Kyra sensed motion and turned to see the final attacker rush for Dierdre. He must have realized that she was the weak point, and Kyra saw he was about to tackle her and pin her to the ground. She could not allow that. If Dierdre were taken hostage, Kyra knew, it would make defeating these men infinitely more complicated.

Kyra, knowing she had no time, raised her staff, took aim, stepped forward, and hurled it.

Her staff went flying through the air like a spear, and Kyra watched with satisfaction as it hit the running man in his temple, right in his pressure point. His legs fell out from under him and he collapsed to the ground right before he reached Dierdre.

Dierdre looked down in gratitude, then picked up Kyra’s staff and threw it back to her.

Kyra caught it and stood in the silent room, surveying the damage, all the men laid out, unmoving. She could hardly believe what she had just done. The rest of the tavern-goers stared back, mouths agape, clearly not believing what they had just witnessed, either. Her father’s friend gulped, looking scared.

“I would have helped you,” he said lamely, fear in his voice.

Kyra ignored the coward. Instead, she turned slowly, stepped over the unmoving bodies, and walked casually back to the bar, where the barkeep still stood, staring back, amazed. She grabbed her chickens and meat from the bar, while Dierdre took their sacks of water. This time Kyra would not leave without food for her or the others.

“Looks like I’ll need more feed,” she said to the barkeep.

The bartender, stunned, slowly reached down and handed her more sacks of feed.

The two girls walked back across the room, through the tavern, and out the door, none of the other men daring to approach them now.

As they walked back outside, into the freezing, pelting rain, Kyra no longer felt the cold. She was warm inside, warm with the certainty that she could defend herself, that she was no longer her father’s little girl. Those men had underestimated her, as had all the men in her life—and more importantly, she realized, she had underestimated herself. Never again. She felt a confidence rising up within her. She was becoming herself. She did not know what the road ahead held, but she knew, no matter what, she would never back down to anyone again. She was as strong as these men.

Even stronger.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

“BLOOD EELS!” Seavig cried.

Duncan raised his sword and hacked at the thick, red eels twisting their way up his leg, as the Lake of Ire seemed to come alive with them. He felt them squeezing his flesh as all around him his men cried out and fell into the waters, splashing, flailing; yet as he swung, he was unable to gain enough momentum to slash through the thick waters and do any real damage to the creatures.