“Neve!”
Marin caught her friend before she could go pitching face-first into the snow, holding her up as Neve twisted, looking back toward the ravine.
“It’s the Grays,” she gasped, wide-eyed gaze returning to Marin, flicking toward Thom and J.T., Thordin and Sif. “They’ve come back. Phelan and Seamus are trying to hold them at the bridge—”
“Get her out of here!” Leinth called from closer to the warding lines. “She’ll be safer in camp!”
“Christos,” Thordin swore, fingers itching. “Marin, your bow. Take Neve back and get your bow. Wake the rest.” His heart pounded hard against his breast. The Grays meant Phelan’s old enemies were back—he knew enough to know that.
But no dirae. It could be far worse.
He tried to kill the thought before it fully bloomed and failed, silently cursing himself for a fool.
Then he unslung his ax and headed for the wards. “Thomas, Jameson, with me.”
“Bloody fucking hell,” J.T. growled, his blade rasping free of its scabbard. He glanced toward Marin.
Her gaze went to her husband in a heartbeat, one hand reaching for him even as she propped up Neve.
“Go,” Thom murmured, pressing a quick kiss to his wife’s temple. “Wake Cameron when you take Neve back.”
“Be careful,” Marin said. “Be damned careful.”
Somehow, I doubt that’s going to be an option, Thordin thought. He clapped J.T. on the shoulder and without another word, barreled toward the warding lines where Leinth still stood, expression slack.
The smoking form of a Gray lay sprawled beyond the holly bushes.
Thordin beheaded it with a careless swipe of his ax and plunged onward, the words to a barely-remembered battle-song on his lips as his booted feet ate up the snow-covered feet between him, the bridge, and two Taliesins—one current, one former—facing certain destruction at its apex.
