Chapter 13: Ironwood Burns

Sorcha was in the saddle within the hour.

Her father rode on her left and her mother on her right, and neither of them asked her why.

Brogan's Beta had met them at the stable with six Blackmere warriors in black cloaks.

"Take them," he said. "He would say the same, if he could say anything."

"I'm not doing this for him," Sorcha said.

"I know, Luna. Take them anyway."

She took them.

She did not look back at the Hall once, and her back ached the whole way down the mountain.

They rode through the night and into a gray morning.

At the ford on Ironwood's northern border, black smoke was rising from the roofs of a village.

Sorcha heard the screaming before she saw the houses.

"Rogues," her mother said, and drew her sword.

There were eight of them in the lane, lean and filthy wolves with no pack scent on them.

They had a man pinned against a well, and a woman was beating at the biggest one with a broom.

Sorcha was out of the saddle before the horse stopped.

"Sorcha!" her father shouted.

She walked straight into the lane.

The biggest rogue turned his head and showed his teeth.

She did not draw a weapon.

She called the light, the way Brogan had taught her in the ring, and it came up through her chest all at once.

Her eyes went silver, and the lane went white.

Every rogue in it dropped flat on its belly.

The big one whined, and she felt his fear as plainly as her own.

"Get out," she said. "All of you. If I see one of you south of this river again, I will not be kind."

They ran.

They ran so fast that one of them left a hind paw print in the ashes of a doorstep.

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