The Essence (The Pledge 2)

I thought Zafir would unsheathe his sword, but instead he reached down to his ankle, his hand reappearing with a gun from inside his boot. I hadn’t even realize he’d been carrying a firearm.

“What’s happening, Zafir? Who’s out there?” I asked, getting the rest of the way up and standing behind him.

Even buried within the cloak, I could be seen; there was no point pretending we were hidden where we stood.

He handed me the gun and pulled out his sword.

I considered the weapon in my hand. It was small and light, so much lighter than the steel blade Zafir had been training me with over these past weeks. So much more powerful—a quicker, faster kill—if fired true. I felt safer just holding it.

“I don’t know yet, but don’t hesitate to use that,” he ordered again, and I bobbed my head despite the fact that he was no longer looking at me.

He took a step in the direction of the melee and I moved too, unsure whether that was his intention, but unable to stay behind . . . alone. My hand shook, and I wondered if I’d be capable of shooting straight, or if the others in our traveling party were in danger because of my unsteady grip.

The shouting grew louder and I heard Floss cry out. But his words were muffled and erratic, lost in the chaos of other noises, scuffling and bumping, scraping and clashing. These were the sounds of a battle.

We were under attack.

I froze then, cold dread seizing my heart. Practically right in front of us, someone screamed. It was a deep-down, soul-wrenching scream, followed immediately by the sound of something solid, a reverberating crash that sounded sickeningly like metal striking bone. Iron against skull. My stomach revolted, and I rushed to keep up with Zafir.

Before I could reach him, a figure shot out of the darkness, like an animal—fast and feral. It tackled Zafir from the side, knocking him to the ground. I tried to decide what I should do now, how to help him, as his attacker’s form, darkened by night, took shape. My initial assessment had been wrong.

The assailant was indistinct but massive . . . and most definitely human.

My fingers tightened around the firearm as I took an uncertain step back, trying to distinguish one body from the other, worrying that I might have to fire upon the attacker—upon both of them. I tried to ignore the fact that my hands shook violently.

The two became tangled in a heap of limbs and fists, as they hurled one way, and then tumbled the other. I knew the others were under attack as well, but Zafir was my only concern now. My throat tightened as I watched them, my spirit sinking each time I thought he might be losing ground.

Finally, Zafir—and the only reason I knew it was Zafir was because I recognized his voice as he cursed the other man—landed a solid blow to his attacker’s jaw. It was bone-crunching. I hadn’t recognized that both of my hands—even the one holding the gun—were clenched into tight balls, as if I too were fighting some unseen attacker. When I realized that it was Zafir getting slowly to his feet, while the other man remained flat on his back, I loosened my fingers and released the breath I’d been holding.

And then I noticed the second man, coming at us from out of the shadows. I couldn’t see his face, as I was equally certain he couldn’t see mine, but there we were, separated by mere paces.

I saw him reach for something, and I didn’t have time to think, or even to react. My mind didn’t process the fact that I was still armed. Yet even if it had, I was already too late. He was faster.

Or at least he would have been, if it not for what happened next.

A whooshing sound split the air, as if someone had lashed a whip through the darkness.

But there was no whip, and the noise was followed immediately by a sharp, defined thwack. Then the man staggered forward, falling to his knees as he roared, crying out in a strident combination of shock and pain.

He was closer to me now, and I could see him reaching for the back of his shoulder, clawing at something.

“Get away,” Zafir hollered at me, hurrying toward the man, and blocking my line of sight.

It didn’t matter, though; the man had been close enough to the coals of our fire that I had seen his outline—and the shadows of his face. Something struck a chord in me, making every nerve in my body fire. I realized that everything about this scenario was wrong.

“Zafir!” I shouted, in an attempt to warn him.

But Zafir was already there, already reaching for the arrow that protruded from the man’s back, just below his shoulder. And when he spoke to him, I realized he already knew what I did. That he’d figured it out too. “I’ll have to remove it. We can’t just leave it.”

Niko Bartolo—the golden-eyed emissary from the Third Realm—glanced up at Zafir, his face contorted by pain. He answered, his voice coming out on a hiss. “Don’t worry about me. Your men are with me and we’ve captured the others,” he managed between breaths. His eyes darted around apprehensively and he grasped Zafir by the forearm, his voice lowering. “One of them must still be out there.” His gaze shot to me now and I realized he’d known exactly who I was all along. “Get her out of here, before it’s too late.”

It wasn’t necessary, however, because his assailant revealed herself at that very moment. She stepped out from the cover of darkness, her bow at the ready, a new arrow drawn.

“You know this man?” Avonlea asked, not yet lowering her weapon. She spoke to me and not to Zafir. “You know the men who attacked us?”

I knelt before the man stretched on a blanket in front of the fire: Niko Bartolo.