His voice—You will not touch her again!
She didn’t think it was possible, but Serilda managed to pry her eyes open. They immediately shut again, flinching away from the faint candlelight. But in that moment she’d seen him. A figure armed with a sword, an actual sword. Except, instead of flashing silver and steel, it appeared to be made of gold.
She squinted her eyes open again, lifting one arm to block her view of the candle.
She was just in time to see Gild driving the weapon clean through the drude’s belly.
A gargling sound. The stench of entrails.
Another beat of wings, another deafening cry.
She gasped. “Gild!”
The second drude dove for his head, claws dragging along his scalp.
Gild roared and yanked the sword out of the first drude’s body. In one ferocious swing, he turned and cut off one of the second attacker’s wings.
The sound it made was agony and horror as it collapsed to the ground. Sitting back on its haunches, its one wing flapping uselessly, it hissed at Gild with its sharp pointed tongue.
Fury twisted Gild’s face as he lunged, stabbing it in the chest, where a heart might have been.
The drude’s hiss turned into choking. Black liquid spilled from its mouth as it slumped forward onto the blade.
Panting hard, Gild yanked the sword away, letting the drude crumple in a heap beside its peer. Two grisly piles of bruise-purple skin and leathery wings.
He stood for a long while, gripping the hilt, his eyes darting madly around the room. He was shaking.
“Gild?” Serilda whispered, her voice hoarse from screaming.
He spun toward her, wide-eyed. “What is wrong with you?” he yelled.
She jolted. His anger helped her shed some of the lingering paralysis from the nightmares. “What?”
“One battle with a drude wasn’t enough?” He held his hand toward her. “Come on. There will be more coming. We have to go.”
“You have a sword?” she said, a little dazed, as he pulled her to her feet. To her surprise and a bit of disappointment, he yanked his hand away from her the moment she was standing.
“Yes, but I’m out of practice. We got lucky. Those things can torture me every bit as easy as they can torture you.”
He stuck his head out into the hall, making sure it was empty, before waving for Serilda to follow him. She started to, but they hadn’t rounded the corner before her legs gave way and she collapsed against the wall.
Gild wheeled back to her.
“Sorry,” she stammered. “I’m just … I can’t stop shaking.”
Sympathy flashed across his features. Stepping closer, he took her elbow, infinitely more gentle than he’d been moments before. “No, I’m sorry,” he said. “You’re hurt … and scared.”
She hadn’t been thinking about her shoulder, but once he mentioned it, she could suddenly feel the sting where the drude’s talons had dug into her.
“So are you,” she said, watching as a slim trail of blood made its way down Gild’s temple from the wounds in his scalp. “Hurt.”
He winced. “It’s not so bad. Let’s keep moving. I’ll help you walk.”
He carelessly tossed the sword off into a corner so he could support her around the waist, one hand gripping hers tight as they passed the stained-glass windows and headed back down the stairs. He led her into the great hall and set her down in front of the fireplace. The rubinrot wyvern peered down at them from its place above the mantel, eyes glittering with the light of a hundred candle flames. Its lifelike appearance made Serilda uneasy, but Gild seemed hardly to notice it, and so she tried not to be bothered, either.
Kneeling, Gild reached for her forehead, as if he intended to check for a fever. But then he froze and reeled his hand backward, tucking it close to his chest instead. A flicker of anguish passed over his face, but was gone in an instant, replaced with concern.
“How long did it have you before I got there?”