Windwitch (The Witchlands 2)

The Threads that bind.

Aeduan’s blade met flesh and fur. The tip of a pointed ear—a chunk of meat as large as Iseult’s head—splattered to the rain-soaked earth.

The mountain bat roared, its breath rushing over Iseult and knocking her back. Then it heaved its enormous serpentine form around, wings crashing outward. Each step set the earth to shaking.

Four more haggard steps, and it took flight.

Sunset Threads flared more brightly, wisping off toward the waterfall. Toward a faint, distant smattering of terrified, broken Threads. Familiar Threads.

Owl. The mountain bat was bound to Owl.

Aeduan staggered to Iseult, blade and body coated in bat blood. His cheeks were scarlet, his eyes swirling red.

“The … Falls,” Iseult panted. “Owl is at the Falls. And the bat … is bound to her.”

A blink of confusion. Two shuddering breaths. Then understanding braced through him. “That must be why the pirates want her. A child who can control … a mountain bat.” He wiped his face on his shoulder, then offered Iseult his hand.

She clasped it tight, her fingers lacing between his. Together they ran.

The world blurred into striated stone and smoky rain. All Iseult saw was the scree underfoot and the pillars ahead. Her white cloak flapped around her, and Aeduan’s grip never loosened.

Just as the mountain’s bat screams never subsided. Its diving attacks resumed. Silver Threads galvanized by pink, they spun in closer. Closer. But now Iseult knew they were aimless. It attacked without reason because Owl was trapped without reason.

At least, through it all, Iseult could see where the mountain bat would dive next.

“Left!” Iseult bellowed, and as one, she and Aeduan lurched around a column of stone thin as a tree.

Silver Threads. Screams of the damned. The mountain bat crashed down.

The pillar crashed down too.

Aeduan was zooming into the lead. Yet this time, as his fingers dug tight into Iseult’s forearm, Iseult realized the mountain bat was hanging back. Rather than darting high for another hard dive, it was hovering above.

Owl. They must be near her.

“The river!” Iseult shouted, and instantly, Aeduan’s course changed. They dove out from behind the pillars, and the Amonra greeted them. Its white chop had turned red; corpses floated downstream.

Here, a battle waged. Arrows fell; fire-pots erupted; blades endlessly clanged. It was chaos, and neither side cared whom they killed. Violent, lusting Threads saturated Iseult’s vision. Blood saturated the soil.

Habim had told Iseult once, War is senseless. She’d always thought he’d meant it figuratively. Now she knew he’d meant it exactly as he’d said. War was senseless, overwhelming her sight, her touch, her hearing. Even her witchery. Every piece of Iseult was crushed. Crumbled. Shattered to shreds.

Ahead, at the base of the falls, Owl waited. Her panicked, jittering Threads shone through the fog off the river.

A snap! shook through the air. Instantly, the sky turned black as arrows pelted down, a great swarm from the cliff.

Aeduan cut right, yanking Iseult behind the stones. Just in time, for the arrows hit their marks. Soldiers and steeds, Red Sails and Baedyeds—all fell like wheat to the scythe.

No stopping, though. Only running onward through the weak rain. Men charged with blades, but swords were so easy for Iseult to evade with Aeduan at her side. Together, they arced, they lunged, they ducked, they rolled. A fluid combination of steps built on blood and Threads.

They were almost to the waterfall now. They were almost to Owl.

The mist cleared, whipped away on the mountain bat’s wings. It scooped in close, talons outstretched and mouth wide.

The fog swept back completely, and there was Owl. Ten men guarded her. The rest were carcasses smashed on the rocks or already lost downstream—for that was the mountain bat’s method. Even now, its claws were hooking over a thrashing Baedyed. Then, the bat launched into the air, snapping the man once to the side, before dropping him into the river.

Another screeching nosedive from the mountain bat sent the mist scattering, and in that brief flash of time, Iseult glimpsed all she needed: nine soldiers now—soon to be eight—blocked Owl, who cowered against the rocks, a bag over her head.

A Red Sail pounced from the right; Aeduan froze the man’s body with a chop of his wrist. But he didn’t kill the man, just left the soldier still as a statue and already behind.

Fog rolled over them. The mountain bat swooped low, and it was time to make a final move.

“Get Owl!” Iseult roared at Aeduan, and in that moment, she ripped her arm free from his grasp.

She turned to face the remaining soldiers. They had troubles enough with the mountain bat, so they hadn’t yet noticed her in their midst.

With a hard grunt, Iseult launched herself at the closest soldier, whose gaze was pinned on the sky. On the mountain bat careening closer.

She swirled behind, her left foot hooking back. Out went his knee; down he fell. The stones were so slick here, and the Amonra thundered close—a foe Iseult knew no one could face.

Which was why she kicked with all her power into the soldier’s neck.

He toppled into the river. Another victim of the Amonra. Seven more men remained, though, and now the earth was shaking.

No, not the earth—the stones. The river-smoothed gravel of the shore. It undulated and rippled, like waves upon a sea. All of it guided by almost invisible Threads of dark green.

Iseult’s eyes traced the Threads through the mist … to Owl. They were her Threads. This was her magic.