In the Company of the Dead (The Sundered Oath Book 1)

by Ballintyne, Ciara

  Her eyes focussed for a moment. “Can’t. Made a vow.”

  His fingers tightened on the flask. “We need you to be still. If we hold you down, we might hurt you more. I need you to drink.”

  “Ahura is not kind to oathbreakers.”

  “Really? She would punish you for this, in this place and time? Really?” Frustration filled his voice, and he shoved the flask at her again.

  Eyelids sagging, she pushed the liquor away.

  “Unless you propose to pour the whisky down her throat with a funnel, leave off, my lord.” Leinahre stood over him, clutching a short length of soft wire in her hands she’d scrounged from who knew where.

  Lyram slammed the flask to the floor. Stubborn bloody woman. “We’ll need to enlarge the wound. Your hands are smaller than mine, so you’ll have to be the one to go in after the arrowhead. No sense making the wound any bigger than we need to.”

  “Me, my lord?” Her eyes widened in the dim candlelight.

  He took the wire from her and worked it into a loop. A susurration swept the room as the soldiers whispered among themselves. They knew—oh yes, they knew the odds.

  Doubt knotted his insides. Maybe she couldn’t do this. Maybe he was better off just trying it himself. He looked at the arrow protruding from Ellaeva’s flesh, and again at his big fingers, then sighed. “You follow the shaft down to the arrowhead, then try to get the wire hooked around it.”

  The blood drained from Leinahre’s face, leaving her ghostly. “Is that all? A thing like that might kill her.”

  “It might. The head is lodged in the bone and won’t pull free easily.” He took his knife from his belt and poured liquor on the blade. “Put this in the fire.”

  While she took the knife across to the nearest of the three blazing fireplaces, he lifted the mail again and cut Ellaeva’s gambeson and shirt away from the arrow with his spare dagger. She drowsed again, likely weakened by blood loss, and her eyelids barely fluttered at the rough treatment. Grimacing, he braced himself, and poured some whisky on the wound.

  Ellaeva screamed, the sound shocking in its suddenness, and almost surged bolt upright—whisky on an open wound burned all right. Lyram caught her and held her before she did more damage thrashing about. He whispered meaningless soothing sounds into her ear, the way he might a horse. She mumbled something back, though he didn’t catch the words beyond the name of her goddess, and sagged in his arms. Gently, he lowered her back to the pallet. Her eyes were closed, though her lips still moved in a steady stream of inaudible words.

  Leinahre pressed the knife back into his hand then crouched beside him. The waiting soldiers grimaced and averted their eyes.

  With great care, he sliced open the wound around the arrow. Fresh blood welled up. Though still awake and muttering to herself, Ellaeva did not twitch.

  He took Leinahre’s hand and poured whisky over her skin. “Scrub your hands together. If the shock doesn’t kill her, infection might.” He tried to close his heart to his own words, but the tension in his shoulders grew into a steady ache. He worked his jaw, trying to loosen it. If Ahura granted her chosen one surcease from the pain, shock might not be an issue, but infection could still kill her. “Now follow my instructions carefully.”

  Leinahre nodded. Her jaw was set.

  “Use one finger to follow the shaft. When you locate the arrowhead, twist the wire tight. We’ll use it to pull the arrow free. “ He passed the wire over and drew the mail up and as far away from Ellaeva’s back as the arrow would allow.

  Leinahre slipped the loop of wire over the feathered end of the shaft then pushed it down through the burst hauberk. With her arm flat against Ellaeva’s back beneath the mail, she wormed one finger deep into the wound, more blood spilling across Ellaeva’s back. A grimace spread across Leinahre’s face. “I’ve found the head.”

  With her free hand, she pushed the wire down into the wound. Veins protruded from the back of her hand as her fingers continued their work somewhere inside Ellaeva’s body. Blood slicked her arm past the wrist, and more welled up around the arrow shaft, so deep a red as to be almost black. It slid down the pale curve of Ellaeva’s back to soak her ruined gambeson and the pallet beneath.

  Tightness grew in Lyram’s back and shoulders, almost to the point of pain, and he knotted his hands hard in the riveted rings of the mail. With conscious effort, he forced them to relax. He would need them shortly.

  “I think I have it.” Leinahre withdrew her hand. “Now I pull on the wire?”

  “No, I do. A lot of force will be needed to pull the arrowhead free.” He bent over and gripped the length of wire, tugging on it gently. No give. Setting his teeth, he pulled harder and put his back into it. The wire pressed into the flesh of his hand, raising ridges cut by white lines of fire searing into him. He grunted and pulled harder again, ignoring the pain. Ellaeva gasped, the words of her mumbled prayer faltering, then screamed. The piercing sound lasted only a moment before she lapsed into unconsciousness.

  Probably better that way. Bracing himself, Lyram leaned back against the wire and put all his weight into it.

  The arrowhead came free with a jolt that sent him sprawling backwards. More ruby-red blood gushed from the wound. Leinahre splashed the last of the whisky over it. Thank Chalon Ellaeva had already passed out.

  Lyram tossed the arrowhead onto Leinahre’s workbench, and sat next to Ellaeva, taking her hand in his. The wire had gouged his hand in places and blood oozed from his skin.

  Leinahre glanced over as she cleaned the wound and began bandaging. “You look done in.”

  “I just need sleep.” He scrubbed his free hand against his eyes. “And to know she’ll be all right.”

  Leinahre glanced up, smiling, but her expression seemed a touch frozen. “Sleep I can help with. Roll her to her side, will you?”

  He did, and she began pushing Ellaeva’s mail up. Seeing her intent, he grabbed the armoured shirt at the shoulders and pulled it off over the priestess’s head in a slither and rattle of iron rings. The gambeson peeled off with it, and Leinahre shoved Ellaeva’s shirt up to just below her breasts, exposing an expanse of flat belly marred by a long thin scar over the navel. She began winding the bandages, and Lyram lifted the priestess far enough to pass the bandages under her ribs each time.

  “When I’m done here, I’ll make you a brew to help you sleep. And one for her. You both need some rest.”

  He nodded dumbly as she knotted the last of the white bandages. Deep exhaustion threatened to overtake him, though the fear remained in the back of his head, and he regretted the empty whisky flask. Not that he begrudged Ellaeva the need for it. She wasn’t past the worst, but now the waiting began.

  With his gaze locked on Ellaeva’s face, he barely even noticed when Leinahre stepped away. The rest of the room receded into darkness, though he heard the distant murmur of the soldiers talking. When Leinahre returned, the touch of her hand startled him.

  She carried two cups in one hand and a funnel in the other. One she handed to him, and the other she set down nearby. She placed the funnel between Ellaeva’s lips and tried to prise her teeth apart. Even though the priestess was unconscious, it presented a challenge, but Leinahre eventually managed and poured in the concoction.

  Would it keep her under? The last sleeping draught didn’t, but she wasn’t exactly hale now.

  Leinahre lifted his cup to his mouth when she saw him still sitting there. “Drink. It will help you sleep.”

  He took a sip, and grimaced.

  “Not for sipping,” she said. “One long draught.”

  He tilted his head back, drained the cup, and passed it back to Leinahre. She stroked the back of his neck before heading back to her worktable, leaving him to make himself comfortable.

  Dizziness made his head swim, and he lay down beside Ellaeva, pillowing his head on his arm, but it didn’t help. The dizziness deepened, and the last thing he saw before his eyes slid closed was Leinahre, watching him over a shoulder, with a mixed ex
pression of avarice and revulsion.

  Lyram woke to a twilight room—dusk, or maybe dawn. He squinted in the grey light filtering in through the large windows of the banquet hall.

  How long did I sleep?

  Nothing moved. The wounded made shadowed humps around him, lost in a deep slumber. The rattling snore of one man broke the peace. Dawn, then. Few would be asleep at dusk. It must only be a few hours since they returned to the castle.

  He sat up, trying to stretch his neck. On one side, his clan sword lay with the belt neatly coiled about it. On the other, Ellaeva lay on her pallet, dreadfully still. His breath caught, and he leaned over to check her pulse. Her heart still beat, slow and steady, but the sharp chill of her skin almost burned his fingers.

  Leinahre. Where is she? I need her—need her for...

  The thought died, and his hand fell away from the deathly pale woman on the pallet. Abandoning her, he climbed to his feet and went searching for Leinahre.

  She wasn’t in the banqueting hall, and a lump formed in his throat.

  Did she just abandon me?

  Heedless of the sleeping wounded, he stumbled out the tower door and into the spiral staircase leading down to the servants’ quarters, fighting the panic threatening to overwhelm him. Where did she go? His legs started to tremble and his breath came in quick, uncontrolled gasps. Why wasn’t she here?

  Wasn’t there something else he should be doing?

  The distant thought flickered through his mind with the sharp clarity of a keen knife edge before the clamouring for Leinahre drowned it out again and beat it into submissive silence. His feet carried him downwards, stumbling on the risers in his haste.

  Halfway down, he rounded a bend and collided with Leinahre, who carried no lantern to warn of her approach. For a moment, they teetered on the edge of a step. He put one hand against the wall to steady them, and she clung to him, surprised.

  “Lord Aharris!”

  “Leinahre.” He breathed her name. “I thought you left me.”

  He seized her shoulders in both his hands and kissed her, his mouth hard against hers.

  Wait... this is wrong.

  Wasn’t it? Blood... and snow. The flash of doubt became a cold wave swamping him... but then her arms went around him, and she kissed him back.

  “Lyram.”

  The sound of his name on her tongue made him giddy, turning the featureless grey of the stairwell into a waterfall of colour. She made the world come alive. He clung to her, his eyes squeezed shut. Tears streamed down his cheeks. The nagging sensation of something forgotten faded away into the recesses of distant memory.

  She kissed him again, and long-absent desire stirred in his body. Heat spread through him. Pulling away from her, he swept her up into his arms and carried her down the stairs. She nestled into him without asking where they were going. Something about that should bother him, but the thought faded before fully forming.

  He stepped out into the courtyard, and carried Leinahre towards his suite.

  Ellaeva struggled to open her eyes against too heavy lids. Sluggish lassitude wrapped her in soft cotton, drawing her back down into sleep, but the furtive sounds of someone moving penetrated her stupor.

  Fingers touched her throat. Fear rose up in her, and she fought to open her eyes, to fight back. Then the touch dropped away, leaving her wrapped in haze and cold, so cold.... Sleep fought to reclaim her, but the fear and doubt lingered.

  Why was she so cold? Someone had just checked her heart. Why? Was she dying?

  The thoughts came with the same stately slowness of Ahura brushing against her mind, but she did not sense the goddess within her. Sleep drew her back down.

  She didn’t feel exhausted. Why was she so sleepy? The fading fear resurged, its fingers sharp and prodding, worming their way into her mind, tightening into panic.

  I’m dying.

  With a gasp, she sat upright on the pallet. Her chest heaved and her heart hammered in the grey darkness as though she’d just outrun a hungry wyvern, and her back was aflame with pain. She moaned through gritted teeth. A lingering sense of Ahura’s presence faded from the air around her. The goddess was here. But why?

  She raised her hand to her throat, afraid it would come away wet with blood, but found nothing. She fought to slow her breathing.

  No, Ahura hadn’t been here, but something had triggered one of the protections conferred upon her by the goddess. Not resistance to pain—she needed to be awake and praying for that to operate. Something else then.

  The taste of mint lingered in her mouth, light and almost unnoticeable, but she noticed it now she looked for it. Wintergreen oil.

  Someone tried to poison me.

  Her jaw ached, as though someone had prised it open, but the agony radiating from her back drew most of her attention. Bandages wrapped her midsection, and she found the wound on her back easily. One touch sent fresh hot pain flashing through her.

  Someone poisoned me and put an arrow in my back?

  That didn’t make sense. A poisoned arrow, perhaps? But no, she still tasted mint on her tongue. The poison was administered orally.

  The thought of moving again so soon left her giddy, so she stayed still, breathing through the pain.

  Dark shapes, lit by the brightening glow of the windows, lay around the large room. The banqueting hall, yes, populated by the other wounded, and chill with morning now the fires were banked. A rasping snore cut through the otherwise peaceful silence.

  The pain eased enough for her to breathe through it, air whistling through her teeth with each ragged gasp. This place was Leinahre’s province.... Did Leinahre poison me? She certainly knew herbs. Ellaeva shuddered, thinking how close she’d come to dying. Her refusal to go back to sleep had saved her life.

  And something woke me? What?

  Someone had been moving... and touched her throat. Lyram? Where did he go?

  Her shirt was in tatters, the larger part of the back cut away, and her armour and sword-belt had been removed. On the other side of the empty pallet next to hers lay a long, thin shadow, bulky in the middle. Not daring to stand, she crawled over. Waves of pain stabbed her back. She grimaced and bore it, closing her hand over a leather sheath.

  Knotted tension went out of her shoulders as she lifted the sword into her lap, and she ran her hands up and down its length. Frowning, she held it up to the light, but the room was still too dim. She probed the hilt with her fingers, making out the shape of the dragon cut into the basket hilt—a sleeping dragon. This wasn’t her holy blade but the Aharris clan sword.

  She stiffened. Lyram rarely went anywhere without his sword, but if he did, he always left it under the watchful eye of Everard.

  Tucking the sword under her arm, she shuffled back around, wincing at each agonising tug on her wound. The snoring man stirred, then rolled and settled. The silence in the wake of his restlessness seemed even deeper.

  On the other side of her own pallet lay another long, thin shape. She crawled back across, hindered by the Aharris clan sword. A few brief touches with her fingers confirmed the second blade as her own.

  Bracing herself against the floor, she climbed to her feet, getting first one leg under her and then the other. She paused halfway up, breathing through her mouth until the pain backed off. The two swords tucked under her arm made the process impossible. Appealing to Ahura for relief from the pain was an option, but what if she needed that benefit more later? Like all her powers, there were limits. She put the Aharris clan sword back on her pallet. Everard could retrieve it later.

  Once on her feet, she buckled her baldric back on. The thick leather strap sat just shy of her wound. She really needed a fresh set of clothes, but...

  Why would he leave his sword?

  Was he badly hurt, and the blade overlooked when he was carted back to his suite?

  The room lightened further as she picked her way through the sleeping men to the stairs. A few stirred as she passed, near to waking. Others slumbered the deep sl
eep of the sedated.

  The inside of the windowless stairwell was black as pitch. She crept down, slow step by slow step, using one hand to steady herself against the wall. With each step down, her back pulled, and she paused from time to time to allow flashes of dizziness to pass.

  She emerged from the foyer into the courtyard. The sun cast a deep glow in the eastern sky, and soft drizzle dampened the stones. A few passing soldiers glanced at her curiously and went on their way. The courtyard already bustled, even at this early hour. It never really slept, not in the middle of a siege. A small gaggle of children already played on the hopscotch course, and in the kitchen garden, women dug for vegetables and cut herbs. She saw no one she might ask for an update—no sign of Lyram, or Galdron, or Everard. Not even Sir Janun.

  She headed towards the eastern gate-tower stairwell, the crisp, morning breeze fluttering the ruins of her shirt against her back. As she made to duck into the cool, quiet darkness, she saw Kastyn step out of the western gate-tower stairwell, and hesitated. He might know the latest news, or at least where to find someone who did.

  The castellan’s son looked left and right, pulled his plaid up over his head, and scurried for the south-western corner of the castle.

  She frowned. The only thing the western stairwell accessed was the guest rooms—her own included—and the library, though Janun despaired of his son’s lack of interest in any kind of book learning. Kastyn’s skulking suggested he didn’t want to be seen. Why? She ran through everything in her rooms that might interest him. Nothing sprang to mind, but she changed course anyway and climbed the steps Kastyn had just come down.

  Everything in her room remained where she left it. As she stripped out of her tattered clothes and pulled on a fresh set of robes, her gaze roved the room, double-checking for anything out of its place. Her armour made an untidy pile on the bed. She poked one finger through the rent in the back of the hauberk, then tossed the mail shirt aside. Maybe the armourer could repair it.

  When she checked her bags, nothing was missing. What was Kastyn up to if not searching her rooms? Perhaps he’d returned her armour?