It comes again.
The twang of a bowstring. Then the thwack of an arrow hitting its target.
The second harpy drops.
Wilmot. It must be. No one else is that good with a bow.
Hope surges and spurs me on with a rush of adrenaline. I twist and—renewing my left arm’s hold on Dain’s leg—dare to release my right and slash at the harpy leg closest to me. My blade sinks in, and with a screech, the beast drops Dain.
That’s all it takes—one set of talons releasing their grip as one harpy is distracted. The weight is too much and, in a blink, we’re low enough for Malric to grab my leg.
As Malric keeps hold of me, another harpy falls, an arrow through its breast. Then Dain writhes and clutches the leg of the harpy gripping him.
I loosen my grasp on Dain. That’s scary—I envision Dain hoisted into the air, out of reach—but I know that there aren’t enough left to carry Dain off.
As I let go, I slash at the one I already injured. My dagger barely makes contact before it flees, screaming. Another lies on the ground, arrow-shot, and the one Dain grabbed has wrenched free and is flapping its great wings, escaping as fast as it can, as Dain falls safely to the earth.
I land on my feet and spin, dagger ready. The harpies are gone. Five lie dead on the ground. The others have fled, one of them badly wounded.
“Wilmot?” I shout.
No answer. He must be busy watching for those two harpies to return. I stagger over to Dain on wobbly legs.
“You okay?” I ask. He’s rising gingerly to his feet.
I take his arm to steady him, and he makes a move to brush me off. I let go before he can, but he pauses and then claps an awkward hand against my back.
“I’m fine,” he says. “Thank you for not letting go.”
“I never would,” I say, meeting his eyes.
He ducks my gaze and nods. I glance over at Malric. He’s making the rounds of the downed harpies, ensuring they’re dead.
Jacko stands watch over the dropbear. The jackalope’s whole body vibrates, his gaze on me, clearly wanting to hop over. He’s declared the dropbear his responsibility, though, so he’s staying there. The dropbear seems fine. She’s eyeing the sky nervously, but there’s no sign of fresh blood or injury.
As I make my way over, I call again, “Wilmot? We’re okay. We—”
Dain lunges and grabs my arm. “Those aren’t Wilmot’s arrows,” he whispers.
Before I can react, Malric is in front of us, pushing us back and placing himself between us and whoever shot those arrows.
These arrows are homemade and as distinctive as Wilmot’s or Dain’s, but definitely not theirs. The shafts are fashioned from two types of wood, with striped feather fletchings. As Dain peers into the oncoming night, he sneaks a peek at the arrow nearest us, as if itching to study it.
“We should retreat into the forest,” I whisper. “We’re easy targets here.”
Dain nods, and as we back past Jacko and the dropbear, he scoops up the latter. I reach for Jacko, but the jackalope shoots to my feet instead, guarding them as we move swiftly into the woods.
Malric waits until we’re clear, and then he lopes to us.
“Hello!” I shout.
Dain frantically motions me to silence.
“They know we’re here,” I whisper. “And they saved us from the harpies.”
He shakes his head. “We were fine. You and Malric had it under control.”
I realize he hadn’t seen the other two coming—he couldn’t from his vantage point. For now, I just whisper, “Whoever it is did help us.”
“So why aren’t they coming out?”
“Because they don’t know us. They’re making sure we aren’t dangerous.”
He opens his mouth, and I lift a hand.
“We’re bickering,” I say, “and this really isn’t the time. We’re trapped, and I’d rather not wait for the harpies to return with reinforcements.” I take a deep breath. “My name is Rowan of Clan—”
Dain’s hand slaps over my mouth. “If you don’t know who’s out there, you certainly shouldn’t tell them you’re a princess.”
I glare, but he has a point. The last time I identified myself, I wasn’t believed. The time before that, my assailants were kidnapping me because I am the princess. So far, saying, “Greetings, I am Rowan of Clan Dacre, royal monster hunter and princess of Tamarel,” has only ever made things worse.
“I’m Rowan of Clan Hadleigh,” I call. “I’m here with my great-aunt, Yvain, and others from her clan.”
That isn’t a lie. Hadleigh is my father’s clan, and Yvain is my great-aunt. Or maybe it’s great-great-aunt…
When no answer comes, I say, “I am with Dain of…” I trail off. I don’t know Dain’s clan. I’ve never asked, and my cheeks burn with that.
“It doesn’t matter,” he mutters. “Just Dain is fine.”
“But I should know—”
“Just Dain.” He raises his voice. “I’m Dain, apprentice to the hunter Wilmot of Clan Kendral.”
No answer. Whoever’s out there is listening, though. They must be.
I continue, voice louder now. “We are here investigating the migration. There is a cabin nearby, filled with dropbears and—”
“And what might you know of that?” a woman’s voice says, winding around me like a soft breeze. There’s an odd note to it, one that raises my hackles. “Did you have anything to do with it, Rowan of Clan Dacre?”
I tense. Dain has his dagger out, and he hefts it as Malric growls and Jacko chitters. I squint into the forest, but it’s dark and silent. When I glance at Malric, he’s sniffing and his expression says he can’t find a smell, which means she’s downwind.
I turn in that direction and straighten. “Yes, I am Rowan of Clan Dacre. Royal monster hunter–elect and princess of Tamarel. And I am responsible for the dropbears. I am happy to discuss that. To whom do I have the pleasure of speaking?”
“Such pretty manners,” the voice says.
I realize the “odd note” in her voice is nothing but an accent.
