Page 51 of Fang & Fury

The earth magic pushed them on.

Ailsa’s fingers flexed around the short dagger Darach had given her. Their lesson the night before had been brief but instructive. She realized where she’d been going wrong.

She should have been afraid, for they were vastly outnumbered. Instead, warmth spread through her limbs and everything around her sharpened: the smell of sweat, the rasp of leather, the jumping pulse in the throats of the warriors closing in.

Anticipation shivered through her.

The circle shifted and rushed inward. Fern let out a shout, longsword rising. Leaping forward, the huntress engaged the first of the warriors.

Kayla followed her, blade flashing.

A warrior lunged in from the side then and came at Ailsa. He moved fast yet held his blade too high.

Unleashing herself, she stepped inside his guard and drove her dagger up under his ribs, twisting.

Relief rather than rage flashed across his face before he crumpled with a grunt.

All Ailsa wanted to do was fall to her knees, slash open his throat, and drink, but there was no time. There were more of them now, closing in.

Through a gap in the crush of bodies, she caught sight of the clag-doo for one heartbeat—jaws closing around a warrior’s forearm, the man’s scream sliding into a wail as bone gave way—before the crowd swallowed him whole again.

Ailsa dodged a cleaving axe. Leaping close, she sliced her attacker across the throat with her left hand. Aye, she still preferred using her nails; there was something so satisfying about the feel of skin tearing under her fingertips.

Blood spurted, splattering across her mouth.

She wiped it away with the back of her hand—and froze.

Hunger surged violently then, cramping her belly.

She forced herself to move again—ducking and twisting—and opened up the throat of another warrior.

More blood. The air was thick and rich with it.

Her stomach clenched once more, her mouth filling with saliva, but she couldn’t give in to the hunger. Not when there were so many of them pressing in now.

She’d lost sight of both Kayla and Fern.

Ahead of her, a warrior suddenly stumbled.

Blinking, he halted before shaking his head, as if fighting something only he could see. An instant later, his arm jerked upward, and he drove his dagger into the man beside him.

The warrior in question lurched forward, cursing. But the first man was already stabbing again, blood spraying as his blade rose and fell.

A cry reached Ailsa, and she tore her gaze away from the warrior who seemed to have forgotten friend from foe.

Kayla.

Moving on instinct, she shoved at the wall of bodies to her left, clawing her way through them. Reaching Kayla’s side, she saw that her arm had been sliced open, the wound deep and gushing red.

Blood hit the air, warm and rich. The bavaan inside her lurched toward it, yet something else recoiled.

No. Not Kayla.

The hunger howled, almost impossible to fight.

But she did.

She leaped to Kayla’s side. Her mentor had swapped her dagger to her left hand and continued to slash and stab, her blood-splattered face set in savage lines.