I looked back, nonplussed. “What?”

And then we found out what.

The portcullis started to lower—faster than I would have expected for something that rusted—and the sound spooked the already unhappy horses. They started forward again, which threatened to bring the heavy iron thing crashing down on top of us. But Pritkin applied a quick lash to a couple of shiny russet backsides and they jumped ahead, slipping us through at the last possible second.

Which would have been great except for the couple hundred fey now thundering toward us across a courtyard.

“Shit!” I said, and shifted, the last swirl of my power taking us to the top of one of the castle’s turrets, just before the great gate clanged down.

“What did you do?” Pritkin demanded, jumping up from the floor of a narrow, watchtower like surround, where he’d landed in a still-seated position. “What did you—”

I didn’t answer, being too busy staring back at the portcullis, which had just effectively cut me off from my power. And because the army of fey were now climbing up the castle walls after us, as if their feet were velcroed to the stones. And because a rain of arrows had just headed our way.

We ducked behind the crenelated battlements, seeking cover, but a shaft took Mircea in the shoulder, nonetheless, courtesy of some fey still in the courtyard. He pulled it out without so much as a curse and jammed it through the eye of the first guard over the wall. Blood spurted, the fey’s body fell back, already lifeless, and I screamed.

“No!” And got a mouthful of ash for my trouble.

It took me a second to realize that it hadn’t come from a chimney, which the castle didn’t seem to have anyway, but rather from Pritkin. He’d just sent a massive fireball at the next five guards leaping for us, which had hit them mid jump. The spell had been hot enough to dust them to ash and a few charred slivers of bone, which the wind whipped at us and at their friends now flooding over the battlements.

I spat out pieces of fey and tried to talk, but my gag reflex kicked in.

“Shift,” Pritkin suggested, because the assault hadn’t so much as slowed our enemy down.

I hacked and coughed and tried to explain that I couldn’t, but I didn’t get the chance. Because Mircea was opting for the better part of valor, and taking me with him. I felt a hard hand grip my waist and then nothing under my feet, as we took a flying leap into the air. We landed a second later, with me coughing out “Pritkin!” and Mircea finally cursing as half a dozen arrows slammed into his body from behind.