Sverr stopped. Awake to the rhythms of their travel, Corrie slipped off Fat Goose and clung to the saddle until her legs steadied. Each time her recovery from cramped muscles came faster. In a day or two, she should dismount with Sverr’s ease and immediately start walking.
Fat Goose started up when Smoke did. With a hand on the stirrup, Corrie went as well, casting her gaze around them.
As the day had progressed, the steppe they crossed gradually changed. Immured in her thoughts, she had scarcely noticed. The land looked once more like a flat plateau with deeper hollows where brooks meandered, marked by wandering tree lines. Sverr tracked the verge of the steppe. He was answering her request for shelter tonight, and her heart warmed to him.
The steppe offered no shelter. Wandering nomads would have their hide tents and rope corrals, but they would be deeper on the arid plain. He had to be seeking one of the farmsteads bordering the plateau. A trickle of smoke over a rolling hill marked a farm only a few miles distant. The house would be sod, better than having no shelter. Sverr hadn’t shared his change of direction; she didn’t thank him for it. Corrie stared at the back of his head and knew her voice would be rusty with disuse when finally they did speak.
A flock rose from the dried grasses. It lifted quickly and swirled before arrowing straight off the steppe, toward distant trees. Corrie idly scratched her arm as she watched the birds dart into the trees. Smaller birds: finches and swallows, seeking the last grass seeds.
Another flock came into view, flying silently. She loosed her hold on the stirrup and stopped to watch them. Un-ease crawled up her nape. She looked back at the land they’d crossed then ahead of them—then off to the deeps of the steppe.
“Sverr.”
His scowl was fierce, fiercer still when he strode toward her. Corrie fell back a step then another and another, then he reached her. He grabbed her hand and arm—and only then did she realize she’d clawed at her arm again.
He shoved up her sleeve. Red streaks flamed on her forearm—but she still saw no sorcerer’s mark.
“Did you realize?”
“No. Something’s up with the birds.” She pointed at the flock above them, heading for tree-cover. “It’s small birds. They usually call out as they fly.” She dragged her sleeve down.
“What?”
Before she could answer, the birds in the trees took off again, darting into the blue sky then arrowing away from them.
“Effing shite,” he cursed and released her. Corrie slewed around.
A blackness undulated over the land, like a blanket in the wind. It skimmed the dried tops of the grasses. And it came fast.
Metal hissed as Sverr drew his sword and long knife.
“There’s too many.” Horror deepened her voice. “Scores upon scores. Gods, Sverr, what can we do?”
“There’s not time to run. They’ll outfly the horses. Get down. Get under the cloak, Corrie.”
“What are they?” But she knew. She could hear them, the deep caws, raucous, coarse. Rooks. She thought of the pointed black beaks, the long talons, and shuddered. “Sverr, there’s too many. Take the cords off.”
He turned to her, but it was already too late. The advance few darted over then dove in. He shoved her down and dragged the cloak over her.
She heard metal cut through air, heard it thud as it struck the rooks. Fat Goose neighed his fear. Hoofbeats drummed away. Smoke fought—she could hear the stallion’s squealed anger before he followed the gelding.
Then the mass flock was on them. The rooks’ hoarse cries filled the air. The beating wings drowned the sword’s hiss—but not Sverr’s grunts and curses as he took their attack.
Something landed on her back. She cried out as a beak pecked, pecked into her flesh. Another landed. Another. The cloak was no protection. Corrie flung it back. Three rooks dove at her. A fourth grabbed her shoulder. Its claws ripped into her flesh. She couldn’t see Sverr for the black wings in her face, but she could hear him. Losing. Because there were too many birds.
She swung the cloak around her once and again. It drove the rooks back, long enough to let her jump up. She swung the cloak again. Black wings dove in. Eldritch green eyes stared into hers. She batted at the rook then shoved the cloak up even as it pecked at her. Another rook darted in. She stumbled back, took a half-hearted swing about with the cloak then another and another and another, knocking birds from the air. They landed with thuds, some dazed, some up and hopping to her, to peck and claw at her skirts, at her boots.
Anger boiled up. The wolf was one thing, but a flock—. And these birds would die, as the wolf had died. They would burn to ash when they’d served their purpose. Innocent birds, twisted by sorcery. Only to die, like that lone wolf. Corrie no longer doubted Enstigorr’s hand. She could almost smell his heavy sandalwood on the rooks, smell his reeking power, smell the cloying incense he had burned to mask the decay of his flesh.
Power surged. The spell-cords dammed it. Then power lanced up her arms. A beak plunged into her back. She swung the cloak. Claws ripped at it, at her arm. The beak plunged into her again. Fire scorched her corded wrists. Her nerveless fingers lost the cloak. She brought her arms up to protect her face from the beating wings, the sharp beaks, the scything claws. The rook clinging to her back attacked again.
She screamed as the power exploded out of her, white-hot and blinding. The rooks shrieked as the magick rolled over them. Corrie smelt smoke, smelt cooked meat, and felt the weight of the rooks vanish from her body. The deep caws ceased. The beating wings stilled.
Cautiously, she lowered her arms.
Sooty little bodies surrounded her. They surrounded Sverr, several feet away. As she blinked away the shadows filling her vision, she saw him lower his weapons. He was bloodied, drained. Black feathers floated down.
He looked to her. A gash trickled blood onto his forehead. “What the—?” Then he dropped his blades. In one blink of her eyes he was before her. His hands gripped her upper arms, snatching her close. “Are you hurt?”
“No. Not much.” She touched the wound on his shoulder. She lifted both hands to touch his bleeding brow. “What happened to them?”
“You incinerated them, Lyse Oyne.”
She shook her head. The flash of power had blinded her. “No.”
“Aye.” He plucked a black feather from her hair. “You did it. That flash of power came from you.”
“I couldn’t have. The cords—.” She remembered the pain when her power had surged up to defend her. She remembered her anger and the lancing fire of the cords. And she remembered the power gushing from her like an inundating flood of flame.
“You did it. You broke the binding spell in the cords.”
She stared at her wrists, expecting burns. The skin was reddened but unhurt. She stared at the smoking evidence around her. All those birds—. Her knees went. Sverr caught her even as blackness washed over her.
. ~ . ~ . ~ .
Coolness trickled on her neck, dissipating the blackness.
“Good, you’re back.”
Someone slipped an arm behind her upper body and lifted her. Something cold pressed against her lips. She opened her mouth. Water. She swallowed. The tin cup was removed.
“Wake up now, Corrie. Wake up.”
She blinked. Sverr looked down at her. He had her tucked against him. His arm supported her back. She shut her eyes, and he jiggled her. She blinked again. He frowned, but the stern look faded as her eyes stayed open.
“You snuffed your candle for a bit, Lyse Oyne. Better now?”
She didn’t feel better. She felt woozy and empty and—. The cords were gone.
Corrie pushed herself up. “You took the cords off.” Her voice sounded thin and thready.
“No need for them since you can break through them.”
She gaped at him. She couldn’t dispute the claim. She’d felt that explosion of power. She’d seen the rooks’ incinerated bodies.
No matter what Enstigorr had done with the magick an
d the puissant blood he drew from her, she had never consciously willed a death, not with her power. She did not doubt that—should she continue with Sverr to free his brother—more would die, whether Hardraste’s guards who reveled in evil or innocent animals twisted to Enstigorr’s purpose.
She wanted to throw up.
A cautious look around revealed no blackened evidence. The treeline was no more than a stone’s throw away, winding with a brook through the hollowed bowl of land. The sky was as blue as before. Small birds flitted from sky to tree to ground, hunting seeds blown in by the steppe winds.
The horses grazed nearby, as if they did not feel the bloody gashes on their shoulders and haunches. Smoke raised his head, lifting his muzzle as if he stared and scented across the plain. Then he flicked his tail and returned to seeking out the tenderest of the dried grasses.
Corrie’s gaze slewed back to Sverr, kneeling at her shoulder. He returned her wide-eyed look with a steady one. He was still bloody, still weary. The attack had happened. The cords were still gone. Her own wounds insisted she tend them. It hadn’t been a nightmare.
She touched a cut on his arm. “You’re still bleeding.”
“I thought I’d take care of your wounds while you were out. I was just starting when you roused up. You’ve got nothing too bad except your shoulder and some gouges on your back. The ones on your arms and belly weren’t beyond me.”
Only then did she see that he’d removed her shirt. “Sverr!” Remembering the state of her ancient chemise, Corrie crossed her arms and blushed.
“Be still. We don’t want anything opening back up. I meant to check if the rooks got under your skirts—.”
“They didn’t.”
“We don’t want to risk anything.”
“I’ll look,” she said firmly, “when your eyes are elsewhere. You shouldn’t have taken my shirt off.”
“Happy to do so. Happy to take care of you, I mean,” he corrected when she seared him with her gaze. “You know, you’re a lot more curvy than I was expecting. You should wear clothes that fit.”
“My shirt?” she asked stonily.
He jerked a thumb over his shoulder where bushes streamed out from the trees, feeding off a tiny rivulet with a hidden source. The dingy shirt flapped from the arms of a tall bush. “I washed it. You’ll have to stitch it up before you can wear it.”
Staring at her shirt, Corrie finally realized that Sverr had moved them while she’d been in her foolish swoon. And managed a fire. And brewed coffee.
“Besides,” he added, “you cover up, you’ll ruin my view.” His gaze was definitely fixed below her chin.
“How can you think of that when we’ve just been attacked?”
“Never stop thinking of it. Probably be dead if I ever do.”
“I thought you were a legs man.”
His gaze lifted. He grinned. “I like it all. Particularly on you, Lyse Oyne.”
“I can’t go around like this. Do you have a shirt I can have?”
“You covering up would be a shame.”
“Sverr,” Corrie tried sternness and practicality since outrage wasn’t working. “I cannot go around without a shirt. Your wounds have to be tended. The horses’ wounds have to be tended. I am freezing like this.”
His gaze lifted again. “You would have to be sensible.” He stood up with his lithe ease and walked to the horses, speaking softly, moving slowly.
The gelding flung up its head and trotted away. The stallion shied a couple of times. Hand outstretched, Sverr coaxed the horse to him. Smoke took a few cautious steps. His eyes flicked forward. He blew twice then came in easily and snuffled Sverr’s hand. The charger quivered as Sverr ran his hand along his neck then over his withers, careful of the bloody gashes. The Norther talked softly as he dug into the packs.
When he came to her with a shirt the same pale blue as the one he wore, Corrie pretended that she hadn’t watched him calm the horse with the same technique he used with her. She clambered up as he reached her and staggered.
He caught her elbow. “Careful there, Lyse Oyne. You were out to it not that long ago.”
“I promise never to swoon at your feet again.”
“You’re dashing my hopes, Lyse Oyne. Lift your arms.”
“I can put my own shirt on.”
“Humor me. We don’t want those gashes on your shoulder opening up again.”
Modesty flamed her face, but he waited, as patient with her as with Smoke. And that’s something to compare myself to, she reckoned, a horse. With a grimace more for her predicament than for pain, Corrie lifted her arms.
He quickly guided her hands into the sleeves and pulled the shirt over her head. Tugging the cloth into place, though, seemed to take him forever. His hands kept brushing close to her breasts.
Corrie rolled her eyes and pushed his hands aside. Her shoulder complained as did her belly. Startled by the pain, she lifted the cloth to peek at her belly. When had a rook managed to rake its claws across her tender stomach? She remembered the rook at her shoulder and the one stabbing into her back and all the ones flying around her head and uplifted arms.
Sverr took the cloth from her hands and dropped it into place. And Corrie pulled her mind from the vortex of the attack.
The shirt enveloped her. Too long in the sleeves and length, too big all around. She didn’t bother tucking it into her skirt. She hoped her shirt would soon dry in the incessant steppe wind.
She glanced up. Her mouth twitched at Sverr’s expression. Even with his stubbled face, he reminded her of a tot who had broken his favorite toy. Briskly she rolled up the dangling sleeves. “Now, off with your shirt so I can look at your wounds.”
“Turn-about’s fair.” He grabbed the back collar of the faded blue linen. “Don’t swoon.”
“As if I would,” she scoffed. Revealed, Sverr gave good reason to swoon. He was lean muscle, honed as sharply as a blade. His tanned skin bespoke years in the sun; he was no castle-bound lordling. Corrie was more in danger of drooling than swooning. “Sit,” she ordered, “so I can reach.” And she vowed silently that she would not be distracted by flesh.
Sverr alternated hissing with sighing as she seared then healed his wounds with a cool glow of magick: the gashes on his head, the deep one on his brow, rips on his shoulder, claw marks on his arms. She kept flashing to the rooks’ beaks, plunging into flesh.
The turf fire had died to a smolder as she finished with the punctures on his back, so deep that Corrie was glad she had magicks to burn out any infection. The stabbing wounds on her own back worried her. She couldn’t reach them. How could she heal them?
She sealed the last wound. Before she gave into the temptation to track his honed muscles, she stepped back. “That’s done.”
He stood and towered over her. “No.”
“No?”
He tugged at the laces of his breeches. Her mouth dropped—then she saw the bloody tears in the deerskin.
Her face burned crimson. I can do this. “I can work through the rips, Sverr. You don’t have to—.” Embarrassment closed up her throat on the rest of the words.
He sat down for her to work. I can do this, she repeated silently as she crawled between his legs to work. I’ve seen babies born and old men dead and the farmer with the putrid scrotum and the cooper with the leaky—. No, she admitted as she touched his muscled thighs, not one of them was at all like Sverr.
She firmed her mouth, steadied her hands, and concentrated on the first wound, a stabbing puncture riding the top of his thigh. “You could have stood.”
“I didn’t want you kneeling while I stood. Conjures all sort of thoughts to keep a man up at night.”
She flashed to a memory of Chael on her knees before a customer. Heat flamed in her cheeks at the thought of herself kneeling before Sverr. She dropped her head and let her hair veil her face. As she searched for the extent of the second wound, he asked, “Corrie, have you never walked out with a sweetling?”
She jerked. He hi
ssed. After shooting him a glare, she focused on his outer thigh. “Freithe wouldn’t allow it. She said I didn’t need that distraction. Besides, no one pushed to know me. Afraid of my eyes and my power. While I was running, I kept to myself. And the tavern whores didn’t want the rough-work skag to steal their business.”
“But in Hardraste’s dungeon, the guards would have—.”
“Enstigorr ordered them not to touch me.” Her voice hardened. “He didn’t want his prize interfered with. They feared him, especially after he punished Snossi.”
“Saving you for himself.”
She found a puncture and applied enough heat to make him jerk. “I doubt it. Enstigorr’s past that. He stinks of decay, and the incense he burns to hide it. I think he must be very old.”
“Kept alive by the magick he steals?”
She nodded and began the search of his left leg. She could have used more distracting comments or those horror-filled flashes of the rooks, anything to keep her gaze from straying to his loose laces and the bulge beneath the soft hide. But Sverr leaned on his arms and watched silently until she sat back on her heels.
“You should heal yourself, Corrie.”
“I will. After I take care of the horses. I’ll get my arms and shoulders done then.”
“You’ve got some bad gashes on your back. You need to take care of those as well.”
“I must touch to cleanse and heal. I can’t reach—.”
He leaned forward. “Could you work through me? Do you have to see the wound to cleanse and seal it? If you touch me and I touch the wound—?”
“I’ve never heard of that. More magick that you know and I do not,” she added bitterly.
“I’ve never heard of it myself. But we have a connection, Lyse Oyne, and Brom has used our connection a few times, especially when we were young and out hunting. I thought that—.” He shook his head and changed what he’d started to say. “You should use what you can. I can guide your hand. If you can’t pour your power through me, then the least I can do is guide your fingers to your own wounds. If you don’t have to see to heal.”
More than a Wizard Page 7