Warcry

be so easy to just—
    Heath’s voice whispered from nowhere, “Kill the bastard, my love, or I will kill him for you.”
    Heath. Skies, she loved him.
    Lanfer was busy trying to hold her and rip the skirt. Atira shifted her weight to one foot and hooked his with the other. With a grip on the fabric of his tunic, she threw her weight back.
    Lanfer roared out as he lost his balance just long enough to release the hold on her neck. Atira sucked in air as she stumbled, almost falling. But she managed to right herself and run to the other side of the tower.
    Lanfer gave chase, and he pinned her so that her back was bent over the low portion of the wall, her head out over the edge.
    Atira struggled, but he’d wedged himself between her legs. He yanked her up by the hair. Her head throbbed, the pain was overwhelming, and her stomach ached. Still, she bared her teeth at Lanfer. “Heath’s longer, and thicker. You’d not satisfy any wo—”
    Lanfer punched her, splitting her lip, snapping her head back.
    Darkness rose, coming to claim her. She felt her legs go out from under her, felt herself fall to the floor. She should be afraid, but what flooded over her was regret. And a desire to see Heath one last time, and tell him . . . tell him . . .
    From somewhere far away, Lanfer laughed. There was a blinding pain on the side of her head, then the darkness was complete.

CHAPTER 31
     
    HEATH DIDN’ T NEED TO SEE THE SECOND SLIPPER as he ran up the stairs. He could hear the sounds of a struggle above him. He hurtled up the remaining stairs, put his shoulder to the trapdoor, and burst through without stopping.
    Lanfer had Atira pinned to the wall, naked, her hands bound behind her back. Her dress was in tatters, and her breasts lay bare. Lanfer’s trous were undone. He’d startled the bastard, and Heath ran forward, fully intent on running him through.
    Lanfer yanked Atira’s head back and placed his dagger on her throat. “Stop,” he croaked.
    Heath stopped just paces away, breathing hard, his weapons ready. “Let her go.”
    Atira was limp in Lanfer’s arms, her eyes closed.
    “Why don’t I just take her while you watch,” Lanfer taunted. “These Firelander women sleep with anything, or so I’ve heard. I’ll just—”
    “Durst is dead,” Heath said. “Executed by the Queen’s command. Your followers have fled or died or surrendered. Do the same, Lanfer.”
    Atira groaned, blood at the corner of her mouth. Her bruised and battered face twisted with pain. But there was a flash of rage beneath her eyelids.
    “Never mind,” Heath said, unable to suppress his fury. “I will kill you for what you have done.”
    Lanfer laughed, an ugly, deep sound. “Watch how I—”
    Atira turned her head to the side and retched all over him.
    Lanfer recoiled, dropping Atira, taking the dagger away from her throat. She slid down to sprawl at his feet.
    Heath leapt for Lanfer, slashing for his neck.
    Lanfer dodged, running for his own sword. Heath gave chase, but Lanfer was fast, getting to his weapon in time to take a defensive stance.
    “Why not just admit right now that I am the better fighter,” Lanfer taunted him. “I’m bigger, I’ve a better reach. You can’t win now.”
    “Only one way to find out,” Heath growled, and lunged.

    ATIRA COUGHED WEAKLY. SHE WAS A MESS. ANY ATTEMPT to move, and the agony swept over her, pulling her consciousness with it.
    But the sound of blade on blade drew her and helped her focus. Heath was fighting Lanfer, each maneuvering around the other, feinting and striking, then moving back to strike again. She drew a deep breath, put her good arm against the wall, and used her legs to force herself up. She stood there, trembling, leaned against the cold stone, and waited for whatever strength she had left to gather.
    Even with the fight raging before her, she couldn’t help herself; she turned and looked toward the Plains. The needle of light was gone, but there was something coming, something on the horizon. It was golden and moving swiftly up the valley at an odd angle. She blinked again, staring at a wall of golden light that seemed to sparkle as it bore down on the tower . . .
    . . . and passed over, like the wind over the grasses of the Plains, to continue on, over, and into the mountain itself.
    The two men never noticed, intent as they were on killing each other.
    Atira blinked again, wishing she could rub her eyes. Perhaps it had been her imagination, except . . . there