Martyn’s heart hammered in his throat. Despite the cool morning breeze swirling the dust, beads of sweat dribbled down his temples.
He couldn’t do this. He couldn’t face this. His fingers shook. His breaths pounded hard and sharp through his chest.
Westin and his entourage of guards rode into the square. Townsfolk packed into the space, some climbing onto rooftops or hanging out of second story windows. Jeers hurled Martyn’s way.
Westin held up his hand. When the town quieted, he began making a speech about justice and evil men paying for their crimes.
Martyn concentrated on taking slow, even breaths and tried to still his trembling. He really needed a dose of that courage Leith had talked about in the Tower.
A guard strode forward, carrying a blazing torch. He shoved the torch between the stacks of logs.
The kindling popped and caught, threads of wood curling and blackening. So slow, so tiny, for something that would soon devour him.
This was it. His final mission. Die bravely.
Flames shot from the kindling, dancing around the edges of the larger logs. Heat built near Martyn’s toes, but he couldn’t move.
He couldn’t move, and the fire was growing, growing. Hotter. Hotter. Smoke curled around Martyn’s body and face. He coughed, turning his face away to find a gulp of cool, clear air.
Heat smoldered through his boots. He jerked and tugged at the ropes holding his legs and hands. He couldn’t move. His heart pounded harder. He had to get out of here. Twisting, flailing, yanking, but the ropes held tight. The heat. The flames. And he couldn’t move.
He was burning.
The buckskin cuff of his trousers flared into flames. Pain seared into his skin. He cried out, fighting, struggling, straining to free his hands.
“Martyn!” His brother. Screaming and sobbing.
Martyn turned his head, squinting through the haze, the smoke, the heat. Owen shook the bars of his cell like he intended to rip the iron from the stone.
Martyn clamped his teeth against a scream, but the flames clawed deeper into his skin until he couldn’t…he couldn’t… “Owen! Remember…Mama….how she…please…”
He coughed and gagged, his words ending in another half-smothered scream. He needed his brother’s voice. He wasn’t strong enough to die alone.
Owen’s choked voice rose above the crackling, hissing fire. “The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want.”
The smoke swirled around Martyn’s face, smothering him with ash and heat. He squeezed his stinging eyes shut. Sweat poured down his back and chest. The flames roared higher.
He was on fire. His boots, his trousers, his skin. Pain, deep and raw, scorching, tearing, clawing.
Burning.
Owen was shouting, barely audible over the flames. “…leave me not, neither forsake me, O God of my salvation. When my father and my mother forsake me…the LORD will take me up…Deliver me not over unto the will of mine enemies…”
Not abandoned. Not forsaken.
Martyn couldn’t drag in enough air to even scream as agony raced up his right side all the way to his ribs.
Take me, please. I can’t…please…
A pounding rumble clattered in his ears. Martyn cracked his eyes open. Beyond the shimmering heat and twisting spikes of flames, the black shapes of what looked like horses and riders thundered closer.
Was this what death looked like? Horses and riders coming to claim him?
One black shape dove from his horse and flung himself into the fire, stooping to reach into the flames to slice a knife through the burning strands holding Martyn’s feet in place.
An angel?
The figure straightened. No, not an angel, not unless Martyn was hallucinating an angel with Shadrach Alistair’s face.
Mouth twisted in pain, Shadrach pressed closer to Martyn and sawed his knife through the ropes holding Martyn’s hands above his head.
Something snapped. Shadrach hurled them from the fire. Martyn’s shoulder struck the ground. A blast of cool air hit his face. Hands beat at the flames still covering him, but he couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe.
Something cold and wet landed across his legs and jolted his body, but his chest remained seized. He was slipping into blackness, his body nothing but fire and pain.
Small, soft hands gripped his face. Kayleigh’s face appeared in the narrow tunnel in the consuming darkness. “Breathe, Martyn. Come on. Please breathe.”
He couldn’t.
Something pounded hard against his back.
Martyn gasped, choked on a breath, and broke into hard, wracking coughs. He managed to roll and turn his face to the side as his coughing turned into gagging. He heaved and vomited. Bile stung against his scorched throat.
Footsteps scuffed, and someone yanked him off the ground, squeezing tight.
“Martyn.” His brother’s tortured voice came from the shaking body gripping him.
A hug. That’s what this was. Martyn rested his forehead on his brother’s shoulder, coughing and choking too much to speak. He managed to find just enough strength to lift his arms and embrace Owen.
He wasn’t dead. Somehow, he wasn’t dead.
“Lord Shadrach?” Kayleigh’s voice had a pinched, tight tone to it.
“I see them. I’ll take care of it.”
Martyn peeled his eyes open as Shadrach pushed himself to his feet, grimacing. Strips of his charred trousers hung around his blackened boots. Beyond him, a crowd of townsfolk faced a small knot of guardsmen. Based on the way the guardsmen glanced at Shadrach as if looking for orders, they had to be from Walden. A few men, lacking weapons and dressed in basic homespun, joined the guardsmen facing the mob. A few of the townsfolk also trying to stop this?
“I’ve seen some low-down, despicable things in the war, but this…this makes Respen Felix look honorable.” Shadrach’s voice cut across the town, sharp and cold. “Many of you call yourselves Christians, and today you have shamed the Name you carry.”
“He probably needs a drink. Lay him back down.” Kayleigh’s voice came from somewhere close.
Martyn couldn’t do more than cough as Owen laid him on the ground, and Kayleigh drew his head onto her lap. She pulled out a canteen, uncapped it, and pressed it to his mouth. “Try a few sips.”
Water splashed into his mouth. Lukewarm, stale, and metallic. Best thing he’d ever tasted. Martyn held his breath long enough to swallow once, twice, and the water trickled down his aching throat.
How had Kayleigh managed to get back here so quickly? And what was Shadrach doing here? He was supposed to be riding to Stetterly to save Leith.
Martyn coughed and rasped in a voice he didn’t recognize as his own, “Leith?”
Kayleigh rested a hand on his chest, and Martyn realized he was covered from the waist down by a wet blanket. “Rest easy now. Lord Shadrach has it all handled.”
Back straight, jaw tight, Shadrach still faced Westin and the mob of townsfolk, giving them a tongue-lashing lecture like only a lord’s firstborn son could. The town deserved it.
Kayleigh brought the canteen back to Martyn’s mouth, and he sputtered through a few more mouthfuls. A surge of pain crashed through him, and he couldn’t stop his moan.
Martyn closed his eyes, trying to ignore the pain raging through his legs and feet. Kayleigh’s hand still rested on his chest. He reached up and laid his hand on top of hers. A bold move, perhaps, for someone who’d once told Kayleigh he wasn’t tempted by her.
She pulled her hand away. A new ache throbbed in Martyn’s chest. She didn’t care for him that way. Of course not.
Her fingers twined through his and squeezed. Maybe…he smiled and let his eyes close.
Somehow, the touch of her hand kept the pain bearable. He was vaguely aware of Owen fetching water and tending the burns. Shadrach shouted orders, arranging for more buckets of water and a wagon.
Still Kayleigh was there, holding his hand, giving him water, administering a large dose of laudanum. Even
with the drug numbing some of the pain, Martyn couldn’t stop a cry of pain as four of Shadrach’s guards lifted him into the wagon and set him onto a straw mattress.
After she and Owen clambered into the wagon, Kayleigh settled down next to Martyn. “We’re taking you to Sierra. I don’t trust the healer here to so much as dab your burns with water.”
“Me either.” Martyn gritted his teeth but couldn’t completely swallow his gasp of pain as the wagon rocked with Shadrach’s weight. Shadrach collapsed next to Martyn’s mattress. A damp rag covered his right hand.
He gave an order, and the wagon lurched forward. Shadrach pulled off his boots and socks, dragged a bucket closer, and plunged his feet into the water. “Owen, is it? You’d better keep wet cloths on his burns. That’s the best we can do until we get to Sierra.”
Kayleigh stifled a yawn and rested her head and free hand on the back of the wagon seat. “Anything I can do to help?”
“Rest. You rode nearly to Walden and back without stopping.” Shadrach waved his hand, winced, and wedged his right hand into the bucket with his feet.
Martyn patted the space next to him. “Here. Sleep.”
She raised her eyebrows. “That’s hardly proper.”
He snorted and winced when it tore at his seared throat. “Don’t care. It’s practical.”
“You don’t exactly lack chaperones. Get some sleep. Both of you.” With his arched eyebrows and tightened square jaw, Shadrach somehow managed to look both concerned and dignified with two feet and a hand stuck in a bucket.
Kayleigh yawned again. She eased next to Martyn, leaving a few inches of space between them. Probably a good thing. Martyn wasn’t sure if he could’ve held back his moan if she bumped his burned legs.
She rested her head on his shoulder. “Is this all right? It doesn’t make it harder for you to breathe?”
He wouldn’t have admitted it if it did. He slipped his arm around her shoulders. “It’s fine. Sleep.”
Her breathing slowed and deepened. Martyn should’ve let himself sleep. After staying up all night and with the amount of laudanum in his system, he should’ve been exhausted. Instead, he drifted on a warm haze, the pain a dull ache.
Not sleepy. Curious. That’s what he was.
The wagon rattled over a bump, jarring Martyn. Agony flared through his skin, but it numbed after a moment.
Martyn squinted up at Shad. “You jumped into a fire for me.”
Shad grimaced down at his hand and feet and shrugged. “It’s what Leith would’ve done, if he was here.”
“Leith’s not the best example to follow if you want a long, pain-free life.” Martyn tightened his grip around Kayleigh’s shoulders as the wagon rocked back and forth. “Then again, you’re probably immune to fire or something like that.”
Shad raised an eyebrow. “How’s that?”
“You’re Shadrach. One of Daniel’s three friends. Like the story in the Bible.” Martyn suppressed a cough.
“If that were the case, then you should be immune to fire. You’re also one of Daniel’s friends.” Shad grinned as well, though his grin also looked like it wanted to turn into a grimace.
Daniel. That was what Leith called himself these days. “Guess that makes me Meshach. Who gets to be Abednego?”
“Jamie.”
Martyn would’ve laughed, but his lungs ached too much. Already, this much talking scraped his throat and turned his voice into a rough growl. Instead, he settled for another coughing fit.
When he caught his breath, Owen held a canteen to his mouth. Martyn tried to gulp in the water that sloshed into his mouth and onto his face whenever the wagon jounced. Finally, he pushed the canteen away with his free hand. “Thanks, but that’s enough. I don’t need to drown on top of burning.”
Owen sat back on his heels. “You’re supposed to be drinking lots of water. Your burns…”
“I know. I know.” How often had he heard Renna give that same instruction to Leith after he’d been burned? “You’re my brother. You don’t have to be my mother.”
Owen shook his head. “If I knew you were going to be this much trouble, I wouldn’t have tracked you down.”
“Too late. Stuck with me. You’re supposed to be dragging me back to the straight and narrow and all that.” Martyn found himself grinning. How he’d missed having a little brother to rile.
Shad eyed him. “Is it the laudanum making you talkative?”
Did it? Was he being talkative? “Maybe. I don’t know. Puts Leith right to sleep.” Leith. Renna. Lord Norton’s army. Martyn fought to drag some thoughts through the cloud in his head. “How did you get here? Aren’t you supposed to be racing to Stetterly?”
“When we hadn’t heard anything from you since the snow melted, we began to get concerned. I took ten of Walden’s guards and set out to find you.”
Did he really think he would’ve found Martyn with ten men bumbling along behind him? “You got bored.”
Shad grinned. “Yes, I was bored. There hasn’t been much to do since the war ended. We were about half a day’s ride west of Walden when we spotted her.”
Kayleigh’s hair tickled Martyn’s neck and her soft breath wafted against his chest. Even with a half a day’s ride cut out, Kayleigh had still ridden a two-day round trip in a day and a night. About twenty hours in the saddle with no time for breaks or rest.
And she’d done it for him. How had he ever thought he could hurt her and ride away that easily? He owed her, and when this was all over, he’d have to figure out how to go about repaying her.
“We intercepted her, and she nearly fought us until she learned who I was. When she explained, I sent one of my men to Walden with the two horses she’d ridden with a message for my father. We then went straight to Flayin Falls.” Shad leaned against the wagon’s side, lines of exhaustion etched into his face.
Kayleigh had probably caught them around sunset or just after, and Shad had ridden hard all through the night. He and his men hadn’t gotten any more sleep than Kayleigh or Martyn had.
“Father should’ve left for Stetterly by now, and he’ll send a rider to Nalgar Castle. I expect to hear more news when we reach Sierra.”
Martyn closed his eyes, trying to calculate the distances, the time, the head start Lord Norton had, but he couldn’t concentrate. He was sinking deeper into the hazy weightlessness. “He won’t get there in time, will he?”
Shad shook his head, his shoulders slumped. “No. Even if Father rode straight to Stetterly, Leith and Renna will have to hold out on their own for a day. It’ll probably be longer since Father will stop at Uster to gather more men. He’ll still be outnumbered when he reaches Stetterly.”
Lord Norton had been planning this since last fall. He’d had months to gather his men and supplies. How many men could Lord Alistair and King Keevan assemble on such short notice? Would it be enough?
Either way, Leith would be on his own when Lord Norton, the Blades, and the five hundred riders attacked Stetterly.
30
Renna cradled her injured arm and leaned against the church wall next to one of the high windows. The wooden walkway beneath her feet vibrated as Sheriff Allen directed his archers to man the other windows. She blinked, trying to stifle a yawn. She needed to be strong this morning, not sagging.
Boots scuffed, and Leith appeared at her side, steadying her elbow. “Everyone safely inside?”
She nodded and rested her head against the stone. “How bad is it?”
Leith pulled her against him. He smelled of prairie grass and nighttime dew after spending most of the night scouting. “Uldiney didn’t lie, though I suspect he didn’t tell me everything. They’ll be here within the hour. Five hundred men.”
Five hundred men. Renna squeezed her eyes shut. And Stetterly could scrape together a hundred men, maybe a hundred and fifty fighters if some of the younger women and older children joined in. None of them had much for fighting experience, even if Leith and Sheriff Allen had trained them in archery ove
r the winter.
“Ranson got away safely. He’ll bring help from Uster and Walden.”
It wouldn’t be enough. Even if Uster and Walden could scrape together five hundred men, the soonest any of them could get here was six days. Stetterly wouldn’t hold out six days.
Leith pressed his cheek against her hair. “I wish you would’ve gone into hiding.”
“I can’t. Not this time. My duty is here with Stetterly.” Renna rubbed her throbbing arm. She hadn’t run in the Tower. She wouldn’t run now.
Brandi joined them, her short sword in her hand, her mouth pressed into a firm line. “Jamie spotted them from the bell tower. We’ll see them from here in a minute or two.”
Renna clenched her fingers into Leith’s shirt and swallowed. She had to be strong. They had to survive this until help could arrive. Somehow.
Trust. Courage. Wait on the Lord. No matter the outcome.
Leith pulled back and tensed. “They’re here.”
Renna straightened, smoothed her skirt, and faced the window. A line of men on horseback crested the far hill, flowing down toward the ring of dugouts she and the people of Stetterly had turned into barricades during the night. The rising sun cast long shadows to their left, staining the prairie black.
Two men rode between the dugouts. After a moment, they halted, and one of the men pointed to the dugout and waved a few more men forward. When the men converged on the dugout, the two riders continued past the dugouts into the space in front of the church. Above their heads, a white flag flew next to a black and green banner.
Renna narrowed her eyes and leaned forward. “I think that’s Lord Norton’s standard.”
The warmth of Leith’s body filled the space behind her, and his breath tickled her ear. She might’ve enjoyed being close to him, except for the army surrounding them and the cold edge to Leith’s voice when he spoke. “He’s riding with General Wentle. He commanded Respen’s army.”
Behind Lord Norton and General Wentle, four black figures dashed from the dugout.
Sheriff Allen halted next to her and crossed his arms. “I still think we should’ve kept the Blades prisoner.”
Deliver (The Blades of Acktar Book 4) Page 27