by Jacinta Jade
Her eyes watered from the effort, and her breathing became rapid.
It took a long moment, but soon Siraay had her breathing controlled to a point where she could talk. She looked down at her arm. And winced.
Like when her former self had been bitten on the foot, the bite marks were similar to rips in the skin, and her arm was already bloody. She made a fist with that hand … it hurt, but it was a pain she could work with.
And Drosni hadn’t bitten deep. Siraay put her other hand on her bloody arm and pulled it away quickly, wiping the transferred blood over another part of her shirt.
She was ready.
She stood and spun away from Drosni and Lifron, letting her face exhibit the pain in her arm, and allowed her chest to move deeply with exaggerated effort.
Then she stumbled forwards, gripped the trunk of a tree, and pushed off it, stepping out into a clearing full of enemies.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
WHEN SIRAAY STUMBLED into the encampment, many eyes and bows promptly swivelled in her direction, the deadly points of numerous arrows all aimed at her. She tried not to think about what just one of those projectiles could do.
‘Please! Please, you’ve got to help me!’ She stumbled forwards again and almost tripped, as one of her tired feet rasped over the top of an exposed tree root that she had tried to step over.
Almost tripped.
The Resistance soldier who stood closest to her swiftly shouldered his bow and grabbed for her arm to steady her, and Siraay let herself cry out as his grip curled around her bloodied arm.
It was a reflex move, she knew, him grabbing her in order to stop her from falling. It was a deeply ingrained instinct of Kaslon males to protect their females, one heightened due to the animal forms they could call upon.
It was an instinct Siraay had been counting on.
By grabbing at her immediately, the male had put himself in danger of being hit by any arrows fired at Siraay by the rest of his unit.
Which made them lower their bows.
Not by much—but enough that Siraay had already brought herself a precious instant to leap out of harm’s way if they did decide to fire.
But she needed them more vulnerable still.
So after crying out at the pain in her arm as the soldier had mistakenly gripped it, causing fresh blood to well up around his fingers, Siraay let herself reflexively reach out with her other arm to try to protect the injury and let her knees give way.
Now the soldier realised his mistake and attempted to shift his grip, so that, in the instant he let go of Siraay’s arm, she began to sink further.
Another soldier close by shouldered his bow and speedily stepped forwards to lend his assistance, managing to catch Siraay and frown as his incompetent friend at the same time.
The bows and arrows pointed in Siraay’s direction drooped lower.
Siraay allowed her head to sag as she breathed through the pain in her arm, her breath coming in great gasps.
‘Hold there.’
Her breathing almost paused at the command, which might have given her away, but she let her head sink further, even as blood streaked down over her wrist and ran in rivulets through the gaps between her fingers.
Then she heard someone kneel before her and felt a hand tilt her chin up. Gently but firmly. She let her eyes move upwards, allowing them to see without seeing anything for a moment.
‘Siray?’
She let the blurriness from her eyes clear with a blink or two and then focused on the face before her. ‘Roalger?’
Lieutenant Roalger.
He eyed her, and Siraay let his face swim in and out of focus, then breathed in as she allowed her gaze to sharpen again. She made feeble attempts to brush away the gentle grips of the soldiers supporting her.
‘Can’t stay. They’ll find me. Got to keep moving. Got to warn them …’
Roalger stretched out a hand to grip Siraay’s shoulder and direct her attention to him.
‘Siray,’ his tone was soft. ‘How did you escape?’
‘Got to warn them,’ she repeated, her voice nearly a mumble. ‘Got to warn the Resistance.’
Roalger’s grip grew more firm on her shoulder, and she saw him look up and away at someone else from the corner of her eye as she allowed her head to roll alarmingly. ‘Get the healer over here. Then bind the hands and arms of the prisoners and prepare to move.’
Roalger shifted to face her again. ‘It’s okay, Siray. We’ll get you out of here.’
‘Got to warn them,’ she mumbled again.
The kind lieutenant patted her shoulder. ‘I know. It’s okay. We’ve got you.’ He moved aside as a female came bustling up.
Then smooth, cool hands took hold of Siraay’s arm, and a new voice began speaking, identifying her injuries. ‘Tearing of the forearm tissue—animal bite. Shock, fatigue …’
Siraay ignored the female and, while pretending to stare dazedly over the healer’s shoulder, watched Roalger walk away to where a group of four soldiers were standing around a fifth figure, the lieutenant conveying instructions to his soldiers.
When Roalger moved off again, Siraay identified the prisoner in the middle as Pyron, his mask a silver shadow against his face as twilight covered the mountain slope.
The sergeant and the other soldier in Pyron’s unit were kneeling nearby with four more soldiers around them, their hands still raised.
Drosni was right. Pyron was known by his mask. The other two prisoners Siraay could leave behind. Necessary sacrifices, if it went that way. But Pyron … either she would manage to get him out of here, or the chief archon must die trying.
Or just die straight away.
Because that was the other option. She could just kill Pyron. Pretend to do it in a fit of rage. Then somehow break away from the Resistance once more …
Siraay was running options through her head when another figure moved into the small clearing, coming out of the trees from off to Siraay’s left and moving quickly towards Roalger.
Still playing the part of an injured escapee, Siraay couldn’t turn her head to get a better look and had to wait until the figure moved into her line of sight.
When he did, she couldn’t avoid sucking in a sharp breath, causing the healer tending her to ask if she was okay. She mumbled something about her arm, and the healer bent over it once more, allowing Siraay to peer over the female’s head and across the clearing.
A male was walking across the space, heading towards Roalger. His pace was brisk, determined, but not rushed.
It was the walk of a male who knew where all the pieces were on the board.
The walk of a leader. An experienced fighter.
It was Falir.
Old memories, hers but not hers, were scrolling through Siraay’s head, days of images passing through her mind in an instant.
But whereas the old Siray had only known Falir as a cook, new Siraay was re-examining those memories.
Falir, comfortably ordering everyone about in the meal tent, no matter their rank.
Falir, a bastion of knowledge about the Xarconians and Changing.
Falir, who had secretly helped train her former self with Honvil, the Resistance change master.
Falir, whose relaxed banter and manner had always been at odds with eyes that seemed to see everything.
Falir, whose hands had continuously been at the ready position, and which had always had something in them—ladle, jug, mug, plate.
Siraay watched the cook exchange a few brief words with Roalger, who then turned and gestured towards her.
The cook’s eyes met Siraay’s across the space between them, his gaze assessing every inch of her. The dirty gear. The rips in her clothing. Her injury.
He seemed to take her in from head to toe, measuring, evaluating. As if he was comparing two versions of her in his mind and analysing all the little differences he could identify …
Siraay glanced down for a moment, still playing the part of dazed and weary escapee.
That was when she saw a small, crumpled feathery form off to her right.
Feathers mussed, the lifeless kitespray lay in a funny position, an arrow shaft visibly sticking up from its chest.
Marxi.
Hate surged through Siraay as she stared at the blood-flecked carcass of the dead scout, and she shifted her eyes away from the carcass, glancing back up at Falir, who was still watching her.
Then she saw his eyes zero in—on her throat.
And she realised that he was staring at her necklace, now visible with her shirt slightly askew.
The problem, of course, was that he was too good. A specialist, probably in intelligence, he had known the former Siray too well. From the moment his eyes met hers again, Siraay could see his mind working.
And in the space of a couple of heartbeats, she saw him work it out.
They locked stares, Falir’s eyes widening slightly.
Hers were cold and amused, and she let the hate she felt for these weaklings bleed into her gaze so he could see just what she thought of them.
Falir opened his mouth.
She moved.
In a blur of motion, Siraay stood and twisted quickly, Changing as she moved, letting her arms swing out from her body. As her hands arced wide, she gauged out the healer’s eyes just as her claws materialised.
As she continued to swing around, she also used her claws tear through the soft and unprotected throats of the two Resistance males on either side of her before landing on all fours.
Blood sprayed and screams of pain rent the air, and Siraay’s body sank lower, it’s altered muscular structure no longer supportive of the position she had been in.
Then the shouting began.
Siraay leapt for the next closest group of soldiers, opening one up from shoulder to hip as she swiped a taloned claw lazily at him, then she leapt on another, her teeth aiming true for the female’s throat.
Five down—in less time than it took to take three breaths.
As new screams ripped through the air, drowning out the orders that were being shouted out by Resistance sergeants, Siraay realised that Drosni and Lifron had left their cover and were working as a team to bring down their enemies swiftly and viciously, the blirrus going low while the cripwof leapt high.
Finished with the female, Siraay spun towards the prisoners and began sprinting towards their guards.
Yet, despite her swiftness, the guards were ready for her, Falir shouting orders for them to hold their position as they drew their bows and their eyes locked on to Siraay’s attacking form.
She didn’t flinch from her path but snarled as she kept on towards them, gathering her body to spring, only hoping she could get close enough before they could fire. Yet even as she leapt, she saw something they couldn’t possibly see—not with their gazes firmly locked on her.
An instant later, those faces were expressing pain and shock as the prisoners set upon the Resistance soldiers from behind. Pyron, the sergeant, and the other member of their unit leapt to reclaim their knives from the soldiers, and then they used the weapons to devastating effect, the sharp blades rising and falling numerous times.
Siraay felt her eyes widen slightly as she saw Pyron Change into a vicousery—a fierce and intelligent two-legged, birdlike creature, which had a long, cruel claw on each foot, and which could slice through an enemy’s hide with one kick to the body.
And the creatures were fast. Lean, with pebbled skin that allowed them to blend into both rough rocky terrain and forests, vicouserys had strong legs that added both speed and power to any attack they made.
And Pyron knew how to use every advantage of the form the Mother had given him.
Siraay actually had to force herself to turn away, to remember that there were still threats all around her, so awed was she by Pyron’s lethal efficiency.
With several Resistance soldiers already down, the odds were beginning to look more even, and Siraay happily applied herself to the task of balancing it still further.
Until a shout that was part glee, part command, reached her ears.
Everyone in the immediate area, Xarcon and Resistance alike, seemed to freeze at the tone of that shout. It was triumphant and commanding, and could have come from anyone.
Unfortunately, it wasn’t Drosni or any of the others.
Siraay’s eyes once more found Falir, the voice behind the cry.
Armed with a drawn bow, he stood just a couple of body lengths away from her on what had become a killing field, with Pyron, who was also nearby, targeted. ‘Stop where you are and drop to the ground!’
She looked at him, frozen as she wondered what to do.
‘I mean it—I’ll kill him!’ Falir shouted, drawing back the arrow he had nocked, the tension in the bow lending credence to this threat to kill the vicousery.
Chezran would be unhappy, Siraay knew, if she let Pyron be killed.
But he would be even more unhappy if either she or Pyron were taken prisoner.
She Changed back into her normal form. ‘Okay,’ she said, raising her hands slightly in an attempt to placate Falir. ‘We’ll cooperate.’ She bent her knees, moving slowly, leaning forwards until her hands grazed the ground …
Where she slipped two long knives from the scabbards of a Resistance corpse.
Swinging her upper body back up, Siraay locked eyes with Falir as she launched herself towards him, and the former cook’s lips thinned as he prepared to loose his arrow, the moment seeming to stretch out impossibly long.
Siraay’s feet left the ground, one after the other, her arms holding the knives out before her, the blades pointed down as her body sailed through the air.
Then a great crashing sound came from behind her …
And time started up again.
The crashing noise made Falir hesitate just long enough for Siraay to reach out with one of the knives and slash the blade towards him, its sharp tip separating the flesh of his muscled arm along the length of his bicep just as he released the arrow.
She would have preferred to be slightly closer to him when she commenced her attack, so that she could have driven a blade through the vulnerable skin of his neck or into the space just below his ribs, killing him outright and stopping him from firing the arrow, but while time had slowed before, it seemed to be getting away from her now.
So she’d settled for the quick slash and was rewarded with a grunt of pain.
But Falir had still loosed that arrow.
Another cry of pain from behind her told her it had hit its mark—Pyron was down.
And while some obscene part of her was glad, another, deeper, part of her seemed to burn in anger.
Both feet back on the ground, Siraay lifted her blades, meaning to sink them into Falir’s body and rid Xarcon of a lethal enemy.
But the cook was far more experienced than she, and a quick backwards roll of his body, which made the swiftest of her moves seem slow in comparison, had him up and facing her once more, a solid-looking staff in his hands.
Siraay advanced on the cook, not wanting to give him a breath to recover, but she had to stop suddenly when pain seared through her neck. She gasped and actually dropped one of her knives, the free hand then going to her neck in alarm. Had she been hit?
She could feel nothing, and her hand came away clean, but the pain still echoed there, stealing her breath as it came on in waves.
And now the situation had turned, with Falir stalking quickly towards her with long, smooth strides, spinning the staff as he came, raising it …
Then the ground was shaking beneath Siraay’s feet, and she twisted her head in alarm.
An enormous beast was racing towards them, its lumbering mass a lethal object as it ran down and batted Resistance soldiers out of its path, their bodies flying through the air.
That’s when Siraay realised.
Torina had finally arrived.
Siraay threw herself out of the way as the segmented armoured body of an infuriated wynceen stampe
ded past, its four legs beating out a thunderous rhythm, and Siraay rolled several times to be sure she was safe from the creature’s weighty feet.
As she stopped rolling, Siraay moved swiftly to a standing position, checking behind her as she rose to be sure she was clear.
Although there were still some Resistance soldiers fighting Drosni, Lifron, and the sergeant, most had been cut down or lay in the wake of Torina’s devastating rampage, some screaming, some unconscious, and some …
Siraay looked away, swallowing hard against her rising stomach. Pulverised skull and bloody tissue weren’t a sight that she wanted to see, even battle hungry as she was. So that’s why wynceens are considered so dangerous. Apart from being the largest predator on Kaslon, the beasts’ rages apparently made the risk of shortening your lifespan quite high. Luckily, there weren’t many of them anymore.
Turning back, she expected to see Falir also picking himself up from the ground. Or not.
But she was surprised and immediately concerned when she couldn’t spot him at all.
He was gone.
Frowning, Siraay wheeled around, wondering if he might pop out from behind her.
Instead, her eyes widened briefly as she saw that the remaining Resistance soldiers were now running. Her eyes narrowed. ‘Hunt them down!’ she yelled towards a growling cripwof and blirrus that had just brought down another Resistance soldier.
She began to run towards Drosni and Lifron, meaning to Change and join the pursuit, when a voice called out to her.
‘Lady! The chief archon …’
Siraay slowed but didn’t stop as she called back over her shoulder to the sergeant, ‘I know—we’ll avenge him with their deaths.’ She kept running towards Drosni and Lifron.
‘No, lady—he’s not dead!’
Siraay skidded to a halt, glancing back in disbelief. Pyron was alive? She whirled, unsure how she felt about that.
Several body lengths away, the sergeant was bent over Pyron, his hands busy at the chief archon’s neck.
Siraay glanced back towards Drosni. If Pyron was alive, then she needed to re-prioritise. It would take at least two of them to carry Chezran’s favoured archon back if he was too injured to walk, and then two more would need to run ahead and clear the way of any lingering enemies.