This is what the saplings had planned, though. They won’t kill the legionaries. They want to paralyze them so they can drag them to their caves and shackle them for their blood supply. It’s probably how they—or their mortal counterparts—trapped Iago and Drakon.
“We have to help them.”
Gesine shoots a fireball toward a sapling that’s just taken down a legionary. “Is that not what we’re doing?”
“It’s not enough!”
“It is difficult, in such close combat.” She pauses, searches for another opening to strike.
An arrow glides over the flaming perimeter to sink into a sapling’s back. Loth finishes him off with a swing of his sword, cleaving into his neck.
The arrow came from within our camp. “Who was that?” I search and find Fearghal teetering on one of Norcaster’s rickety wagons, a bow in his grip.
He pauses long enough to offer a toothy grin. “We don’t eat if we can’t use one of these.”
He’s not the only one taking position on a wagon. Several other mortals have followed suit, clutching bows they must have scavenged from the weapons wagon. How many of them have aim as good as Fearghal’s, though?
I get an answer a moment later, as one fires an arrow aimed at a sapling, and it grazes Horik’s shoulder.
“Don’t take the shot unless you’re clear!” I bellow. The last thing we need is to shoot our own warriors.
But that’s not our only worry. The fire boundary around the camp is wavering, the flames already half their prior height and shrinking.
I panic as I scour the field for Zander, fearing the worst, but he’s still on his feet, back-to-back with Elisaf, meeting each blade strike.
“He cannot continue fighting them and stoke this fire,” Gesine warns. “It is impossible. They need to end this quickly.”
But they’re far from success. Too many legionaries have fallen and not enough saplings have. Abarrane has lost her sword, but so has her opponent. They’re trading a flurry of punches and kicks, but she’s wobbling, her footing not as assured as usual. It has to be on account of the glowing cord the sapling has tucked within his sleeve. How long before even she is overpowered?
My attention veers beyond her to the crop of rocks I left when I raced back. “Where is he? Where is Jarek?” From this vantage point and with the fire burning, I can see all around the camp.
But I can’t see the fierce warrior anywhere.
My stomach sinks with cold fear.
Two more legionaries fall, the saplings using their merth cords like lassos to incapacitate them.
We are going to lose.
And the fire wall is waning.
There’s an opening, and Gesine sends a fire bolt toward a sapling. He screams as his entire body ignites, drawing the other saplings’ notice.
“On the wagon!” one of them yells.
Seconds later, arrows sail toward us. Fearghal and another mortal are hit. Fearghal tumbles off with a howl.
Gesine throws a shield up around the wagons, blocking a second volley. “You must attack! Use your fear!”
I know I have to, but I can’t blast them without risk of hitting the remaining legionaries. I frantically search for other ideas.
The pond.
I may not be able to create water, but I can manipulate it into something deadly.
I let the adrenaline surge inside me and merge with all my fear and anger as I conjure a picture of an octopus with clawed tentacles reaching out from the water’s surface. A split second later, my vision comes to life, latching onto a nearby sapling’s limbs, clamping down tight.
I grit my teeth as I coax the water beast to pull. The sapling’s screams cut off as his body parts fly in various directions.