“Poison.” Rias jumped to his feet. “We have to get to the sawbones.”
Tikaya stared at her arm. She knew nothing about poison. “Is this a lethal dose? How much time do I have?”
He started to respond, but the condor swooped toward them again.
“Someone shoot that slagging bird!” Bocrest shouted to the men below. He and the tracker were still reloading.
Rias had dropped his rifle to shield Tikaya. The bird landed on the launch pad as he grabbed the weapon. Unconcerned, the condor cocked its head, black eye studying Tikaya.
“Yes, you got me.” Bitterness choked her words.
“Sh.” Rias aimed the rifle, but hesitated. A calculating flash crossed his face, and he raised his voice. “Don’t worry, Tikaya. You’re not going to die. We’ve got the antidote in camp, and you’ve got plenty of time.”
Bocrest, the first to finish reloading, lifted his rifle. The bird flapped away. Several shots fired, but it weaved and banked with preternatural speed, and disappeared unscathed.
Rias lowered his weapon. He had not fired.
“I’d like to be reassured by your words,” Tikaya murmured, “but I suspect that was for the benefit of the bird.”
“Will whoever is controlling it understand our speech through its ears?” Rias asked.
“I’m not sure. Maybe.” She might have stopped to consider what he hoped to accomplish with his words, but other thoughts stampeded to the front of her mind. “How much time do I really have?”
“Plenty,” Rias said.
She had come to know him too well; she could tell he was lying.
14
Tikaya woke to the sound of pained wheezing. Her own. Air. She couldn’t get enough air.
She opened her eyes to a green canvas tent ceiling supported by slender steel bars. Confusion muddled her mind. The last thing she remembered was Rias and another marine carrying her down the mountain on a litter. Now she lay on a cot, blankets pulled to her chin. Somewhere behind her head, a lantern provided illumination that failed to reach the shadowy corners.
They must have reached the base camp, but if the sawbones had applied some antidote, she could not feel it. Her breath rattled in her ears, and she could not pull in enough air to satisfy her lungs. She tried to wriggle her toes. If they moved she could not tell.
Still alive, she thought, but still poisoned. And alone. Rows of empty cots stretched into the darkness. Where was Rias? Why hadn’t he stayed with her? And what about the sawbones?
“Akahe, please don’t let me die alone,” she mouthed.
She blinked away tears, but it was hard to keep the wheezing breaths from turning into sobs. With no one to witness her torment, why bother being stoic? And why hadn’t she written a letter to her parents? Rias might be slated for a return to exile, but Agarik would have found a way to post it. But now her family would forever wonder what happened.
The tent flap swayed, and icy air gusted inside.
She could not lift her head to peer into the shadows at the entrance. “Is someone there?” she tried to ask. It came out weak and garbled.
She saw no one, but soft footfalls trod across floor mats. A man coalesced before her—a familiar man. The Nurian practitioner from the ship. She tried to move, to roll away, but her body did not respond. When she had begged the Divine One to keep her from dying alone, this was not the company she had meant.
“The Turgonian lied,” he murmured in his native tongue, his gaze flicking over her supine form. “I see no evidence that an antidote has been applied. They probably don’t even know Irkla Root when they see it.” He withdrew a knife and met her eyes for the first time. “I’m sorry, Ms. Komitopis.”
She groped for something to say that would save her, but only a wheezy gurgle came out when she tried to speak.
“I regret the need for this task,” the Nurian continued. “After the help the Kyattese—you—gave my people during the war, it’s unfair to kill you, but I cannot let the Turgonian military get their hands on that kind of weaponry. Nor am I going to let those archaeologists sell it to the highest bidder. I can’t let your talents be used against my people, but I’ll show mercy and end your suffering now.”
He leaned forward and lifted the blade. Tikaya tried to thrash, to fight him off, but her limbs were already dead.
A shadow moved behind the Nurian, and a dagger appeared at his throat. His weapon was wrenched from his hand.
“You move, you die,” Rias growled in his accented Nurian.
The assassin’s eyes widened. He reached for his throat, but Rias’s blade bit into flesh, drawing blood.
“Most of your people who work with poisons carry the antidote in case they infect themselves,” Rias said. “You’ve five seconds to produce it, or you’ll suffer the same fate as your bodyguard.”
Rias’s head was right next to the Nurian’s, and rage burned in his eyes. Tikaya wanted to yell, to warn him that a practitioner did not need a weapon to kill. Only a strangled wheeze came out.
Surprisingly amenable, the Nurian reached into his parka and withdrew a handful of fingernail-sized clay vials. “The gray one.”
“Sample it,” Rias said.
The Nurian blanched.
Rias shoved him to his knees and smashed his face into the mats. The two men dropped below Tikaya’s line of sight.
“You’re justifying killing the one person who saved your asses in the war over paranoia,” Rias snarled.
“You saw your fort. Your people would destroy the world with weapons like that. I can’t—”
“Quiet.” Rias slammed the man into the ground again. “Which vial is the correct antidote?”
“The clear one,” the Nurian rasped, his airway restricted.
Did Rias have a hand around his throat? She struggled to turn her head, but could only move it an inch.
Rias sat back, kneeling on the man’s chest, and pulled the cork out with his teeth. He forced a drop down the Nurian’s throat. The man made no attempt to elude it, and Rias seemed satisfied.
As he started to reach for Tikaya, the hairs on her neck stood.
“Spell,” she blurted, praying the word would come out intelligible.
Rias growled and drove his dagger into the Nurian’s chest with a crunch of bone. The pained grunt sounded final.
He leaned close to Tikaya and rested a hand on her forehead. The rage was gone, and an uncertain desperation haunted his eyes. He held up the vial.
“I don’t know for sure, but I have to try it, all right?”
She tried to nod vigorously, though she was not sure her head moved. He propped her up to slide the liquid down her throat. It burned like cheap rum, and tasted like resin, but she was not about to reject it.
Rias never shifted his gaze from her face. He stroked her hair gently. When his hand brushed her cheek, it felt cool against her fevered skin. The lantern light reflected in the moisture pooling in his eyes. Tears blurred her own vision again, though this time they came from knowing someone was there with her, someone who cared.
Utter weariness overcame her, and she closed her eyes.
Rias was still with her when she woke. He had removed the body and knelt on the ground with his head next to hers on the cot, his hair touching her cheek. Her breathing seemed smoother, less labored. Somewhere beyond the tent, voices rose in argument. She listened, but could not make out words. That she even noticed the goings on outside seemed a good sign.
She wiggled her fingers experimentally. They responded. Her toes did too. Yes.
She eased her arm from beneath the blanket before she could think to favor her shoulder, but no blast of pain accompanied the movement. Perhaps the antidote had healed the injured joint as well. She would test it later. For now, she gave in to the urge to slide her fingers through Rias’s hair. It was thick and black, save for those silver strands at his temple, and surprisingly soft.
He lifted his head, and she let her hand drop. The shaman’s concoction might have healed
her, but weakness weighted her limbs. He winced as he adjusted his position—falling asleep on one’s knees could not be comfortable—but the pained expression turned to a pleased smile when he saw her watching him.
“It worked,” he said.
“I think so,” she rasped, voice rougher than Sergeant Ottotark’s manners.
Rias held up a finger, moved away, and returned with a canteen. He slid his arm behind her shoulders and propped her up to drink.
“Not so bad being sick,” she said, “when someone’s willing to carry you around and take care of you.”
“Well, don’t make getting poisoned your new hobby. It’s hard on—” He cleared his throat. “It’s hard.”
Tikaya leaned against him and tried to recall the events of the day. What had brought the Nurian into the tent? Then she realized: “When you spoke so the bird could hear, talked about an antidote, that was a trick? To make the Nurian think he needed to come personally to finish the job?”
“A trick, yes, also known as a hopeless stab at making something happen. I feared the sawbones didn’t have antidotes in his kit, and, as it turns out, I was right.”
“Ah.” She shuddered to think how close she had come to dying. “Rias, if someone does succeed in killing me up here, and you make it out, will you do me a favor? Please find a way to let my parents know what happened.”
He placed his palm alongside her face, traced her cheek with his thumb. “I’m planning on making sure you live, but, yes, of course.”
“Thank you.” Weariness dragged her lids down again. “I love you,” she murmured before falling asleep.
* * *
The next time she woke, darkness still wrapped the tent, and Rias was gone. Agarik sat on a nearby cot, whittling a piece of wood.
“Is it still the same night?” she asked.
“Yes.” Agarik lifted his head. “Near midnight, I think.” His fresh scar appeared garish by the lantern light, but he smiled and said, “I’m glad you made it.”
“Thanks. Me too. Is Rias around?”
His lips flattened, and he looked down, fingers gripping the carving too tightly.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t mean to imply—I appreciate your company too.”
He snorted. Agarik’s annoyance surprised her since she had only seen him irritated in Wolfhump and everyone had been irritated there.
“Is this about...” She thought about the number of marines who knew she and Rias had shared a room in the fort. If Bocrest had said nothing of their sleeping arrangements—and why would he gossip with his subordinates?—everyone likely assumed they had slept together. “Agarik, I’m sorry, but he was married so...even if it wasn’t me...”
Agarik waved a hand and met her eyes. “It’s not that. I mean, of course a fellow dreams, but...it’s just unfair that you don’t even know who he is and you get to be his friend.” As soon as the words came out, he winced. “Rust, that was pitiful. I sound like a child. And I should be sorry, not you.” He scrubbed a hand through his hair. “You almost died today, and I’m sulking because the only time my boyhood hero speaks to me is to inquire about you.”
“Your...boyhood hero?” Tikaya caught herself gaping and closed her mouth. “How old are you, Agarik?”
“Twenty-three.”
He was younger than she had thought, but that still meant Rias had to have been someone of note for at least ten or fifteen years. Not just an officer, someone distinguished enough to have been known and discussed all over the empire. The night before she had resolved to ask Rias his name. She was tired of being in the dark. She had to know.
“To answer your original question,” Agarik said, “last I saw him, he was heading off to a meeting with Bocrest. The captain’s finally given up trying to keep him at prisoner status. He told the men to treat Rias like an officer for the duration of the mission.”
Tikaya found herself gaping again. “Er, how long was I asleep?”
“While the captain was up on the mountain, the marines setting up camp down here had some time to chat. Things came out.” The mischievous glint in his eyes suggested the source of those ‘things.’ “Not that many men were surprised. Most of us had pieced together who he is and started deferring to him anyway. Ottotark about shi—had an accident, though.”
She flexed her fingers and eyed her nails. “And he’s who, again?”
She hoped Agarik would let it slip, but he shook his head. “He should be the one to tell you.”
“Of that I have no doubt, but he hasn’t.” He almost had, the night in Wolfhump, probably because he had not been sure they would live to dawn.
“Have you asked him?”
“Yes.”
“Oh.”
Agarik scratched at his scab, caught himself, and scratched around it instead. A breeze buffeted the side of the tent. She would get the answer from Rias as soon as she saw him. No more waiting. In the meantime, there was little point to dwelling on it. She should rest, or study Lancecrest’s journal. The notes would help her along on her translations. She would love to be the one who—
Love! Her memory triggered. She had told Rias she loved him before falling asleep. She bit her lip. Had he responded? She could not remember. Had he felt awkward? Alarmed? Dare she hope—pleased?
Tikaya swung her legs off the cot. “I need to talk to him.”
Agarik lifted a hand. “You can’t go anywhere. You were almost dead a few hours ago. You need to rest.”
“I did rest. I’m done now.” She stood and promptly fell back onto the cot, betrayed by straw legs.
“Really,” Agarik said dryly.
“I just need to get my muscles moving.” She stuck her legs out. Maybe a few ankle rotations and toe wiggles would improve the blood flow.
“Rias will be back by morning, I’m sure. You should rest.”
“I need to talk to him now. It’s, uhm...” Tomorrow they would be surrounded by squads of men again. She needed to talk to him tonight. Alone. And she was not about to explain that to Agarik. “I need to see if he has the journal I recovered,” she said instead. “I want to study it further before we go into the tunnels.”
“It’s the middle of the night, Tikaya.”
“Night is eighteen hours long here. It’s always the middle of the night.”
“You’ve a point there.” Agarik stood, head brushing the rafter of the tent. “I’ll get the journal for you if you stay here and rest, all right?”
She smiled at him but did not answer. Whatever got her nanny out of the tent so she could leave.
Agarik unfastened the flap and slipped out. An icy draft reminded her to dress fully before venturing outside. Fortunately, someone had piled her gear at the end of her cot where a portable stove burned. She checked for the journal in case Rias had tucked it in there, but he had probably placed it elsewhere to make sure the Nurian would not find it.
Outside, stars and a half moon brightened a wedge of sky framed by steep canyon walls. They must have arrived at the canyon where the tunnels began.
A bonfire blazing in the center of camp snapped and launched sparks into the air. Five tents, large enough to hold cots for all, stood back from it. The sleds lay between her tent and the next, and the dogs had burrowed into the snow and slept with their noses tucked under their thick, fluffy tails. A surprising number of men were still awake and chatting fireside. Or perhaps they were awake again. Rias must have kept the camp quiet and had the men feign sleep to draw in the Nurian. A ceramic jug passed from hand to hand, and laughter gave the atmosphere a jovial feel, though some of the chortles sounded strained. No doubt rumors abounded concerning the tunnels, and, after the deaths they had seen, the men must suspect not all of them would make it out again.
Tikaya stood, breath fogging the air before her eyes, wondering where to find Rias. She considered the other tents. Three stood dark, but light seeped from beneath the flaps of hers and one other—might that be a command tent?
She padded to the entrance a
nd debated whether to peek inside or wait for him to come out. If Bocrest led the meeting, he would not appreciate her interruption. She lifted her hand but let it hang as she considered how one knocked on a tent.
The flap peeled back, and one of the sergeants almost crashed into her.
“What’re you doing?” He lowered his brows and glared at her. “Spying?”
“Huh? I mean, no, I—” She looked at her still raised hand as if that would explain her intent.
“Who is it?” Captain Bocrest asked from within.
“The woman,” the sergeant said over his shoulder. “Standing outside, spying.”
“I’m not spying!”
“I got to piss.” The sergeant shoved past her. “Out of my way, girl.”
“It’s Tikaya,” she informed his back.
He threw a rude gesture over his shoulder. No one called to invite her into the tent, but she walked in anyway. Six marines, Bocrest and his senior ranking men including a scowling Ottotark and the sawbones whose brother she had killed. No Rias. She swallowed.
“Sorry, for interrupting,” she said, “but I’m looking for...that journal. I thought it’d be useful to finish translating it before we head in.”
The glowers facing her seemed more suspicious than her presence called for after what she had been through with these men.
“For our benefit?” Ottotark growled. “Or so you can deliver it to the archaeologists inside?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking... Oh.” She recalled the Nurian’s speech before he had tried to kill her. Those moments when she had been so close to death were fuzzy, but she did remember archaeologists being mentioned. Rias must have relayed the information. “I don’t know who’s in there. There are a lot of archaeologists in the world.” Though she had to admit that at least half of the renowned ones came from the Kyatt Islands and most of the other half had studied there at one point or another. “Chances are I don’t know any of them, if that’s what you’re worried about—the folks I know aren’t the types to go hunting for ancient weapons caches. And, anyway, I wouldn’t betray Rias.”
Beginnings: Five Heroic Fantasy Adventure Novels Page 33