The Ironteeth had found them.
Far sooner than Manon had planned.How the Ironteeth patrol had found them,
Dorian didn’t know. He supposed the fires
would be a giveaway.
Dorian rallied his magic as twenty-six
massive shapes swept over the camp.
Yellowlegs. Two covens.
The crone who’d introduced herself as
Manon’s great-grandmother began shouting
commands, and Crochans obeyed, leaping into
the newly dark skies on their brooms, bows
drawn or swords out.
No time to question how they’d been
found, whether the spider had indeed laid a
trap—certainly not as Manon’s voice rang
out, ordering the Thirteen into defensive
positions.
Swift as shadows, they raced for where