by K.M. Weiland
Chapter Forty
Outside the closed tent flap, Allara paced. “I knew it was a trap. I should never have told you about it. We should never have let you go!”
She remained outside, for the sake of decency, while the royal surgeon treated the flesh wound in Chris’s side. The wind rattled the tent canvas, and the glow of the globes deformed Chris’s and the surgeon’s shadows into monsters.
“I’m still in one piece.” He sounded like he was gritting his teeth.
“Barely!” In front of the flap, she forced herself to stop. Hands on her hips, she hung her head back and sucked in a breath of the cold night. If he had died out there, it would have been her fault. She was the one who was supposed to protect the Gifted. She was the one who was supposed to stay with him at all times.
He grunted in pain. “Yeah, well, all I promised was I’d come back. And I did that.”
“Hah.” She went back to pacing.
“Orias didn’t want to kill me. If he had, I’d be dead. I think Mactalde’s blackmailing him.”
“If word of this spreads, it could breed ill will against the Cherazii. Right now, you’re a hero to our men. They won’t take well to the thought of another Cherazii attack upon a Gifted.” If it were possible, they might even more ready to rip his throat out than she was right now.
“There’s only about half a dozen of us who know,” Chris said. “As long as everyone keeps their mouths shut, we’ll be fine.”
She scooped her windblown hair out of her face. “The men saw you come back wounded. And the rumor’s already gotten about that you’d gone to meet a Cherazim. It won’t go well for any Cherazii who show their faces after this.” She choked on a laugh. “They’re supposed to protect the Gifted. And now you’re the second they’ve tried to kill.”
“You’re looking at this through the wrong lens. Ah—” He grunted again. “Orias is acting under coercion. Mactalde’s holding his other Riever captive under penalty of death.”
“He’s a Tarn. If even the Tarns have deserted the traditions, what hope does Lael have?”
“What are we going to do about it?”
“We can’t afford to antagonize the Cherazii right now. We can’t trust them, but we can’t antagonize them. Besides I’m certain Father hasn’t the troops or the time to mount an offensive against them just to bring one of their number to justice. Chances are they’ll deal with him their own way, sooner or later.”
And their way wouldn’t be gentle.
“For now,” she continued, “it’s problem enough to figure out what Mactalde has in mind. Something’s not right. I can’t put my finger on it, but something’s amiss. Father says we’ve been seeing troop movements all through their rear lines, but none of our outposts have reported sightings of anything. I don’t like it.”
The surgeon’s shadow moved away from Chris’s. “There you are,” he said. “You’ll feel better after the oronborne’s burn has worn off. It’s not a bad laceration. More contusion than anything. Just keep it clean, and try to avoid any more spills from your horse.” A moment later, he emerged from the tent and saluted Allara.
She ducked inside and cast a glance over Chris. He finished tugging his blouse over the neat layers of muslin that swathed his ribs, then slid off the table where he had been sitting.
So close. He’d come so close to death this afternoon. What if he had died? What if she had lost him? Her heart turned over inside of her. She reached for a carafe of craniss.
She poured him a goblet. “Here. You need to get some rest.”
“Thanks.” He sank onto the edge of his cot and tossed back the craniss. His eyelids drooped, and he flopped back on the bed.
If only he could stay awake, they could talk for a few minutes. She hadn’t seen him in a week, not since the night they had spoken on Eroll’s balcony. There was so much she wanted to say, most of which she didn’t know how to put into words.
He folded his hands over his chest. “I’m glad you’re here. But I wish you weren’t.” His eyes drifted shut almost before he’d finished speaking.
“I know.”
For that matter, she wished he were anywhere other than here himself. But she could hardly send him away. He wouldn’t listen to her even she tried. Somewhere along the line, their relationship had shifted. Her time as his teacher and guide had ended. He was the leader now. She was the one who followed. She was the one who sheltered beneath his strength and resilience.
“Be strong,” she whispered. “Be resilient.”
The tent flap opened, and Worick Bowen entered. His gaze flicked from her, to Chris, and back. Fear twisted his thick features. “Is he—”
“No, he’s fine. Just exhausted.”
“Thank God.” He saluted her belatedly and came to stand beside her. “He’s a good lad.”
“Yes.”
“Do you think he can save us?” He spoke quietly, but his eyes searched her face.
“I don’t know.” She couldn’t look at him. “Perhaps. If that’s his gift.”
“And if it isn’t?”
She moved to drape a blanket over him. “I don’t know.”
_________
Like a well-trained dog, Orias had come seeking his master once again. But this time the dog would not be fawning at Mactalde’s feet.
He galloped through the foothills. Clouds pressed upon the earth and trapped him in darkness as deep as eternity. The winds lashed from every direction, and the rain strafed his hands and face. A glare of lightning backwashed the clouds, and the rock chimneys above Mactalde’s camp flashed overhead. He slowed his horse.
Pitch thumped his shoulder. “This is crazy, crazy, crazy! Why won’t you listen to me?”
“This has to be.”
“You said that about Chris, and that didn’t have to be!”
“It’s one or the other. Either Chris dies, or Mactalde does.”
“You’ll never get close enough.”
He was going to die one way or the other now. The best he could do for himself and his people was to take their enemies with him. His battle fire churned. “If I can’t get to Mactalde, then at least I can empty Rotoss’s veins.”
“They’ll kill you! And they’ll kill Raz, and they’ll kill me. And then they’ll go attack our people. What about them?”
“You wanted me to leave this business from the beginning. And now I am.”
At the outcropping that had marked Mactalde’s lines four nights ago, he stopped. No one challenged him. His ears couldn’t catch the sound of anyone so much as breathing.
“I wanted you to leave,” Pitch said. “But not like this. This is suicide.”
“Martyrdom.”
“Well, martyrs aren’t always heroic.” Pitch’s hand clasped and unclasped the baldric. “What’s going to happen to Raz and me?”
“They’ll never find you in the dark, and you’ll be able to make it far into the hills by morning.” The God of all willing. He had to end this, but he would not endanger the Rievers again. He stifled a groan.
“But—” Pitch’s voice turned uncertain. “But we’ve always lived with you.”
“My family will house you.”
“But . . . I don’t want to live with anyone but you.”
Loyal Pitch. He could have no idea how much better things would have been had he and Raz adopted a different Cherazim.
Orias eased his horse forward. “Mactalde must have moved the lines back.”
“That’s dumb. The Laelers’ artillery couldn’t hit him here.”
They trotted to the crest of the hill. Lightning tangled through the storm, and the ground beneath flashed into view. Just last night, the strength of Mactalde’s army had camped here. Now, only two or three rows of white tents and a line of artillery crowded the riverbank. Beyond that, all that remained was trampled mud and the detritus of a departed army.
Pitch squeaked. “They’ve gone! Why would they go?”
Had Mactalde decided to try another attack upon t
he Aiden River? Orias’s heart pounded.
“Maybe they’re retreating?” Pitch said. “They’re going back to Koraud, think?”
Orias spurred the horse into a gallop. Someone, far to his right, shouted a challenge, but he didn’t slow.
He rode straight in the saddle, aware of nothing more than the shift of the horse beneath him. Lightning sheeted the sky almost continuously now. Rocks and trees scattered past the edges of his vision, and the ground began to slant downwards.
When the rocks gave way to the dark soil of the foothills, glimpses of a marching army’s trail flickered through his consciousness. The wind shifted and scraped the scent of wet earth through his nostrils.
Where would Mactalde move his troops? And how could the Laelers have missed their presence anywhere else in the country?
At last, the lightning glared against a soldier’s unslung rifle, and Orias reined to a walk. He was already deep into the foothills. Within the flicker of the storm, a company of Koraudians marched. This was but a tiny fraction of the troops Mactalde had moved out of Ballion. Where had the rest gone?
Without being told, Pitch clambered down the off side of the horse and stood on Orias’s foot. He squirmed about until he was bent over with his head hanging beneath the horse’s belly and one hand clinging to the stirrup leathers.
Orias reined to the outside of the troop column and trotted past. The clank of the troops marching double time punctured the wind. Up ahead, a guidon flickered.
He would break the lead chain of his mistakes. If Mactalde accompanied these troops, then tonight would be his moment. If not, it would have to wait. But it would come. If he succeeded, perhaps his people would forgive his sin and hail him as a hero. If he failed, then he could fall no lower. He eased a hand to the dirk at his side and caressed the worn etching on the hilt.
Pitch clawed his way up Orias’s boot to stand straight. “Raz—it’s Raz. I can see Raz!” His blade flashed out of its sheath.
The tunnel of Orias’s focus collapsed.
The unmistakable grumble of a Riever’s voice reached his ears only seconds before he saw the leashed figure loping along behind a soldier. If he freed Raz now, word of his presence would fly down the line, and he would miss his only chance at surprise.
His hand wavered on the reins. “Get down. See if you can sneak into the column and cut him free.”
Pitch dropped to the ground and ran to the troop. The lightning stopped, and Orias counted his heartbeats.
After nearly twenty seconds, a long blue tendril lit the sky. Within the column, Pitch sawed furiously at Raz’s tether.
Darkness, he prayed. But the lightning had taken respite enough; it filled the sky.
Raz’s tether split just beneath his wrists, and the two Rievers ran. A soldier pointed, his mouth a round hole as the thunder swallowed his words.
Time was up. Orias threw himself into their midst. With dirk and axe, he scythed through their ranks, and they fell without even drawing their weapons. Their cries pierced above the thunder, and all around, soldiers turned to react.
The first blow was struck. He had nothing left but to kill Mactalde and his faithless sycophant. Let this ground drink from a warm red flood of Koraudian blood. By the time they cut him down, the land would be too sated to drink of his own.
He whirled the horse away and broke free of the ranks.
“Orias!”
Before the horse could gather itself into a gallop, Pitch threw one arm over Orias’s foot and clung to his spur with the other. “Orias, wait!”
Battle furor hammered inside his body. He couldn’t wait, couldn’t stop.
“Raz knows where they’re going!”
Raz stabbed a finger into the darkness ahead. “Mactalde’s moved the whole rotting army up the Wall! He’s been moving troops out for days, and I heard them say the regiments they left at Aiden River have already gone up. They could be in Glen Arden by morning!”
Had Mactalde gone completely mad? Orias looked to the guidon under which he would find the army’s leaders. Maybe Mactalde would be with them, maybe not. Either way—no matter what was happening up the Wall—he wanted blood on his sword tonight.
“Get down.”
Pitch clambered up his leg. “No!”
The Koraudian ranks were closing up around the men Orias had killed. The roar of a sergeant’s order reached his ears.
Raz ran past a panting Dougal and scrambled up Orias’s other leg to stand behind his saddle. “If we don’t warn the Laelers, the Koraudians will take their capital by morning!”
Orias spurred the horse. “If I kill Mactalde, this will all be over!”
Raz almost lost his balance. “What?”
“You can’t!” Pitch shouted. “Mactalde’s already up the Wall! You’ll get killed for nothing, and Chris and the king will never know what he’s planning!”
Raz smacked Orias’s shoulder. “Why didn’t you tell me you were going to try to kill Mactalde before I got on the horse!”
“Please go back,” Pitch said. “Go back and tell them before it’s too late!”
If he rode into the Laeler camp, they’d shoot him on sight. Orias’s heart pounded so hard he could barely breathe. He cast a glance at the troop column to his right.
Rifles rose to point in his direction, their hydraulics a blue glimmer. Ahead, the officers beneath the guidon turned and pointed and shouted.
Frustration and rage—at himself as much as anyone—boiled in his chest and surged from his mouth in a roar. He choked his horse back and spun around. With Pitch and Raz clutching on behind, he charged across the meadow. The staccato of rifle shots punctured the thunder’s rumble, but they never came close.
What he wanted more than anything was Mactalde’s and Rotoss’s blood on his sword. But what he needed was to do the right thing. Even if only this once.