sword and accepted a spyglass from Bercola. “And silence all that racket.”
“But Captain,” one of his men protested. “She’s one of the…”
“I know what she is.” Marked by the Seventh god, the Corrupter. As deadly as a dozen armed men and twice as clever. Her kind were to be killed on sight, but this was the first time he’d seen one up close, and Killian was … curious.
“Good morning,” he shouted, ignoring the exclamations of the soldiers around him. “I’d invite you in for a drink, but I’m afraid I wasn’t furnished with a key to the gatehouse.”
“Is that the only thing stopping you, Lord Calorian?” she called back.
Killian’s jaw tightened. It was no secret he was in command, but still disconcerting to have his name on the lips of one of the corrupted. “Perhaps a certain sense of self-preservation.” He raised the spyglass to his eye in time to see a smile work its way onto her face. She was lovely in the way of a poisonous flower: better from a distance.
“Likewise,” she said. “You’ve a reputation, my lord, and I’m afraid accepting that drink might have consequences.”
It was a reputation that he hadn’t earned, but Killian had long since come to realize that denying it only made people more likely to believe the rumors. “Consequences isn’t the word most people use.” He stepped out of the company of his men and walked closer. “Privileges, pleasures, delights…”
“God-marked lunatic,” someone muttered from behind him, but Killian ignored the comment. Dangerous as she was, the woman was at least fifty paces away and on the far side of a wall twelve feet thick—what harm was there in speaking to her?
“If only hubris translated into skill,” she replied, half-turning her head, seemingly listening for something.
Killian caught Bercola’s eye, but the giantess shook her head. No sign of anyone else in the pass. “There is only one sure way to find out,” he called back.
The corrupted tucked the white fabric into her pocket. “We’ve no time for this. You need to let me through.” She cast another glance over her shoulder and scanned the pass, snowshoes sinking into the powder. “They’re coming. There isn’t much time.”
Uneasy murmurs ran through the ranks, but the spyglass in Killian’s hand revealed nothing but snow, rocks, and the occasional tree.
“You must think me mad,” he said, resting his elbows on the thick steel bars, through with banter. “I know what you are and what you can do. And frankly, these gates haven’t been opened in decades. I’m not sure if they can be.” He glanced at his men. “Anyone?”
His men laughed, but there was a nervous edge to it.
“I have no intention of harming you or your men,” she said. “Just the opposite—I want to help. I want to stop her. But I need you to help me first.” Another nervous glance over her shoulder and she took two steps closer to the gate.
“Stay back,” Killian shouted, sensing his archers wavering and not wanting an arrow loosed just yet.
“Please.” There was more than desperation in her voice; there was fear. And it was driving her closer. “Rufina has ten thousand men with her, and that is a mere fraction of her host.”
Who in the bloody underworld is Rufina?
“No closer.” His heart hammered in his chest, the endless darkness of her eyes making him want to pull his sword. Or run. “I’ve given you fair warning.”
“I know her plans.” The corrupted was walking toward them now, movements smooth and predatory. “Let me through the gates and I can help you stop her.”
“Why would one of the corrupted want to help me of all people?”
“Because if she’s victorious, I’ll never be free of this curse.”
She was only thirty feet away. Killian’s gut told him to hear her out, but logic said otherwise. His hand went to the pommel of his sword. “I don’t trust you. I know what you’re capable of.”
Twenty feet. “I might be a monster,” she said. “But I’m not a liar.”
Fifteen. She was corrupted, and the King’s command was to kill them on sight. But to do so didn’t feel right. “Stop.”
She kept coming. And Killian had his orders.
“Shoot!”
He saw the six shafts protruding from her chest almost before he heard the bows twang. Surprise blossomed across her face, and she stumbled forward, each step punctuated by another bowshot.
Her eyes fixed on his. “I am not a liar,” she whispered, then fell face first into the snow.