Romeria
My lungs burn as I cross the invisible border. The camp has erupted in chaos, legionaries running to meet attackers from all sides while shouting at the mortals to remain hidden within the protection of the wagons.
“Stay here!” Zander orders and charges out before I can respond. Flames ignite along the camp’s perimeter, forming six-foot walls of fire that connect at the bonfires in each corner, keeping the mortals and me inside and everyone else out.
Beyond the fire lines, countless steel clangs and shouts sound, but I can’t see anything.
“Romeria!” Gesine, still in her beige dress, scales up the side of our wagon.
I scramble to follow, and together we survey the scene from our new vantage point.
My terror swells. Is this what they were expecting?
The flaming walls create a box of protection around the camp similar to the circle I used in Norcaster, while its glow casts a wide expanse of light, allowing us to see far beyond.
We watch as the Legion fights the enemy, blades and bodies moving with expert strokes and lightning-quick reflexes.
The saplings all have stark white hair.
The one who threw Annika into the river had the same. I couldn’t make out his face then, despite the brilliant moonlight shining from above. But I can see their faces now, and I understand what Elisaf meant when he said they couldn’t be mistaken for anything else. They look like the elven, but unappealing versions, their foreheads bulging, brows prominent, cheeks sunken in.
“Why are there so many?” At least three for every one of our warriors, and they’re all around us.
“We cannot let them overpower us at any cost.”
If it were blade against blade, I wouldn’t be so worried, but already, several legionaries lay motionless on the ground, the silver cords curled around their limbs, rendering them immobile. And suffering. Like a thousand razor blades slicing across skin, Annika had said.
“Are the saplings immune to the merth?”
“Essentially, yes.” Gesine’s irises begin to glow as she draws on her affinities. “We must aid our warriors however we can.”
I call on my affinities, and they answer instantly, stretching into my fingertips, waiting.
Zorya battles two males, a blade in each of her hands, matching every blow with ferocious strikes, driving them away before they can get too close. The recent loss of an eye seemingly has not affected her skill. One sapling lunges, and she spins out of his reach before snapping back and deflecting the other’s sword. A quick maneuver gives her a window to drop to her knee and ram her blade into her second opponent’s stomach. He buckles, and after tearing her sword out, she steps into position for another lethal swing.
The other sapling takes the split-second opportunity and loops the merth cord around Zorya’s neck. She slumps, her blade falling from her grip to lay next to her.
My reaction is spontaneous. The burst of air I throw toward the male requires no thought, no planning. It slams into him and he soars backward to collide with the sapling Brynn is fighting. Both sprawl to the ground.
Brynn doesn’t waste a moment. With a battle cry, she drives her blade into one chest before yanking it out and swinging her sword toward the neck of the one rising to his feet.
I flinch as the sapling’s head sails through the air, landing some distance away.
“Brynn!” I scream.
Her head snaps toward me, bewilderment on her face.
I point to Zorya.
With a nod, she charges toward her fallen comrade, stumbling as she reaches her side.
“It’s the merth. Even being near it for too long can weaken them.” We watch Brynn draw a dagger. She uses the blade to drag the merth away, flinging it into the fire.
Zorya is on her feet almost instantly.
And my shoulders sag.
But there’s little relief to be had as I survey the scene. Plenty of saplings have been cut down, but more than a few legionaries have already fallen to merth cords. The ones who haven’t yet don’t have a second to spare, swarmed as they fight, trying to fend off saplings and their vicious bindings.