and keep them here, then maybe Safi could still make it.

Iseult hurtled after the retreating soldiers. Several had paused and were swiveling back. Slowly, so slowly. Iseult reached for her cutlass, ready to attack.

Until a crack! of heat slashed through her. Then a coiling in of Threads, so violent that Iseult’s knees almost caved.

In the space of a single breath, countless Threads had simply snapped. Broken.

Cleaved.

The nearest soldier twisted all the way toward Iseult, his eyes black. His skin boiling.

Then he started shredding at this sleeves—at his skin—while behind him, more and more soldiers were lurching back around toward Iseult.

And all of them were cleaving.

THIRTY-EIGHT

From behind a bleached alder, Safi watched the ramshackle wharfside street. Her toes tapped, her fingernails dug into rough bark, and the urge to help Iseult was practically shredding her spine.

But she stuck to the plan, and she waited until every single Marstok had followed Iseult down the alley. Then she scooted toward Lejna.

She kept her eyes on the ship, rocking wildly at the first pier. Several sailors scurried about, but they were too busy with the growing thunderstorm to look Safi’s way. Still, Safi unsheathed her Carawen sword just in case.