Strongman

by Denise Rossetti

  “I know.” Without warning, Fort jerked him forward, sealing their lips together in a hard, close-mouthed kiss. Griff was still gasping when he turned away. “Come.”

  It took them two hours of painstaking effort to work their way to the top of a gentle rise upwind of the Hssrda camp. Once they crouched, frozen in the undergrowth, as a Hssrda patrol passed by. Griff watched, his guts heaving. Hssrda moved on all fours, in an ungainly shamble that covered the ground with astonishing speed. The creature in the lead was huge, bigger even than SpurSergeant had been. A ClawCaptain perhaps? It was a mottled khaki, with a string of scales in violent acid green snaking over one hulking shoulder. Standing upright, it would have to be eight feet tall, its girth enormous, a thick tail slithering behind it. Three others lollopped along in the rear, carrying serrated halberds. In battle, they’d rear up, each a nightmare of talon and spur and slashing metal.

  Fort waited a long time before he tapped Griff on the shoulder and moved off, as silent as a fellwolf and almost as terrifying as the Hssrda.

  Now Griff lay flat on his stomach behind a rock, profoundly grateful they were upwind. Every now and then, a fitful gust brought them a stench so solid it was almost visible. Watched by Hssrda guards, a line of miserable, naked slaves disappeared into a dark hole in the base of a low bluff. At regular intervals, they passed buckets of soil from hand to hand, until the last man emptied them onto a huge mound of tailings.

  Appalled, Griff glanced sideways at Fort. The big man’s face was bleak, his eyes grim and distant. How many times had he seen a scene like this? How many had he rescued, broken and bleeding? How many had he left behind?

  Fort nudged Griff’s elbow and gestured with his chin. Four Hssrda with whips appeared at the top of the incline, chivvying a group of slaves carrying a huge roll of what looked like carpet. Griff narrowed his eyes. Traveler save him, it was canvas, an enormous piece of canvas. What the hell?

  Driven by the whips, the slaves shifted half a dozen huge boulders, securing one edge under their weight. Others hammered in pegs, attached ropes. In the clear air, the two men could hear their grunts of effort, the whistle of the lash and the thin screams. Another sibilant command and the canvas unrolled, tumbling down to cover the dark opening and a good portion of the ground in front of it. A section of the bucket brigade were detached to secure it to poles like a primitive marquee.

  His brain racing, Griff stared. Colors swirled in a confusing pattern on the canvas, the same sewage brown as Hssrda scales, mixed with green streaks. Fuck, it was camouflage!

  He opened his mouth, then snapped it shut. The big man was wriggling backward. He tapped Griff on the calf, jerked his head. Let’s go.

  The journey back was nearly as fraught as the one there. Fort took advantage of every vestige of cover, leading the other man through thickets and down streambeds, avoiding the paths and clearings. They had to outflank two sentries, the first not much taller than Griff, but twice as thick around. A TailSoldier, lowest of the low. Fortunately, it was too busy picking its brownish teeth with a long talon to be paying much attention. Its tail ended in a stump, still weeping green blood and pus.

  Griff shivered. Higher caste Hssrda punished underlings by biting off their extremities. And swallowing. The flesh regrew eventually, but it was no wonder commanding Hssrda were so much bigger.

  The second Hssrdan was more alert. It was certainly larger, crouching so still they were very nearly on top of it before Fort grabbed Griff’s arm and dragged him down into the bushes. It took them a precious hour to backtrack, the Shadow chasing the Sun, afternoon drawing in.

  Fifty yards from the copse that hid the vranee, they paused to fill the water bottles, crouching by the stream. “Can I talk now?” whispered Griff.

  “Quietly.” Fort pressed his shoulder. “You did well.”

  Griff grinned. Then he sobered. “It’s camouflage.”

  “I know.” Fort’s face was grim, his eyes hard as granite in winter. “That’s why Jan’s Aetherii scouts couldn’t find them. I’d like to know what bastard taught them that.” He rinsed his mouth and spat. “We have to get back right—”

  One of the vranee whickered, a loud, panicky sound. Fort stared past Griff’s shoulder. “Shit!”

  Griff followed his gaze. The ClawCaptain they’d seen earlier emerged from the trees, hauling one of their vranee, rearing and bucking. The ClawCaptain was assisted by one of its subordinates. Judging by the commotion in the copse, the other two were attempting to secure the second animal.

  “If they get them, we’re fucking dead,” snarled Fort. He shot Griff a furious glance. “C’mon! And Ruler, watch yourself!” Without pause, he launched himself down the slope, unslinging the crossbow as he went.

  The first bolt took a Hssrdan in the throat. Well, fuck it, he hadn’t lost his touch. One down. Fort tossed the bow aside and drew his sword, the metal ringing loudly. He and the second Hssrdan met in a flurry of talons and teeth and flying vranee hooves. Vranee loathed Hssrda.

  Peripherally, he was aware of Griff behind him, slightly to the left. Something whizzed over his shoulder, flickering like a lightning flash, and a blade sprouted out of the eye of his foe. The Hssrdan howled, dropping its halberd to wrap both taloned fists around the knife and rip it out. Green ichor dripped over its snout, the remaining eye gleaming yellow with pain and fury. The creature advanced like the wrath of the gods and when its companion came to fight on its blind side, Fort had little attention to spare for anything else.

  His sword flickering in a desperate, defensive arc, he feinted and circled, trying to catch a glimpse of the tumbler. He leaped, just in time to avoid the sweeping tail that almost knocked his feet out from under him. As he landed, he saw Griff backing cautiously, the ClawCaptain looming over him. The Hssrdan was clearly wary. As Fort watched, both the tumbler’s hands blurred, two knives slicing through the air in a vicious arc that ended when the Hssrda officer turned, taking the blades on its armored shoulder. The fanged snout opened on a roar of rage.

  Fort’s big brown vran lashed out, a clawed hoof thudding into his half-blind opponent from behind. As the Hssdra lurched forward, Fort danced in close and thrust the point of his sword up under its jaw with all his strength. Releasing the sword, he grabbed the shaft of the creature’s halberd and jerked hard.

  Clumsy in its fury, the vran swung around, cannoning into Fort’s side and making him stumble. The fourth Hssrdan’s weapon swept through the space he’d occupied, the serrated edge flashing wickedly in the soft afternoon light. He felt the breeze of its passage ruffle his hair.

  Fort rolled aside, the surviving Hssrdan coming after him with incredible rapidity for its size. “Griff!” he roared, scrambling backward. “To me!” Why the fuck hadn’t he given the tumbler a sword?

  Griff flicked him a glance. Then he threw himself into a soaring backward somersault, landing neatly at Fort’s shoulder. If Fort had had the breath to spare, he would have laughed at the expression on the ClawCaptain’s face. The slit-pupiled eyes opened wide and the lower jaw sagged.

  “Only two now,” he gasped, managing to score his opponent’s snout with the stolen halberd.

  The ClawCaptain recovered, lunging, and Griff swayed aside, light and easy on his feet. Fort opened his mouth to shout a warning, but he was too late. The powerful tail whipped up, catching the tumbler behind the knees and the Hssrdan’s huge taloned fist struck him behind the ear. Griff gave the strangest little grunt, surprise and pain mixed. His eyes rolled up and he fell forward on his face in the dirt, motionless.

  The ClawCaptain turned its head to stare down at Fort, its yellow eyes gleaming with unmistakable satisfaction.

  In all the years of his mercenary career, Fort had never allowed himself to fight in anger. It was the best way to get yourself killed, in his opinion. But later, all he could recall was a red blur of murderous fury, his brain and his body working in a perfect harmony of destruction.

  The ClawCaptain hissed an order and its subordinate aba
ndoned Fort to reach for Griff’s limp body. He took his chance, spinning in a crouch that exploded into a precision thrust through the jaw and directly up into the creature’s skull, all his weight behind it. As the Hssrdan choked on metal, Fort leaped aside to tug his sword from its fallen companion. He spun to meet the ClawCaptain, a savage grin on his lips. He’d gone beyond caring about his life, but he couldn’t get close enough to skewer it. The creature kept him at bay with vicious blows of its tail.

  In the end, he slowed enough to allow the Hssdran to enfold him in a hideous, bone-cracking embrace, slamming him up against a wall of reeking scales and iron muscle. With his left hand, Fort drew the long dagger he kept sheathed at his waist. Black spots danced in his vision and his ribs creaked, but with the last of his strength, he drove the weapon into the soft flesh under the scaly arm, angling viciously for a vital organ, grinding and twisting.

  Ruler, would the fucking thing never die! As the ClawCaptain roared, the carrion stink of its breath washed over him, warm and fetid in his face. It swayed, stiffened and fell backward like a forest giant.

  He must have passed out for a moment, because when he came to, he was lying sprawled, shielding Griff with his body. In his head, he was calling the tumbler’s name, over and over, a frantic litany, but no sound emerged save for his gasping breath. His hands trembling, he fumbled for a pulse. It took him minutes of agony, but finally—Blessed Lufra!—he felt a weak thread beneath his fingertips.

  Supporting Griff’s head with the utmost care, he rolled him over, dreading what he was going to see. It had been a wicked blow. The tumbler’s face was so pale, his lips were colorless, every freckle showing stark on his skin. But there was no bleeding from ears or nose, no bruising around his eyes. Fort sagged and all the breath punched out of his lungs. Holy Mother, thank you, thank you.

  He knew the basics of battlefield medicine, as most commanders did. There’d been some of his men who’d actually preferred his rough ministrations to that of the company’s healers. If there was no internal bleeding, surely Griff should be regaining consciousness by now? Between Fort’s palms, the other man’s skin was cool and clammy. A horrible greasy void opened up inside Fort, making his stomach heave and pitch.

  This was what fear was, true gut-wrenching terror. Knowing he was helpless, knowing Griff’s life depended on him. He’d experienced nothing so acutely agonizing in his long career, save for the dark days Bekah had hovered between life and death, the babe come too tiny and too soon.

  With every beat of his heart, panic battered his nerves, urging him to hurry, hurry. Just fucking hurry!

  Very, very gently, he settled Griff on the ground and rose, every muscle complaining, his bad leg hurting like a bitch. The leg could bloody wait. Ruler, getting Griff to a real physician was all that was important. And putting as much distance between them and the fucking Hssrda as possible. He’d worry about the gashes and bruises later. The gods knew, he’d had worse.

  Lufra bless her placid soul, his vran had returned to grazing, though she gave the fallen Hssrda a wide berth. Of Griff’s beast, there was no sign. Making clucking noises with his tongue, Fort grabbed a trailing rein and hauled her in. He rifled through the saddlebag for the bath sheet and unbuckled his belt. Then he folded the fabric into a long pad and sucked in a deep breath. Fuck, if he got this wrong—!

  Limping over to Griff’s still body, he found the only way he could slip the bath sheet beneath the other man’s neck was by holding his skull cradled in one hand. Thank Lufra his palms were broad, his fingers long. After minutes of excruciating, sweaty effort, he got Griff’s neck braced with the towel, the pad held firmly in place with his belt.

  And the tumbler’s pulse had steadied—hadn’t it?

  Ignoring the blood dripping down his arm, Fort wrapped Griff’s body in his silken bedroll and booted the vran behind the knee to make her kneel. With a grumbling snort, she sank down. It took every particle of strength he had to maneuver the two of them into the saddle, Griff cradled securely against his heart. Fuck, the man was a dead weight! All that sleek muscle…

  Holy Mother, he wished he had another choice, any choice. But there was none. Griff needed a level of medical expertise that was beyond him to give and the vran was the only mode of transport available. All he could do was keep the tumbler’s head and neck as still as possible.

  He’d never had a problem with taking calculated risks before, but shit, this one was a killer bitch.

  Blinking hard, Fort swore under his breath, urging the vran into the rocking canter they could keep up for hours.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Sun is set, Shadow too.

  Sleep, sweet babe, the dark night through,

  In Lufra’s arms and mine,

  In Lufra’s arms and mine.

  Feolin lullaby (trad.)

  Fort had been aiming to hit the main track out of the Empty Lands before nightfall, but because he had to swing east to miss the Hssrda camp, he nearly missed it. As the Shadow caught the Sun and pulled it down over the horizon, the last rays caught one of the light-colored rocks that marked the trail. His heart thumped once, painfully hard. Thank Lufra!

  Griff lay ominously still, his head resting against Fort’s chest, braced by his cradling arm. In the fading light, Fort peered at his face, half-obscured by his disheveled hair. When he smoothed it aside, the sword calluses on his palms caught on the silky strands. A rush of some stupid feeling welled up in his throat. The tumbler’s color had improved in the last hour, his elegant mouth no longer quite so pale.

  Fort swung the vran onto the trail in the lengthening shadows. He bent his head, burying his face in Griff’s hair. “C’mon, Griff. C’mon, damn you! Come back to me.”

  A long shudder racked the body in his arms. Griff groaned and his eyes flew open.

  “Hey.” Fort’s smile felt stiff.

  Griff stared up at him, a frown creasing his brow. “Mam?” he whispered. He jerked. “No! Hurts— Don’t!” He began to thrash and the vran reared, her huge hooves striking the path with bone-jarring thuds.

  Fort tightened his grip, the gash on his biceps burning with the effort. “Sshh, I’ve got you.”

  Griff moaned and twisted, shockingly strong.

  Words tumbled out of Fort’s mouth, deep and urgent. “It’s me. Fort. Relax. You’re safe, I swear it.”

  The tumbler’s eyes slid shut and his frantic movements eased. Fort blew out a breath of relief. He glanced up at the rising moon, panic sinking ugly claws into his heart. Shit, they were only a few hours into what was usually a two-day ride. He had no idea whether Griff’s delirium indicated something serious and no idea of what else to do. He’d reached the end of his resources.

  Save one.

  His will. He’d lost count of the limp bodies he’d carried off battlefields, but this time he wasn’t giving up, not until Griff lay cold and stiff in his arms, and even then…

  Thank Lufra the moon was nearly full, the trail marked. If he kept the vran to a steady pace, they could travel through the night. He could—

  Griff arched, mumbling. He flung out an arm, striking Fort a glancing blow on the ear.

  So he said it all again. “You’re safe, love. With me. You’re safe.”

  The tumbler settled, but as soon as Fort fell silent, he became restless, moaning half-intelligible sentences, writhing in the big man’s arms.

  Sweating, Fort began to talk. In fact, it didn’t matter what kind of noise he made, it seemed the only thing capable of soothing Griff was the sound of his deep voice.

  When he found he was repeating his original reassurances, he said anything that came into his head. The miles passed under the plodding feet of the vran and Fort told stories of his mercenary days, describing battle after battle. So much blood, so many deaths. He began to feel a little ill.

  The moon rose, an almost-disk white as bone, and the rocks by the side of the trail gleamed like the domes of half-buried skulls.

  Fort tried jokes, though he wasn
’t very good, or even passably funny. He kept forgetting the punch lines, but Griff didn’t seem to mind. How was it he knew so few of them anyway?

  The other man tossed his head, calling a string of names, Fort’s among them.

  Shit, what else? “Sshh,” he murmured. “Hush and I’ll tell you about the time I helped Father deliver a vran.” He’d been about ten and it had been a protracted, bloody battle. When he’d collapsed against the wall of the barn, the little animal in his arms, Sobriety McLaren had clapped him on the shoulder. “A good little bull,” he’d said, and Fort felt as though he’d been given a medal.

  After that, the stories spilled out of him as though he’d pulled a plug. They floated on the night air, his audience the unconscious tumbler and the laboring vran. Sometimes it was easy, the tale tripping off his tongue, but mostly he spoke slowly, searching for the words. Constance and her harp. Little Prue and the way she’d loved the puppies. All his womenfolk.

  He paused to swig water and Griff muttered something garbled. Shit, he might as well go on, complete the whole tawdry tale of his wretched boyhood. The story of his rebellion didn’t sound any better out loud, and by the time he reached the end, his father stretched lifeless at his feet, he felt completely drained.

  He inhaled. “And so I ran. All the way to Feolin. And that’s where I met Bekah.” His lips curved. “Ah, Griff, you should have seen her. So pretty, so kind to a boy from the Straight Church.” His eyes stung. “She was good to me, more than I deserved. Ruler, she even died for me, for our baby. I called the little one Constance. For my sister.” He pressed his lips to the tumbler’s forehead, drawing strength. “Before I buried them both in the same grave. It was fitting.”

  His arms ached and his shoulders were killing him. By the feel of it, he had a bruise the size of a dinner plate on one hip and his wound burned. He needed food and rest, but the vran was worse off, beginning to stumble and blow. If he killed their mount, Griff was as good as dead. He looked down, brushed the hair off the other man’s cheek. The moonlight limned the straight line of his nose, the hard line of his jaw, giving his features an unearthly purity. Fort shivered.