Shadow and Bone

The Darkling slid from his mount and threw his hands wide,
then brought them together with a resounding boom. Skeins of
darkness shot from his clasped hands, snaking through the
glen, finding the Fjerdan assassins, then slithering up their
bodies to swathe their faces in seething shadow. They
screamed. Some dropped their swords; others waved them
blindly.
I watched in mingled awe and horror as the Ravkan fighters
seized the advantage, cutting down the blinded, helpless men
with ease.
The bearded man on top of me muttered something I did not
understand. I thought it might be a prayer. He was staring,
frozen, at the Darkling, his terror palpable. I took my chance.
“I’m here!” I called down the hillside.
The Darkling’s head turned. He raised his hands.
“Nej!” bleated the Fjerdan, his knife held high. “I don’t
need to see to put my knife through her heart!”
I held my breath. Silence fell in the glen, broken only by the
moans of dying men. The Darkling dropped his hands.
“You must realize that you’re surrounded,” he said calmly,
his voice carrying through the trees.
The assassin’s gaze darted right and left, then up to the crest
of the hill where Ravkan soldiers were emerging, rifles at the
ready. As the Fjerdan looked around frantically, the Darkling
edged a few steps up the slope.
“No closer!” the man shrieked.
The Darkling stopped. “Give her to me,” he said, “and I’ll
let you scurry back to your king.”
The assassin gave a crazed little giggle. “Oh no, oh no. I
don’t think so,” he said, shaking his head, his knife held high
above my pounding heart, its cruel point gleaming in the sun.
“The Darkling doesn’t spare lives.” He looked down at me.
His lashes were light blond, almost invisible. “He will not
have you,” he crooned softly. “He will not have the witch. He