by Amy Raby
Gods curse it, they weren’t taking the bait. Which one was least likely to be a war mage? The smaller of the two, she decided. “I’m bringing him!” she cried. She dragged the dying man partway to the bonfire, then pulled out her pistol and shot the smaller man. He dropped to the ground.
The bigger guard pulled out his own pistol, but Lucien delivered a well-placed kick to his kneecap. The guard crashed to the ground, and the weapon went flying. Vitala drew her sword and charged.
In an instant, the bigger man was on his feet again, his sword leaping out to meet hers. His first stroke whistled toward her and she parried it, just barely. The sword whipped at her again, impossibly fast. War mage. And seduction was out of the question.
Vitala was a superb swordswoman, trained in techniques that compensated for her deficiencies in physical size and strength, but her light, quick movements that had been so devastating in the training room felt slow and clumsy next to her opponent’s. She found herself driven back, one step after another, fighting off a rain of blows that were not only ridiculously fast but strong. Her arm ached fending them off.
She was no match for this man. She couldn’t beat him, and she couldn’t run from him either. The moment she turned her back, he would strike her down.
She made a desperate thrust at his groin. He shifted position to block it. Then his eyes went wide, his mouth flew open, and his sword arm went limp. Perplexed as to why he’d suddenly left himself open, she drove her blade into his chest.
As he fell forward over her blade, she saw the knife hilt sticking out of his lower back.
Her eyes went to Lucien.
“Come on,” he said. “We have to go before they get back. Get my crutch and my leg. They’re over there.” He pointed. “I can’t believe this. Gods-cursed traitors!”
Vitala fetched the crutch and peg leg for Lucien, then threw away her spent pistol and grabbed a new one off the smaller guard’s belt. The guard’s knife sheath was empty. Lucien had been given a choice, knife or pistol, and he’d chosen the knife.
Lucien strapped on the peg leg. “Clothes? Gods, I just want to kill them all.”
“Here.” She took off the Legaciatti uniform she was wearing over her syrtos and handed it to him.
He threw it on, flinging the belts into a crude approximation of the proper knots, and grabbed a boot off the smaller guard’s corpse. “My riftstone,” he demanded.
“Later,” she said. “We’re going to have to bind that gash in your leg.”
“Do it,” he said.
She wound the strip around his injured leg, pulling it tight to try to stanch the bleeding. He hissed sharply as she worked, but did not complain. She knotted the bandage and glanced in the direction of the imperial tent. The fire was still blazing; they hadn’t yet gotten it under control. “Keep watch,” she told Lucien. “Tell me if you see anyone coming back.”
“Shouldn’t we just leave?” said Lucien. “If we can get to the battalion commander—”
“No. He’s one of the traitors.” That might or might not have been true; she had no idea. She grabbed the smaller corpse, used her knife to quickly strip off his clothes, and tossed them into the bonfire.
“What are you doing?” hissed Lucien.
“Faking your death. Keep watch.” She drew her sword, and with the strongest blow she could manage, severed the left leg at the knee. She tossed the corpse onto the fire. Greasy black smoke roiled upward.
“Three gods,” choked Lucien, covering his mouth and nose.
“Let’s go.” She grabbed the blanket-wrapped loros and, with far less enthusiasm, the severed leg. She hauled Lucien to his feet. “Can you walk?” With his one good leg injured, the prospect looked uncertain.
He took a couple of faltering steps, catching himself heavily on his crutch. He swapped the crutch to the right-hand side. “Maybe if I carry it over here.”
“You’re too slow,” said Vitala, looping his arm over her shoulder so he could use her as a second crutch. “We have to get out of here fast.”
They moved south into the darkness of the empty field. Supporting Lucien was less awkward than she’d thought it would be; perhaps his war-mage reflexes assisted him, granting him a certain grace, though he grunted softly with pain at each step.
Once they were out of easy visual range, she circled around to the east and then north, keeping within the ring of the perimeter that encircled the imperial camp. If the Legaciatti didn’t fall for her trick, they would expect Lucien to flee toward the road, find transportation, and head south, toward the imperial city. Thus she had to take him in the opposite direction. Soon the northern campfires were near enough that they could see actual flames instead of just orange dots; they had reached the encamped battalion. She hoped this would go smoothly. Lucien was in a Legaciatti uniform, which ought to lend him an air of legitimacy. As for her, she wore only a syrtos. As a woman, she might be of interest, but should not be seen as a threat.
“We need to find the commander,” said Lucien in a voice tight with pain. “He can help us. Look for a tent with—”
“No. I told you, he’s one of the traitors. We need to get you out of the camp entirely.”
“Pox it all, we have to stop them! We can’t let them get away with this!”
“We can’t fight them all. Too many.”
“How do you know the commander’s a traitor?” demanded Lucien. “Who and what are you, really?”
“I’ll explain everything when we’re safe.”
They struggled past the pup tents of the infantrymen, past the occasional banked cookfire or donkey tied to a stake, and once past a group of men playing dice who stared at them curiously but did not move to stop them.
At the far end of the encampment, they reached a bean field.
Lucien asked in a hoarse voice, “Do you have any water?”
“No. Sorry.” Pox, she’d fouled that part up. They had no supplies, and Lucien was badly injured. How long could he keep up? Already his pace was flagging. At least there was no pursuit yet. In time, there would be.
She set Lucien down in the bean field and dropped to the ground herself for a quick rest.
Lucien lay in the dirt, panting. “We’re going the wrong way,” he rasped.
“No, we’re not.”
“We need to get to the road. Find a carriage, get back to the palace.” He rolled onto his side and groaned. “I need a Healer. I need to get back to Celeste.”
“They’ll look for us there. We need to stick to the fields. Besides, there won’t be carriages at night.”
“They’ll look in the fields too,” he panted. “It doesn’t matter. We need transportation, and you never know what might come by. Give me my riftstone.”
“Not yet.” She scanned the horizon, looking for searchers.
“Give it to me,” said Lucien. “That’s an imperial order.”
Vitala started to laugh, but when she turned toward him, she found herself facing the barrel of a pistol. Despite Lucien’s weakness, his hand was steady. Her mind raced as she tried to work out where he’d picked it up. Probably it was the weapon the war mage had tried to fire at her, the one that had gone flying when Lucien knocked him down.
“Give it to me,” Lucien repeated.
“You wouldn’t shoot me,” she said.
He drew back the hammer. “Yes, I would. And I don’t miss.”
“If you want every search party in the area to converge on our position, pull that trigger.”
His face was grim. “I don’t know who or what you are, but if you’re keeping my riftstone from me, you’re not my friend.”
“I saved your life. And, Lucien, I’m all you’ve got. You’re wounded and crippled, and the people looking for you want you dead. Even if the sound of the gunshot doesn’t bring a search party, you won’t last a day without me.”
After a moment, he lowered the pistol. “Please. I need the stone. It’s my only defense.”
“The stone works fine as long as i
t’s close by. Stay near me, and there won’t be a problem.”
His face twisted in frustration and rage. “You gods-cursed—! What if we get separated? You’re committing treason by keeping it from me. I’m your emperor!”
Vitala laughed. “You’re not my emperor.” He went silent, so before he could process that statement any further, she added, “You’re nobody’s emperor right now. You’ve been deposed.”
“I don’t care what those traitorous culls did. I’m still—”
“Shh,” she hissed. “Do you hear that?” They fell silent. The wind carried voices—distant ones, but not too distant. She couldn’t make out the words, but it might be a search party. “We’ve got to keep moving.”
Still fuming, Lucien nodded.
She hauled him back onto her shoulder and trudged onward. The bean field seemed to go on forever. Beyond it was a hay field, and then another field filled with vinelike plants she no longer cared enough to identify. She stumbled on, exhausted, forcing one foot in front of the other. When she felt as if she could not take another step, she spotted an old barn with a partially collapsed roof. The rotting door swung open on its hinges. She dragged the nearly unconscious Lucien inside and laid him on the dirt floor. The barn was empty—no fresh hay or straw to spread over them for warmth.
She placed a hand on Lucien’s arm. His skin felt clammy. Not good. She unwrapped the loros from the blanket. It was the blanket she wanted; the loros she dumped on the floor. She threw the blanket over Lucien. Then she crawled beneath it herself, pulled it tight around the two of them, and wrapped her arms around Lucien, hoping her body heat would keep him alive until morning.
8
When Vitala woke, sunbeams were spilling through the barn’s collapsed roof onto the packed-dirt floor. Dust motes swirled in the beams. Lucien hadn’t moved, but he was warm in her arms, and his chest still rose and fell.
She extricated herself from Lucien and the blanket. He still carried the pistol he’d pointed at her earlier, so she pulled it from his belt and tucked it into her own. As she headed out of the barn, her eyes fell upon the severed leg lying in the doorway, covered with flies. Gods, had she really carried that all the way here? She picked it up by a stiff toe, wrinkling her nose, and walked outside with it. Flies swarmed about her. She tossed the leg a short distance from the barn. She ought to bury it, but she didn’t have any tools.
When they’d arrived, she’d been too exhausted to take note of her surroundings. The viny plants she’d tramped through last night were string beans, curling their way up wooden tripods. There were no people in sight, just empty fields in every direction, but a farmhouse squatted upon a hill, probably no more than half an hour’s walk away. It seemed as good a destination as any. In her experience, most farmers were quite happy to sell supplies to travelers, and when she arrived at the farmhouse, she was not disappointed. She came away with a pair of waterskins, several wrinkled apples, bread, and cheese. When she returned, Lucien was still asleep.
She pressed the waterskin into his hands. “Drink.”
His eyes fluttered open. He grasped the waterskin and gulped down about half its contents, then pointed at the second skin she carried. “Is that one for you?”
“No, I drank at the farmhouse. This one’s yours too, but save it for later.”
While he tackled breakfast, she went outside and, using Lucien’s crutch and the heel of her boot, crudely buried the severed leg and covered it with a few inches of dirt.
Back in the barn, Lucien was struggling with his food. The sunbeams crept across the floor and caught the diamond-studded loros, which lay on the ground in careless folds. It lit up like a tiny, fallen chandelier.
“You saved the loros!” said Lucien.
“Yes.” She was a little annoyed she hadn’t thought to hide it, but it was inevitable he’d find out about it.
“Good. That will be a blow to Cassian.”
“Cassian?”
“The man behind the coup.”
“You knew about the plot against you?”
“No,” said Lucien. “But, in hindsight, he’s the only man with both the desire and the ability to pull it off.”
“Who is Cassian, and what’s he got against you?”
Lucien sighed. “He’s the legatus in charge of the southern battalions. A nasty fellow, very ambitious. He wanted to marry Celeste, which would have put him next in the line of succession. With me out of the way, it will make him emperor. Do you remember what I told you about how my great-grandfather murdered the rightful emperor and took the throne?”
“Yes.”
“Cassian is a direct descendant of the murdered emperor, so he probably sees himself as correcting history. With me out of the way, he’ll force her into marriage. Which means we have to go back.”
Vitala pursed her lips. What did these details mean for Riorca? Probably nothing good. Cassian’s claim to the throne sounded strong, especially if he married Lucien’s sister. “Are there others besides Cassian who might claim the throne?”
Lucien shook his head. “No. This plot has Cassian’s stamp all over it. We must go back before he harms Celeste.”
“That’s ridiculous. We can’t possibly return to the palace.” Indeed, if there was no one to challenge Cassian and create a civil war except Lucien himself, it was all the more critical she get him out of harm’s way. The girl could not be saved. And why was Lucien only picking at his food? “Eat,” she commanded.
“I’m trying.”
She folded her arms. “Are you too much of a snob to eat farm bread and cheese?”
“No,” he said. “But I don’t feel well, and I’m not sure I can keep it down. I’ve answered your questions. Now you answer mine. Who are you?”
“You already know.”
“You’re more than a Caturanga player. You killed that sentry with a death spell—I saw you do it. If you’re a Healer, I could really use some healing right now.”
“I’m no Healer. If I were, do you think I’d have dragged you miles across those fields last night when I could have healed the gash in your leg and saved myself the trouble?”
“I don’t know a gods-cursed thing about you or your motivations,” snapped Lucien. “And how can you cast a death spell if you’re not a Healer?”
“I’m not here to answer your questions,” said Vitala. “I’m here to get you to safety.”
His face clouded with anger and he reached for his pistol, but his hand found only an empty belt. His eyes went to her belt, where the weapon now rested.
“Eat,” she said again. “We have to move, and you need your strength.”
He managed to choke down a little more bread. She wrapped up what remained, along with the loros, and tied it all up in the blanket. A brief scouting foray outside the barn told her there were no search parties in view, and they set off.
Lucien was weaker than he’d been the night before. His face was pale, and he sweated profusely despite the chilly morning air. Limping heavily, he fell behind. Vitala asked if he would rather lean on her shoulder again, but he growled at her to leave him alone.
It was clear they would get nowhere on foot, so in spite of the risk, she led Lucien out of the fields and toward the road. They moved parallel to it, tucked away in the fields for cover, watching for wagons and carriages that might pass by.
She spotted a wagon piled high with carrots. “Stay here,” she whispered to Lucien, and bounded out onto the road.
“Sir!” she cried, waving her arms as she stepped in front of the wagon. “My companion and I need a ride to Tasox. I have money.” She held out a few tetrals from Remus’s belt pouch.
The farmer pulled up his elderly bay team and frowned at her with deep suspicion. “I don’t take passengers, and you don’t want to go to Tasox. It’s full of bandits.”
“Sir, would this persuade you?” She added a few more coins to her offering.
The farmer shook his head and clucked to his horses.
Vitala st
epped in front of her wagon, pulled out her pistol, and pointed it at him. “Get out.”
“Ma’am!” He stopped the horses. “I— No! You’ll strand me!”
“Take me and my companion to Tasox. We’re driving your wagon there. You can be on the wagon with us, or you can be dead.”
The farmer swallowed. “I’ll take you to Tasox.”
Still training the gun on the farmer, Vitala beckoned to Lucien, who emerged from the fields and limped to the back of the wagon.
The farmer looked horrified. “Your companion is ill.”
“Injured,” she corrected. But come to think of it, he did look ill. Pale and weak and sweaty . . . that wasn’t normal for an injury. Was it? Her stomach twisted. Lucien wasn’t warded. He could have contracted something.
Somehow, despite his weakness, Lucien managed to climb up the side of the wagon and collapse inside it.
“Don’t break the carrots,” the farmer pleaded.
Vitala put away her pistol and swung up into the wagon beside Lucien. A dozen carrots snapped beneath her. She looked up at the farmer, who, after a moment’s stricken look, turned forward and clucked to his horses. The wagon jolted into movement.
She touched Lucien’s cheek, which was warm. “How are you feeling?”
He screwed his eyes shut. “Like I got run over by a four-in-hand.”
“I think you might have wound fever. You’re not warded.”
“Ridiculous. Of course I’m warded.”
“I wouldn’t be sure of that. Your Warder was one of the traitors.”
Lucien lay still.
Fearing he’d lost consciousness, she shook him lightly. “What do you do for wound fever? How is it cured?”
“Haven’t the foggiest,” he murmured. “There’s a Healer in Tasox. Get me there.”
She wasn’t wild about Tasox as a destination, given the unrest and the fact that it was the battalion’s destination, but they had little choice. There wasn’t anything else nearby except huge swaths of farmland. It was either Tasox or back to the Imperial City of Riat, and Tasox was at least in the right direction.
She placed a possessive hand on Lucien’s back, as if by laying claim to him she could keep death away, and his breathing lengthened into the long, easy rhythm of sleep.