by Kara Timmins
“Go to sleep,” Eloy said. “I’ll stay up.”
“I’ll stay up too,” Emil said. “Eloy, you should get some sleep.”
“I’m not really that tired,” Eloy said.
“You’re not?” Emil lifted his dark eyebrows. “You were up all last night too. You must be powered by some kind of magic to not be tired.”
“Maybe,” Eloy said. “I guess anything is possible.”
“I can stay up if you want me to,” Neasa said.
“No,” Eloy said. “It’s fine. I’ll keep an eye out for anything.”
“If you’re sure,” Neasa said.
“I’m sure,” Eloy said.
“Okay.” Neasa retrieved her sleeping furs. “Wake me if you want to sleep.”
“Lucky you,” Emil said. “You have two people watching over you tonight.”
“Lucky me.”
Neasa curled up in the bed Malatic had made the night before, and her eyes stayed on Emil until she couldn’t keep them open anymore. Eloy sat in front of her. Emil reclined to his side and removed two smooth stone spheres from his bag. He rolled them around in his right hand and stared at Eloy. Eloy sat with his legs bent in front of him, his soles on the ground, and his sword within reach. He didn’t move. Strain gripped the sides of his neck first. He moved his head back and forth. Emil grinned through the fire. Eloy didn’t react. The tightness in his neck moved to the middle of his back, but he kept straight. And he waited.
Eloy wasn’t a stranger to enduring difficult things. He had known years of relentless physical labor, a night of total stillness while surrounded by vicious raiders in the salt flats, and a trip through the unknown parts of the forest of Valia, but his night across from Emil took a perseverance he fought for every moment. Emil didn’t falter—he barely seemed to blink—and even though there hadn’t been an obvious shift, it seemed as if he was waiting for a moment, a hole in Eloy’s vigilance. Even if Eloy was better rested, Emil still had the advantage. He only had to focus on Eloy while Eloy kept his senses open all around him for any sign of the Vaylars.
Neasa shifted at the first milky blue sign of morning light, and Eloy let his shoulders relax, which he had kept rigid all night.
“Sleep well?” Emil asked.
“Why didn’t you wake me?” she asked Eloy.
“I couldn’t,” Eloy said.
He didn’t have a reason to give, and the twitch of a smile that touched Emil’s mouth told him not to try. The morning cold clung to Eloy, and his fatigue and the chill made his muscles shake.
“You two get comfortable. I’ll go get some fish from the stream,” Emil said, his steady voice like a victory.
“He’s gone,” Neasa said after watching Emil walk away. “What happened?”
“I don’t think we can wait until the others get here before we have to do something about him,” Eloy said.
“I shouldn’t have gone to sleep. I should have stayed up with you.”
“It wouldn’t have made a difference. At least one of us has an advantage of some rest on him.” His eyelids were slow to move and reluctant to open with every blink.
“Go to sleep now. I’ll rebuild the fire and keep an eye out for him. I’ll wake you as soon as he gets back.”
Eloy shook his head. “I don’t know . . .”
“You have to sleep. Now’s as good a time as any.”
He tried to protest, but his body overrode his desire to stay awake. The closest tree was just a few strides away, and he moved to it without thinking. His back found a knobby joint between the trunk and a low branch, and he settled into it. The moment he crossed his arms over his chest and tucked his knees up close, a wave of relaxation pulled him down into rest.
He found the black kind of sleep, dreamless. He was so lost in it that he almost didn’t wake up when Neasa choked out a raspy cry.
49
Eloy opened his eyes. Every part of him prickled with alarm. On the other side of the smoking fire pit and five strides away from him, Eloy saw Emil hunched over, his spine rounded like an attacking animal, with his hands around Neasa’s throat. Eloy jumped to his feet. Her short sword had fallen on the ground, out of her reach, but the blood on the blade told him that it hadn’t gone down without doing damage. Blood fell from Emil’s arm in thick, heavy drops on the dry leaves, and Eloy could see the silvery tendons moving through the gash.
They were close to Eloy, but not close enough that he could leap at Emil and keep his small advantage of surprise. As far as he could tell, Emil still thought he was asleep, but he had only a sliver of time in which to act.
Stay quiet. Get his hands off her.
Eloy found the hilt of his sword at his side and pulled it out of its fur-lined sheath.
Stay quiet. Get his hands off her.
He looked for variations in color—islands in the sea of dry brown leaves—to put his feet. His first step pushed off the tree stump to a gray stone, and a final lunge put him on a spongy patch of green moss.
Using the motion of his jump, he fell toward Emil. He was free of panic and filled with a thirsty rage he had never known before. Hearing Neasa suck in a great gust of air was enough to release him from the tethers of thought. With her free from Emil’s grasp, Eloy became something else, a tool governed by instinct.
Eloy felt a blow to his hand. Pain flashed through his knuckles. He held on. Emil moved with the ease and swiftness of a hawk, but Eloy had his own abilities in battle, and he was ready to use everything he knew. Eloy flipped the hilt of the sword around in his hand and slammed the metal base into the flat plane of Emil’s temple. The quick jab was enough that Eloy was able to raise the sword for a downward slash. He was ready to feel the blade pass through the meat of Emil’s body, but the arch of the attack only cut through air.
The movement brought Eloy low and poised in front of where Emil had backstepped.
“Look who’s awake,” Emil said as he wiped at the trickle of blood at his temple with one hand and reached down for a short blade at his calf with the other. “I’ve been trying to figure you out. Why would Malatic let you take the lead on anything? So, I’m curious. I’m going to figure out what the secret is by cutting it out of you . . . or maybe cutting it out of her.” Emil tilted his head behind him toward Neasa, but didn’t take his eyes off Eloy.
Emil spoke with a tone of bravado that made it clear that he had no doubt who would come out of the encounter the victor—in his mind, Eloy was already dead.
Eloy didn’t respond. He measured his breaths and stilled himself, and he watched.
He watched the small pulses that ran through the muscles in Emil’s arms and neck and saw intent in the slight movements of Emil’s body, the ones he didn’t mean to show. Emil lunged forward. Eloy didn’t move his readied blade upward, like Emil seemed to expect, and he never took his eyes off Emil’s core. The dagger was what could cut him, but Emil’s skill was what could kill him. Emil twisted for him, but Eloy dodged away from the place he knew the knife was set to land. Even with Eloy’s assessment and preparation, Emil’s skill had been honed by years of brutality. The tip of the blade snagged through Eloy’s side—deep but not debilitating. But Eloy was sure of himself, and he had a strength that Emil hadn’t accounted for, a strength Emil didn’t have: the strength of his purpose.
Emil recovered from the missed strike with unmatched fluidity. His moves were flawless—like a dance. Eloy reached out and threw his body weight through his palm and into Emil’s forehead. The force was enough to extend Emil’s upper body and position him the way Eloy needed to throw his shoulder into Emil’s stomach. Eloy could feel the muscles in the beginning stages of contraction. Emil fell on his back with a thud, and he wheezed for air. Eloy thought the fall disabled Emil enough to execute a fatal blow, but the jab of the sword stopped short of Emil’s throat. Emil had his hands wrapped around the cross guard of the hilt, p
ushing up just enough to keep the sword from sinking into the hollow notch of his neck.
Emil’s face turned berry red. Anger and frustration made his skin look swollen, and the veins under his eyes bloated and pushed to the surface. He couldn’t catch his breath and struggle with the sword at the same time. Eloy pushed down on the blade, but even injured, Emil held on with enough power that Eloy couldn’t move it.
Emil slammed his knee into Eloy’s side. The impact caused his body to contract against the pain, an involuntary reaction that gave Emil the opportunity to wrap his legs around Eloy and flip him over. The animalistic howl that erupted out of Eloy came as Emil pressed him against the ground. When Eloy saw the dagger blade move toward him, he let the ancient desire for survival take over. He wrapped and secured the attacking hand in an underhanded grip and buried his teeth into Emil’s wrist. The thick fibers rolled and crunched in his bite, and the knife fell on the ground next to Eloy’s head.
Emil tried to maintain his advantage, but his reaction was enough to relieve the weight he had placed on the Eloy. With his teeth still clamped on Emil’s wrist, Eloy brought the sword up and under Emil’s rib cage.
The fight was done.
Eloy looked into Emil’s wide-eyed stare. Blood coated Emil’s teeth as he opened his mouth in a soundless cry.
Revulsion coursed through Eloy as the dying man twitched on top of him. Eloy rolled Emil over, got up, and staggered to Neasa, who was half standing against a tree, her shoulder pressing against the trunk.
Eloy put a hand on her back. “Are you okay?”
She wobbled to standing and leaned against him. “I think so. You?”
He didn’t have an answer for her. They stood side by side and looked down at Emil. Eloy put his arm around Neasa’s shoulders and waited until his breathing normalized. They walked together toward Emil, and Eloy pulled the sword out of Emil’s side. Blood poured out of the wound in a gush and pooled in the divots of the ground.
Emil choked as he fought against the fluid filling his air passages. The sound lessened, and he looked up at the gray sky through the tree canopy. He blinked one last time before the features of his face went slack, all of the movements that defined his features gone forever.
“I was looking for him,” Neasa said at a volume so low Eloy could barely hear her. “He still went after you. I didn’t hear him until he was almost right on top of you. I’m so sorry. I was looking, but I didn’t see him.”
Eloy turned to her and pulled her into his chest.
“You were great,” Eloy said with his cheek on the top of her head. “You saved my life. We’re alive. He underestimated you, and he died for it.”
“He underestimated both of us,” she said.
They parted and looked down at Emil’s body again.
Eloy tried to piece together the things he had done in the fight, but the details were dark, washed away by whatever took over. The memory of the sound Neasa had made with Emil’s hands around her throat was clear and permanent. Eloy turned to her and tilted his head down to see the damage. She tucked her chin against his inspection, but he saw the purple marks already forming.
“One more moment, and I think I would’ve been done,” she said with a self-conscious laugh.
“I shouldn’t have gone to sleep.”
“You didn’t have a choice. But it’s done now.”
“Yeah.” Eloy looked at Emil. “It’s done.”
Eloy wanted absolution for what had just happened. Emil was dead, but nothing felt done. Somewhere along the way, Eloy had made a decision that had got Neasa hurt, almost killed. He had missed something. It shouldn’t have happened like this. Emil never should have come with them.
“What should we do about him?” Neasa asked.
“It’ll be easier to move camp than to move him for now. I don’t want to sleep where he died. You?”
“We’ll have to stay close. Malatic and Goodwin will come back here looking for us.”
“Of course.” Eloy put an arm around her shoulders and sighed.
50
Once they assessed and treated their wounds, Eloy and Neasa buried Emil a few strides away from camp. They dug a hole barely deep enough to cover the body.
Neasa stood up and brushed the palms of her hands together, clumps of black dirt falling to the ground. “Animals will be able to smell it.” Her voice was scratchy. “They’ll dig him up.”
Eloy drank from the water pouch and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “We’ve given him the grave he deserves. It’s enough to keep him out of sight for now.”
Neasa nodded and walked back to the camp to finish packing her bags.
After gathering their things, they roamed the area until they found a flat clearing a short walk away from their first camp. The thin trees with their veinlike branches all looked the same. The new level ground of what would be their new campsite looked so similar to the last one he could almost pretend the fight with Emil had never happened. Eloy looked up at the darkening sky. That was the same too, looking down on them, gray, impassive. Neasa started gathering wood for the fire.
“Sit,” Eloy said. “I’ll get it.”
Neasa held up a hand. “I’m fine. You can help me, if you want, but I don’t need you taking care of me.”
“Okay,” Eloy said, surprised by the weak smile that found its way to his face.
Once set up, they caught, cooked, and ate their early dinner in a daze. They moved without speaking, one reason being the pain it caused Neasa, but also because of the tranquility of their quiet company. The looming presence of the Vaylars was never far from Eloy’s thoughts, but he found comfort in his freedom from worrying about Emil. Another sense of relief lifted his spirit in a way that Eloy couldn’t immediately identify. It took a moment of contemplation before he pegged the source: Emil was likely the last of Anso’s fighters.
But his relief was short-lived. The Vaylars were worse than both Anso and Nicanor. The Vaylars had shown their nature and how they handled things when they methodically and viciously killed Anso and his fighters. They were calculated and devoid of mercy. Eloy didn’t know how to stop them, but he had to do something. There had to be some sliver of a gap that he could exploit to stop their encroachment.
He had two options: stop them from moving forward or die.
51
Neasa?” a voice cried out. Malatic’s voice.
Emil had been dead three days.
“Neasa!” Malatic called from the west.
Neasa opened her mouth to call out and stopped. She had treated her throat with teas and rest over the past few days, but she wasn’t ready to yell.
Eloy stood up next to the small campfire. “We’re here!”
He heard cacophonous crunching of footfall moving toward them.
“Neasa?” Malatic’s voice carried on the cold air.
Eloy stepped over a knee-high fallen tree he and Neasa had used to lean enough branches and leaves to build a shelter over their beds. He moved toward the sound of movement back to the old camp. The relief he felt at hearing a familiar and friendly voice was immense, but other sounds caught his curiosity as he moved. He tempered his hope until he had Malatic and Goodwin in view. Standing behind them was a sizable gathering of around two or three hundred armed men and women throughout the once-empty forest.
Malatic moved to reach out for Neasa but stopped himself. He tilted his head and looked at the mess of purple-and-brown bruising on her neck. “What happened?”
“He went after Eloy,” Neasa rasped. “I almost had him . . .”
Malatic brushed his fingertips against her skin of her throat.
“I shouldn’t have left you with him,” Malatic said. “I knew better. I knew he would do something.”
“He’s the one in the ground.” Neasa pointed to the bulge in the earth a few strides away. “Not us.”<
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Eloy walked up and stood next to Neasa. “It’s really good to see you. All of you.” He looked at the gathered crowd.
Malatic held out his hand and pulled Eloy into a half hug once Eloy took it. “You too.”
The embrace was brisk and short, but it soothed a coiled part of Eloy that had been tight since the morning Malatic and Goodwin had left. Eloy turned to Goodwin and pulled him into a hug by his shoulders.
“How’re you doing?” Eloy asked as he stepped back. “You look tired.”
“I could use some sleep,” Goodwin said, “that’s for sure. But I’m good. We’ve been traveling with some good people.”
“Who are all these people?” Eloy asked. “I didn’t think you would be able to persuade so many in such a short amount of time.”
“Once I convinced a few of the surrounding towns that Anso and his fighters had been killed and how,” Malatic said, “the message traveled, and people found their way to me. I learned that just because Nicanor and Anso had run low on people who were willing to join up and fight for them didn’t mean that people willing and capable of fighting didn’t exist. Just like you thought.”
Eloy scanned the crowd and noted the patchwork of dark and gray hair. He saw men and women armed with various weapons—spears, bows, swords, and sickles. Some of the weapons looked dusty and blunt from disuse. But some of the people in the crowd had a rigid back and a wide stance that looked familiar.
“Not all of these people are from the towns, are they?” Eloy asked.
“I shouldn’t be surprised you noticed,” Malatic said. “You’re right. They aren’t all from the towns. Some are Nicanor’s fighters—or they were.”
Eloy didn’t try to hide his surprise. “Are there a lot of people leaving his camp?”
“You could say that,” Malatic said. “All of them, actually. Nicanor’s dead.”
“How?” Eloy asked. “Who?”
“No one knows,” Malatic said. “Odd though, considering how he used to have no less than five highly trained fighters protecting him at all times.”