The heart of the bridge glowed green with the magic Phelan called down. His heart raced at three times normal speed. Breathing was hard.
Too much, he thought desperately as he slammed his staff into the stomach of one of their attackers, sending it reeling, screaming as it tumbled backwards and away to disappear under the feet of its fellows. I’ve drawn too much. This is unsustainable. I can’t keep this up.
Seamus cut down another of the Grays as it got too close. Phelan sucked in a breath.
“We have to fall back,” he gasped to his cousin. “They’ll just keep coming. We’ll need to make our stand at the warding lines. We’ll have a prayer of turning the tide from there.”
Who sent these little bastards this time? Vammatar was dead and her sisters had been using the skinchangers to track him. Who would have sent the Grays?
“Go,” Seamus barked. “I’ll keep holding.”
“It’s both or nothing,” Phelan snapped. His limbs were starting to shake. Jac’s going to kill me if I live through this.
He almost—almost—laughed.
Phelan grasped his cousin’s arm and tugged, earning a snarl.
“Phelan!”
“Damnation, Seamus, fall back.” Phelan risked a glance behind him. The Grays were in the ravines below, too, starting to swarm up the walls. “If we don’t, they’ll surround us.”
“We have a choke—”
“We don’t!” Phelan snapped, wrenching his cousin around by the shoulder and pointing toward the ravine, awash with fog and small gray forms. “Run for the holly. Do it now.”
The sound of Thordin’s battlecry echoed off the trees, sending shivers down Phelan’s spine as he shoved his cousin toward the bushes with all the strength he could muster. Something struck the once-druid’s leg, making it numb as he tried to push off into his own mad dash toward safety.
Phelan crashed to his knees in the snow, swearing.
The Grays swarmed toward him, silent as death.
