Princess of Thorns

“N-n-no. I’m fine.” Ror bites his lip.

“You’re not fine, and neither am I. We’ll die of the quick chills if we don’t get dry.” I pull at my shirt, wrestling the sodden fabric over my head. In the dry mountain air, my skin dries instantly. Almost as quickly, I begin to feel a little warmer.

“Hurry.” I pull the oilcloth cloak around my shoulders, grateful they didn’t have a size small enough for Ror at the mercantile in Goreman. The cloak is tighter than my own, but it will provide enough cover to keep me warm while my clothes dry. “We should start moving north, cover more ground before we stop.”

“F-fine,” Ror says, inexplicable anger in his voice as he drops his staff and tugs his oversized leather armor over his head, flinging it to the ground with a huff.

“I’ll turn my back if you like,” I say, remembering Ror’s penchant for privacy. “No need to get your britches in a …”

I freeze halfway around, every chilled muscle in my body pulling tight as I get an eye full of the woods beyond the shore, woods as dark as midnight in the Pit, lit up by yellow eyes shining like constellations of stars amidst the blackness. Even before I smell fur and musk, I know what the creatures are.

Wolves. More wolves than I’ve ever seen together at once, enchanted creatures sent by the ogre queen to hunt her prey.

“Stop,” I say in a calm voice, knowing no good will come from allowing fear into my tone.

“I’m getting my shirt on,” Ror says, his voice muffled by fabric.

“Get ready to run,” I say. “There are wolves in the woods. Fifty. Maybe more.”

Ror’s breath rushes out. “No.”

“On the count of three, grab your staff,” I say, feet itching. “I’ll get the pack.”

“And then what?” Ror asks in a steady voice. The boy is braver than most men twice his size, I have to give him that. “I can’t overcome that many. I couldn’t if they were men, and I’m used to fighting people, not wolves.”

“We’ll only fight if we have no other choice. Until then, we’ll run.”

“We’ll never outrun them,” Ror says. “They’re too fast.”

I curse beneath my breath, knowing he’s right.

“But maybe …” Ror’s words trail away. “Follow me.” Before I can tell him to wait, he snatches his staff from the ground and races down the shore, summoning a series of growls that ripple through the darkness seconds before the wolves burst from the trees.

“What happened to three!” I sling the pack over my shoulder and take off after Ror, ru

I understand he means to climb the thing and have a split second to wonder how in the Pit we’re going to manage it, and then he’s jumping into the air and I’m jumping along with him and somehow, my fingers find holds in the thick bark and my feet gain purchase and I’m scrambling up the scaled wood behind Ror, reaching the first giant limb and climbing on top just as the wolves leap for us, jaws snapping at the air.

“By the gods,” I gasp, crouching beside Ror on the wide limb, lungs full of salt and razors from our sprint. “Give me some warning next time.”

“Sorry,” Ror pants, peeking at the wolves snarling in frustration below our refuge. “I just thought … this way we’ll be able … to keep moving.” He points along the limb, which stretches through the surrounding trees for half a field before narrowing to a point too thin for a man to walk on. “The trees are close enough to jump from limb to limb, but we’ll get farther faster if we stick to the oldest ones.”

I squint into the darkness beyond the trees clustered around the lake. “We’ll need a torch. Once we get deeper in, it’s going to be too dark to see where to jump.”

Ror nods. “The flint is in the front pocket of my pack.” He stands, looking frailer without his leather armor covering his linen undershirt and his sodden warrior’s knot flopping to one side like a crooked hat. “I’ll see if I can find a dead limb to—”

There is a sudden whistle and Ror’s words end in a startled gurgle, but it isn’t until he falls to his hands and knees and I see the arrow protruding from his arm that I recognize the whistle for what it was—an arrow cutting through the air, followed by more arrows with raven feathers for fletching and ogre blood staining their tips.

Ogres. They’re here. In the Feeding Hills.

I realize the truth, realize how desperately Ekeeta must desire Ror’s capture if she’s willing to send troops into Mataquin’s most unholy place for the ogre race, and wince against the violent clenching of my gut as it insists there is no way Ror and I will leave this wood free men.

Chances are we won’t leave the hills alive.

No. I won’t die here. Not now, when I’m so close.

Ignoring the growls from the wolves, shouts from the ogre soldiers, and arrows whizzing by too close for comfort, I grab Ror and drag him closer to the trunk of the tree, staying low to take advantage of the cover the wide limb provides. I have to get the arrow out before we try to escape. The ogres tip their arrows with their own blood, black fluid poisonous to humans. If left untreated, exposure to ogre blood will kill a man within days, and the longer the thing sits beneath Ror’s skin, the more poison he’ll absorb.

“Ogres.” Ror looks over his shoulder with wide eyes. “What will we—” His question ends in a pained cry as I rip the sleeve from his shirt. I do my best not to disturb the arrow, but the shaft still tilts a bit, digging the tip deeper into Ror’s pale flesh.

“Let’s get this out of you first,” I say, heart racing as I evaluate the wound.

The good news is that the arrow hit the meat and muscle of his upper arm, doesn’t seem to have struck a bleeding vein, and is in so deep it should be easy to push it through.

The bad news is it’s going to hurt like the bottom level of the Pit on the way out.

“It has to go through.” I snap off the fetching and lay a hand on Ror’s back, offering what comfort I can even as I wrap my fingers around the arrow’s shaft. Ogres tend to do a better job of attaching their arrow tips than human archers. I can only hope the angle will stay true when I apply pressure. There isn’t time to go hunting for a knife to use instead. We have to get deeper into the forest. Darkness is our only hope. We won’t be able to see where in the gods’ green lands we’re going, but the ogres won’t have the moonlight to help them get a clear shot, either.

“Niklaas, wait,” Ror says, his voice already thin and breathless.

“On three,” I say. “One … two!” I push on two, jabbing the arrow through with a sharp thrust. Ror’s entire body tenses, but he makes only the softest mewl as the arrow comes free.

“You’re a fierce thing,” I say, breath coming fast as I fling the bloodied arrow to the ground. I catch Ror as he slumps forward and pull him upright, only to have his head roll limply back against my arm.

He’s fainted, which is a blessing when it comes to his pain but may end up being a curse on his life.

I grit my teeth, fighting a wave of panic. “At least you’re small.” I reach for the sleeve I tore away and wrap it around Ror’s wound, staunching the flow of blood, trying not to be distracted by the arrows that continue to whiz within hands of where we’re hunched on the limb. It’s only a matter of time before the ogres overcome their fear of the Feeding Tree we’ve taken refuge in and climb up to fetch us. We have to move. Now.

“I’ll carry you if I have to,” I mutter. “Don’t worry, little man.” I shift Ror in my arms, balancing him on one knee while I tie his makeshift bandage, causing his torn shirt to gape open, revealing the bandages binding his chest.