by Deborah Hale
Maura shook her head. “Langbard said there is no substitute for true courage.”
How disappointed he would be in her if he could see her now.
Leaping to his feet, Rath reached down and grabbed Maura by the arm, hauling her up after him. “Enough of this foolishness! I will not let any harm come to you.”
Perhaps she was being foolish. Maura stumbled to her feet. True the bridge was a great height, but other people had crossed it safely—Rath, twice.
“If only it was more substantial.” Maura allowed Rath to pull her toward the bridge. “Why could they not have built it of stone, with high sides so a body would not have to see what they were crossing.”
“This place does not get enough traffic to merit the work of a stone bridge.” Rath did not pull so hard once he realized she meant to come. “Besides, I doubt it would last. The earth trembles around here sometimes and rock has no give to it. Rope can bend or stretch a long way before it breaks.”
They had reached the bridge again. Rath thrust Maura in front of him. “Hold onto the ropes. Keep your eyes on the far side, and we will be across before you know it.”
Her heart beat so fast and so hard, Maura feared it would crack her ribs. Forcing her gaze to the opposite side of the rift, she groped for the hand ropes and clung to them. Then she stepped out onto the fragile span over the abyss.
It swayed beneath her feet. Maura glanced down.
She had not begun to appreciate the rift’s true depth. The steep rock sides plunged down and down in a bottomless drop.
“No!”
She spun about and plowed Rath down in her panic to get solid ground beneath her feet. “I... cannot do it. I cannot! Let us hide until whoever is behind us passes, then turn around and go back to Southmark.”
Rath picked himself up and turned to glare at her. “You agreed to come this way. The other way is even more dangerous, and will take too long.”
“You did not tell me about... that!” Maura’s finger trembled as she pointed back toward the bridge.
“I never reckoned you would balk like this. I do not understand, Maura. You risked Hanish blades and the jaws of their hounds to save me. You trussed up a death-mage. You did your part to win our freedom from Vang. Yet you will not walk across a bridge?”
Everything he said was true. It made no more sense to her than it made to him. She had known fear before, but never this paralyzing terror that defied all reason.
“No.” She backed farther away pulling a pinch of dreamweed from her sash. “I will not. Not that one. And if you try to force me again, I will cast a sleep spell on you!”
His features twisted in a look of shock and hurt. As if she had drawn a blade and thrust it into his chest. That look passed quickly, though. Something hard and fierce took its place.
“Stay then, coward! Liar!” Glaring at her, he stepped onto the bridge and began to cross it walking backward.
“Coward I may be, Rath Talward, but I am no liar!”
“You are. A liar and a fraud, with all your empty talk about the Giver and the Waiting King and your quest! If you truly believed that pap you spew, you would trust your Giver to keep you safe from falling. There is no Giver. No afterworld. Just a hard, dirty life a body must wrest what they can from!”
“You are wrong!” Maura lurched to her feet. “The Giver created this world and breathed its spirit into every living thing.”
“And stuck heroes up in the sky to chase monsters?” Rath’s scorn stung like lye. “Rubbish! Stinking, daft rubbish!”
“No!” Maura barely noticed herself clutching the ropes and stepping onto the bridge again. Her gaze bored into Rath with such intensity, she had eyes for nothing else. “Do not say such things!”
“Stop me, then, Destined Queen!” His tone made a pitiful mockery of that title. “All your prattle about combing the kingdom for the Secret Glade. I see now you meant only the safe and pleasant parts of the kingdom.”
“How dare you?” When she got her hands on him, he would regret his insulting tongue and his foul blasphemy!
“At least I do dare!” cried Rath, retreating faster. “I dare to live my life without the cripple’s crutch of faith in some fraud of a Great Spirit! I dare to fight the Han every chance I get, instead of moping around waiting for some dead king to rise from his grave and do it for me!”
“Why you...!” Maura could not think of an insult rank enough as she charged after him. “I will make you sorry for every wicked word!”
“Why not let the Waiting King do it?” Rath beckoned, daring her to come at him. “Or pray the Giver to strike me down with its awesome power?”
He had stopped, now. His mouth stretched in a wide, triumphant grin.
“Take that back, you scoundrel!” Maura threw herself at him. “Believe or not as you will, but do not mock the Giver or the Waiting King! He is real—you will see!”
Rath latched onto her around the waist and plucked her off the ground.
“I will see, will I?” He spun her around, gasping out words between bouts of wild laughter. “When we get to the Secret Glade, you mean?”
“Yes, then you will see. Now put me down, before I...”
He put her down, but he did not let her go. “Your pardon, Maura for saying those things. It was the only way I could think of getting you across that bridge without slinging you over my shoulder and carrying you. And that would have been far too dangerous for us both.”
“Across the—?” Maura looked back.
Fortunately Rath was still holding her up, for her legs would not. Her head spun and her belly sluiced down into the toes of her boots. Her eyes stung with tears she refused to shed. Instead, she threw her arms around Rath’s broad chest and held on tight as she joined in his laughter.
“You clever scoundrel! I cannot believe you taunted me across. Langbard was right about you!”
She tilted her head and looked into his eyes. Just as it had on the bridge, but for a far different reason, the rest of the world seemed to melt away, leaving only Rath—solid, forceful, full of life.
Slowly he bent forward, bringing his lips closer and closer to hers, and any reason to resist him had melted away with the rest of the world.
Then something hissed past them. Maura remembered having heard that sound before. But where?
Rath jerked his head up to look past her.
“Slag!” he growled, pushing her behind him. “We have company!”
Chapter Four
ANOTHER ARROW HISSED by.
“Get down!” Rath pushed Maura behind him. “Find a rock or a thick tree trunk to hide behind!”
He dropped down on one knee, well below the height the arrows were coming at, yet still able to see across the rift.
There were three, that he could see, on the other side of the bridge—two Hanish soldiers and a death-mage. If they were the same ones he had left alive back in Prum, he would never forgive himself.
Nor would he ever make that mistake again.
One of the soldiers was firing off arrows as fast as he could load his bow, not even making a pretense of aiming. He must be providing cover for one or both of the others to come across the bridge.
Maura tugged on Rath’s cloak. “What are we waiting for? We must get away before they cross. This is my fault for balking so long on the other side.”
“At least you came and they did not catch us on the other side or while we were crossing.”
If either of them was to blame it was he. At first he had thought her fear of crossing the bridge foolish. Then he had realized it was like his fear of the mines—a suffocating terror beyond reason or control.
Once he’d understood, it amazed him that she had been able to break the grip of her fear and focus on something else to get her across the bridge.
As soon as she had crossed, he should have grabbed her hand and fled as though the Black Beast itself were howling at their heels. Not stood there like some love-struck boy clasping her in full view of the bri
dge, wasting precious time they needed to run or hide.
“Go!” he ordered Maura, his voice harsh with anger at himself. “Run. Get as far from here as you can. I will hold this lot for as long as I can.”
“No!” cried Maura. Behind him, Rath could hear the faint rustle of her digging in the pockets of her sash. “We are stronger together than apart.”
Rath could not deny that. It brought him a fleeting, but very sweet sense of satisfaction. Still, he could not take the chance of Maura falling into the clutches of the Han.
“I do not have time to argue with you, now.” He wrestled off his pack and tossed it behind him. “Do as I say and get clear of here.”
Rath drew his blade, though he did not need it... yet.
Not only did Maura fail to flee as he’d bidden her, the fool wench crept forward until she crouched by his side. “Whatever happened to always looking out for yourself first?”
What had happened to it? Had he crossed the line, at last, past which he counted her life of greater value than his own?
Perhaps the Hanish archer thought he had scared them away. Or perhaps he had been trying to make them return fire, to see if they were armed with bows. Rath heard the fellow call out an order. Then the other soldier scuttled across the bridge, his shield raised before him.
“Can we cut the ropes?” asked Maura.
Rath shook his head. “If we try that, the bowman will skewer us for certain. If you will not leave, at least get out of sight.”
He pulled her back behind a bush with thick foliage. “Is there anything you can do about those two on the other side?”
“I need to be closer to get the magic agent on them.”
A daft notion blossomed in Rath’s mind, when he most needed to keep it free of distractions. What if an arrow could be fitted with a tiny cloth pouch containing one of Maura’s magic agents? When the arrow hit, it would pierce the pouch and release the agent.
The idea had merit. Rath only hoped it was not destined to die with him. That Hanish soldier was almost across the bridge.
Rath steeled himself to fight when suddenly the strangest compulsion came over him. “Maura?”
“What?”
“If I am killed and you survive, will you perform the passing ritual on me?”
“If you wish, but—”
He knew what her hesitation meant. And he could not leave her without an explanation. If only he could find one to satisfy himself.
But there was no time left. The soldier had reached their side of the rift.
Turning toward her, he whispered, “Just in case.”
And since his lips were passing anyway, he dropped a kiss on her ear.
For a moment, Maura sat stunned by Rath’s request. The notion that he had made even such a tentative step toward belief made her want to laugh and cry at the same time. The possibility that she might have to speak the words of the passing ritual over his dead body filled her with the same helpless terror as when she’d glanced down from the bridge into Raynor’s Rift.
Through the leaves of the bush, she could see the Hanish soldier peering around for an instant after he stepped off the bridge. Something caught his attention and drew him further into the trees.
While his foe was distracted, Rath leaped out from behind the bush, his sword swinging. It struck the soldier’s metal armor with a harsh clang.
Maura flinched. But as the two men continued to trade blade thrusts and parries, she could see the soldier’s armor was only dented from Rath’s blow.
A wail of dismay rose in her throat. With only his padded leather vest for armor, how could Rath prevail against the Han, encased in stout metal?
She must find some way to aid him.
The two men were joined so close in combat and moving so quickly, she dared not try to cast a spell upon the Han, in case it should strike Rath, instead. Neither could she risk distracting Rath when he most needed to keep his wits about him.
As she watched them trade and dodge blows, she realized Rath was not as much at a disadvantage as she had first believed. Without the weight and restriction of stiff armor, he was able to move more freely and quickly. Perhaps the best thing she could do for him just now would be to make certain he had only a single enemy to fight.
She crept around the other side of the bush to a spot where she could see the bridge. Though she knew she would not need to cross the rift again, Maura’s insides still quivered and her head spun when she glimpsed its unforgiving depth. Then she saw something else that made a different kind of fear grip her.
The bowman was beginning to make his way across the bridge.
What could she do to stop him? She had no weapon, save her magic, and it would not work at this distance. She tried to dig up a rock to throw, but it was buried deeper than it looked and would not loosen. As she tried to think of something else, the Han drew closer.
Maura dug a generous pinch of madfern from her sash and stole as near to the bridge as she dared. In a whisper barely even audible to herself, she began to recite the incantation.
The bowman stepped from the bridge. But he did not glance down at Maura crouched in the underbrush.
Perhaps the narrowed vision of his helmet kept him from seeing her out of the corner of his eye. Or perhaps his thoughts were too tightly fixed on joining the fight, which Maura could hear continuing. The Han paused to grab his bow.
In that instant, Maura sprang up and hurled the madfern into his face. The Han threw down his weapon and staggered back with a startled cry. Maura hoped the madfern would make him see something that would frighten him into turning and running back across the bridge.
Instead he spun about, spread his arms like wings and leaped into the rift.
When Maura realized what the Han meant to do, she tried to grab hold of him and pull him back. She was only able to reach his long plume of hair, which slipped through her fingers as he fell. That was enough to send her sprawling to the ground at the very lip of the rift.
Too frozen with horror even to close her eyes, she watched him fall.
“Maura!”
The abrupt urgency of the nearby shout and the implacable grip of a hand around her ankle tore a scream from her throat. Yet even as she cried out, she recognized Rath’s voice and his touch. Maura jammed her eyes shut to block out the shattering sight before her. She feared she would see it in her nightmares for a very long time to come.
Rath began to pull her back from the lip of the cliff, then suddenly he let her go. A hoarse howl broke from him.
Maura recognized the agony of that cry. She knew what had caused it.
Scuttling back from the edge of the cliff, she forced herself to open her eyes. It was as she had feared.
On the far side of Raynor’s Rift, the death-mage had raised his wand to point directly at Rath, who fell to his knees, spasms of pain gripping his body.
Though she knew little of how mortcraft worked, Maura feared its malevolent power. Would it be enough to get Rath out of the Xenoth’s line of sight?
Scrambling to her feet, she clutched the end of his cloak and heaved with all her might. As he tumbled backward, his screaming stilled and his body went limp.
She bent over him, stroking his face and hair. “Rath, are you alive? Can you hear me?”
“Yes... to... both.” The words rasped out hard.
“Thank the Giver!” Tears sprang to her eyes as she cradled his head in her arms.
“Later,” growled Rath. “Is... he... coming?”
“Is who—? Oh!” Maura let him go, then crept to where she could see the bridge without being too visible from the other side... or so she hoped.
“Yes. He is coming!”
Though clearly still in some residue of pain from the mortcraft attack, Rath tried to pull himself along the ground. “Wand.” He forced the word through clenched teeth.
“No!” cried Maura. “We do not know how to use it, or what it will do.”
Even if she did know, she was not certain
she could bring herself to wield such a thing.
“Get it!” Rath kept crawling toward his pack, though every move was clearly a struggle.
“Very well, then.” She could give it to him to hold, at least. Rath did not look capable of using any other weapon.
Maura ran the few steps to where Rath had dropped his pack, then fumbled it open to retrieve the wand. Meanwhile, her gaze fell to the body of the Han Rath had fought. Its head tilted at an unnatural angle and an appalling quantity of blood had seeped from a gash on its neck.
Maura’s stomach heaved, but she managed to hold her gorge. The death-mage would not find her easy prey, huddled on the ground, vomiting.
Something else on the Han’s corpse caught her eye.
First, she pulled the copper wand from Rath’s pack. It felt hot in her hands, a heat she sensed could quickly travel to her heart, searing everything in its path.
“Here, take it!” Maura shoved the wand into Rath’s hands, then hurried to the body of the dead Han. Gritting her teeth and willing her belly not to revolt, she pulled free the bow slung over his shoulder and plucked an arrow from his quiver.
She had never fired a bow before, but she had seen it done. Even if the arrow did not find its mark, it might be enough to make the death-mage think twice about crossing the bridge. Hopefully that would give Rath time to recover from the mortcraft attack so he could fire the bow himself.
When she reached a spot of cover near the bridgehead, Maura was relieved to discover the death-mage had gotten less than half way across. Still, her fingers fumbled notching the arrow. It took considerable force to pull back the bow string. Maura thanked the Giver for every heavy bucket of water she had hauled up from Langbard’s well.
Now to aim. She had seen archers close one eye—but which one? Perhaps it did not matter. She could not hold the taut, quivering bow string any longer.
The arrow flew. Though it missed the death-mage by several feet, it caught his attention.