Tamaryl exploded. “How dare you compare this?” He whirled, and Shianan’s blade jerked—but Tamaryl’s anger was for Maru. “How dare you?”
Maru’s voice pleaded and bled. “Look where you are, look at what you’re doing.” His throat worked, and Shianan realized with a start he was near tears. “You wanted to end this fighting, Ryl. Look at yourself.”
Tamaryl stared a long moment at the other Ryuven, his expression changing subtly but remaining unreadable. Maru seemed to be holding his breath. Then Tamaryl relaxed his fingers, letting the magic dissipate, and his wings sagged a few inches. “Maru,” he said simply, and then with a crack of displaced air he disappeared.
Maru glanced at Shianan and then vanished as well.
Shianan stood still for a moment, not quite believing they were gone. Finally, slowly, he lowered his sword and replaced it, still alert for the sound of approaching Ryuven. He licked his lips, tasting sweat and blood. They had truly left.
He turned and hurried back to the prince. “Your Highness.”
Soren breathed in short, quick gasps. “I think I can move my arms. ’Soats, what was that?”
“I hardly know.” Shianan unbuckled the cuirass with strangely efficient fingers and pulled the breastplate away. There was little blood. That meant either the impalement was nearly bloodless or Soren was hemorrhaging internally, invisibly bleeding to death.
Shianan used a knife to slit the padding and shirt around the spear, drawing them apart to reveal the seeping wound. The cracked shaft of the spear had penetrated his left side and the steel head was clearly visible beneath the stretched flesh, wedged through his dislodged ribs. Soren glanced down and quickly squeezed his eyes closed, breathing curses. “I wish it had just pierced me,” he panted hoarsely.
Shianan’s hands were working even as his mind reeled. No, no, no... He cut the shirt from the dead soldier and twisted it loosely. “It will bleed when I break the shaft. Hold this—”
“When you what?” Soren stared at him with wide eyes. “No.”
“You can’t move with a polearm dragging from your ribs! I have to break the shaft here, just below the wound.”
“Can’t you—take it out?”
“You would die. That head is the plug holding in your guts. I can’t remove that before we have you to a healer.”
Soren stared at him. “Sweet, dear Holy One.”
Shianan didn’t want to think on it himself. Better to act. “It’s already cracked, here.” He indicated with a finger. “If I—”
Soren gasped and cried with pain. “No! No, don’t touch it.”
“I must, my lord.”
“There must be another way.”
“There’s not! We have no choice.”
“In tales,” Soren panted, “I would conveniently faint. And when I woke, you would have packaged me neatly together and have made a delicious stew. And in between, I would dream of beautiful women, all dancing and smiling...”
“Don’t talk,” Shianan warned. He wrapped his fingers about the shaft.
Soren wailed at the touch. “No! No, please. Please.” He panted for air, his face dangerously pale. “I can’t do this. I can’t stand this.”
“You—”
“Look, can’t you knock me out?”
Shianan gave him a level look. “I think I am about to.”
“I mean, do it first. Hit me.”
Shianan blinked. “My lord!”
Soren took quick, shallow breaths, flinching at each. Tears ran down his face. “Shianan—I am not a soldier. I’m not this brave.” His whisper was nearly a cry.
“You’re wounded—”
“I am telling you, Shianan Becknam, I do not want to be here when you break that thing out of me. Now by what oath do I need to order you to hit me?”
Shianan swallowed. “Yes, my lord.”
Soren closed his eyes and clenched his jaw. Shianan stepped backward. For a moment he hesitated, unwilling, and then he gritted his teeth and struck.
Soren’s head snapped hard, recoiling off the rock face behind him. His eyes fell open and rolled, and then he dragged his head around to glare hazily at Shianan.
Shianan stared in horror. “I...”
“I hate you,” Soren croaked.
Shianan took a breath. “Not yet, but in a moment.” He seized the shaft in two hands and wrenched it.
Soren gasped and screamed and writhed all at once. Shianan somehow made himself ignore it all and bore down on the shaft, trying to keep the end as stable as he could. An agonized howl tore from Soren’s throat and then, mercifully, at last he stilled. Shianan did not allow himself to look at the prince. The shaft was proving stronger than he’d hoped.
He briefly considered his sword but immediately abandoned the idea; a breaking blow would rip the head through Soren’s abdomen. He lifted his knee to the spear, bracing it as firmly as possible, and tried again. This time it cracked and shifted, and on the fourth try it finally broke away.
Shianan pressed the torn shirt against the wound, bleeding freshly with the movement. He wished he could just slit the skin and remove the head, but if the tip had lodged within an organ, that would be quick death for the prince. Better to leave it until the healers could take him.
Rather, until Shianan could take him to the healers... Shianan looked up with sudden despair. He had leapt over the slide in desperation, but it would be utterly impossible for a healthy man to climb, much less an injured one—or, he revised, a healthy man with an injured man on his back. He would have to hike up the ravine until he reached a point where he could climb out.
He looked at the unconscious prince. Carrying him would jar the piece in his side, but if he was careful he could avoid rubbing against it, and it would be no slower or more dangerous than watching Soren struggle up the ravine himself. And they would not lose time while the prince lay insensible.
There was not time for thought. If they didn’t reach a healer soon, it would make no difference whether the spearhead were removed or whether Soren were carried. Shianan buckled the prince’s swordbelt about his own waist, sliding the dropped blade into it and pushing it to the least inconvenient position. Then he unbuckled his own armor. The cuirass sat on his hips, and he would need to rest the prince’s weight there if he were to carry him any distance. An unconscious man could hardly hold himself, but throwing Soren over his shoulder would be lethal. His gear shed, he took the prince’s arms and pulled Soren’s limp form onto his back, shifting him as gently as he could into balance as he took his legs, and started up the ravine.
CHAPTER EIGHTY-SIX
TORG RIPPED HIS AXE free and spun to drive his shield into another Ryuven. A shower of sparks exploded beside him, brilliant and beautiful. Torg whirled, waited an instant as the sparks fell, and then struck through the collapsing inversion at the Ryuven who had meant to kill him. He nodded his thanks to the grey mage who had shielded him, who nodded back and turned to target a flying Ryuven.
Torg scanned the field, eyes running through the chaos. He had lost sight of Shianan some time before. That didn’t necessarily mean anything. The commander could have shifted to another part of the field where reinforcement and command were needed, trusting Torg to keep his place.
There was no time to worry. The failing winds allowed Ryuven to take the sky again, and the archers were finally able to participate in full. Thick bolts slammed into Ryuven and dropped them onto the field, where soldiers rushed to finish them while avoiding missiles and hammer strikes from above.
Torg ran to where a Ryuven crumpled on the trampled field, groaning as he tried to extract a thick bolt from the wedge of flank muscle which powered his wing. The barbed head did its work, though, and he could not tear it free. He glanced up as Torg killed him.
Another form fell to earth and Torg whirled. But this one was human, his cuirass mangled and reddened.
A group of Ryuven wheeled overhead and flew east, apparently intent on escaping the battle and reaching
the farms and warehouses they’d come to raid. But the mages threw another shield in their path and they struck it hard, falling as they lost position in the air. Some caught themselves as they landed and turned on the soldiers rushing to meet them.
Torg was tired, very tired. He lifted his axe and turned back to his men. Tired or not, they could only fight until the Ryuven fled or escaped or died.
TAMARYL ENTERED ABOVE the Leaping Plain, breathing hard. He dropped to the ground and continued downward until he sat on the long grass, resting his elbows on his knees and bending over them.
Maru, dear Maru, was right—Tamaryl could not kill Shianan simply to deny him Ariana. He could not kill the injured prince simply to purge his anger over the unceasing fighting. He could not betray himself and those who had suffered for his beliefs—Maru, Ariana, Ewan—in his rage.
He rested his forehead on a supporting knee. Almost he wished to return in time, to go back to being Tam, the unnoticed slave boy who carried the memories of the Pairvyn but had hope for a peaceful future. Exile had been hard, but he’d had friends and hope.
There was a soft pop behind him. Maru had followed him. Tamaryl didn’t move. Maru came and sat beside him, plucking at the grass and shredding it.
Minutes passed, and neither of them spoke. The breeze moved about the plain, rustling the grass and gently toying with the pieces Maru dropped. The silence was disorienting after the deafening chaos of battle.
Tamaryl took a slow, deep breath. “You’re right.”
Maru continued to toy with the grass.
“Thank you.”
Maru clenched a fistful of brown-green blades. “You weren’t yourself, Ryl.”
“No.” Tamaryl flexed his wings behind him. “But I intend to be, now.” He set a hand on his friend’s shoulder. “Thank you for staying with me.”
Maru shrugged. “You were missing for fifteen years. I didn’t mean to lose you again.”
“Hm.” Tamaryl flexed his wings again and pushed himself upright. “Did you—see the White Mage?”
Maru nodded. “I saw him from a distance. I didn’t go near him.”
“Neither did I.” Tamaryl took another slow breath. At least he had kept that much of himself in his madness. He had not wanted to face his friend, his partner in magic, his protector in the human world. “I hope he’s all right.”
SOREN GROANED, TO SHIANAN’S relief. At least he had not bled to death on Shianan’s back. “Your Highness?”
Soren’s voice came faintly to Shianan’s ears, though his head hung close. “I thought I said I didn’t want to be here for this.”
“You weren’t. But I have you back for now.”
“I wish you didn’t.” Soren moved his arm weakly over Shianan’s shoulder. “King’s runny oats, this hurts. I think—I think I’ll exile you to Damas, for this and for that punch earlier.”
He was even jesting. That was a good sign. “Don’t distract me with threats, Your Highness. I could drop you.”
“Or I suppose I could have you paraded as a royal favorite.” Soren gulped audibly. “Where are we?”
“We’re following the ravine up, to find a way onto the plateau. Then we’ll take you to the healers.”
Soren sucked back a cry as Shianan stepped onto a boulder. “What—what do you think is happening up there?”
Shianan had not wanted to think on that, but it filled his mind each time he made himself stop wondering if the prince was dying. “We were doing well. We inflicted great losses, certainly. But now that the winds have slowed...”
“Carnage.”
Shianan nodded reluctantly. “It will be like Luenda, as they said. We may stop them from stripping the countryside, but we will suffer for it. If they can take to the air now, and our soldiers are tiring...”
“You save me only for the wolves, then,” Soren whispered hoarsely. “My father and the council will rend me.”
Shianan had no ready answer. He did not know how the king saw the prince’s failure—had not thought until recently there could be such a thing. And this failure would be grand, the loss of so many lives...
Shianan reached for the next firm step and eased himself up, trying to stay steady on the rocky foothold. ’Soats, but the man was heavy. His legs were trembling.
“What?” he protested at last. “And leave the kingdom to the little turd?”
“Heh.” Soren offered what passed for a laugh. “You’re sworn to serve that little turd. And he might prove a good king.”
“He’s an arrogant little cod and you know it,” Shianan retorted, baiting the prince. He needed Soren to stay awake, to keep talking, so he could hear any faltering.
“Serves—right.” Soren’s voice was fading, but he kept speaking. “He’ll have Lady Bethia Farlyle for queen.”
“Her?” Shianan’s surprise was genuine. “She’s told everyone she’s your bride!”
“Not our fault,” Soren managed. “We asked—marriage. What she put about...” Quick, shallow breaths punctuated his words. “Keeping me for a Wakari princess.”
“I crave a boon, my lord. Promise you’ll let me witness when it’s announced which royal husband she’ll have.”
“’Soats, Becknam, have mercy. It hurts to laugh.”
Good; he could still make weak jokes. “I’m sorry. I’ll keep a respectful sobriety before my liege.”
Shianan’s legs burned. He did not know how far they’d come, but far enough to be well out of reach of the army camp. At least the walls were lessening, he thought. And they didn’t need to reach the head of the ravine, if they could only find a place where the slope was gradual enough that Shianan could help Soren up the wall...
Now you’re grasping at straws, he admonished himself. Stay fixed on the task.
He hesitated and then pushed himself up the next incline. Soren slipped on his hips and gasped. Shianan froze, trying to hold the prince steady. “Sorry.”
Soren did not answer. Shianan turned his head, trying to see the dangling prince. “My lord?”
“Go ’way. ’M not here.”
The moment of silence had worried Shianan. “Good. You should be ashamed of yourself, demonstrating such deficient swordsmanship publicly. Embarrassing.”
“Are you just trying to keep me talking?”
“Yes.” Shianan slipped on a loose stone.
“King’s runny—! Take a rest. For both of us.”
Shianan stopped. “I’m not sure how best to set you down.”
“Don’t I know that... No good way, I’m afraid.”
“Then try to fall to your right, and I’ll catch you.”
There was a long pause, and then Soren’s weight shifted slightly. Shianan grasped the prince’s arms hard and let him slide, twisting so that he would fall clear and the spearhead still protruding from his ribs would not drag across Shianan’s back. Soren’s legs hit the ground and did not support him. Shianan staggered and lowered him.
Soren seemed frozen, his hands hovering near the wound, his bruised face tight and pale. “King’s runny oats,” he ground between clenched teeth, “why don’t you just punch me again, Becknam?”
Shianan sat down more heavily than he’d intended. “If I thought it would do any good, I might.”
Soren blinked at him, no longer angry. “You—you don’t look—you look worried.”
“I am.” Quickly he added, “But if you had a bellyful of blood, you wouldn’t be speaking to me now, and you might be dead already. So we just need to keep anything else from tearing inside.”
“You know how to cheer a man.” Soren eased himself onto one arm. “I keep feeling that if I only shift the right way, it won’t hurt so much. And then I look down, and I just want to puke.”
Shianan was drawing slow, deep breaths, trying to conceal his fatigue. “Don’t look.”
“Anything to drink?”
“You shouldn’t have any alcohol.”
“I meant water, and I meant for you. Though I’d like some water myself—if
I didn’t think it would run right out again.” He winced.
“Water’s gone. I dropped my kit, for the weight. So we’ll have to reach the camp soon.” Holy One, let us find help. “How are you managing?”
“I’d be fine if only I didn’t have to breathe.” Soren closed his eyes. “All jesting aside, I feel like there’s a shaft of wood and steel laced through my ribs, and if you won’t let me go unconscious on your back, then I want to find someone who will take it out.”
“I’ll do my best, my lord.”
“I know that. I didn’t mean anything else.”
A few moments passed while Shianan greedily gulped air. He wanted to stay, wanted to let both of them rest. But if he didn’t move soon, he would stiffen. He wished—but there was no advantage to wishing. He pushed himself to his feet, his legs burning. “Time to go.”
“Demon commander,” muttered Soren. “Will you think less of me if I pass out when you lift me?”
Shianan picked up a sturdy dry stick, broke it to a handsbreadth in length, and dusted it against his trousers before passing it to Soren. “I swear I won’t note a thing.”
Soren grimaced. He placed the stick between his teeth and slowly, resolutely, lifted a hand toward Shianan.
CHAPTER EIGHTY-SEVEN
ARIANA CLUTCHED THE bushel basket in her arms, the edges of the woven strips cutting her skin. She had no idea how to attempt this, nor what would happen if she succeeded—but she had to try. There was nothing left but to try.
She closed her eyes. Visualize. See what you want. She thought of the bright sky over the Ryuven world, of the brilliant blue over her own. No, no—that’s no winter sky. The sky would be grey, blustery. There would be rain, even snow. Grey, cloudy... Now connect them.
She hardly knew how to think of the between-worlds. It was one of the greatest mysteries remaining to the Circle, and if her father had learned anything of it from his knowledgeable famulus, he had not shared it.
But there was a way between the worlds. She concentrated. It had been cold, and black, and terrifying—but she could not think of the fear. It was easier to imagine a starfield, cool and dark but with a glimpse of her own sky just beyond it. If she willed herself there, if she forced the magic to carry her...
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