She put the knife away and began jogging, heading for the training course Nick had set up when they had first arrived. Each target looked innocent enough—a well-placed score mark in one tree, a manmade hornets' nest that looked real hanging from another, the spot where two dead trees crossed—but Meaghan could find each one by memory. She sought them out and attacked like the threats they represented.
The first came sooner than it had before and she smiled, feeling exhilaration from her increased speed. Frustration from yesterday's failure had pushed her faster, and though her lungs hurt some from the extra effort, she welcomed the challenge. Eying the target—a weathered knot halfway up the trunk of a hollow tree—she reached for a knife, and launched it. She hit the target, but only barely. Her knife lodged at its edge. She hopped up onto a stump below the mark to retrieve her knife and frowned. She would need to run the course twice today to ensure she hit the target properly the second time around. Removing the knife from the bark, she sheathed it, and then pushed forward. The next target lay a half mile away.
Tightening her arms at her sides, she pushed her legs harder, ignoring the cold that brought tears to her eyes. She liked this course. She liked the freedom of the run, the instinct of the hunt, and the mindlessness of the routine. She only wished she had taken to archery the way she had to her knives. She imagined it would add to the challenge of the course. But no matter how hard she had tried, she could not seem to grip the bow properly or get the balance right. Each shot became lost to directionless aim or fell like a rock to the ground, no matter how often she trained.
Puffing out her cheeks, she blew off renewed disappointment with a breath. Although archery had eluded her, she had proved halfway decent at wielding a sword. She had even come close to defeating Nick in a few sparring matches, and his pride had told her he had not faked the near-wins.
She slipped the knife closest to her left hand from its sheath. This one held a serrated edge and stuck better than the others in her set, something she had learned long ago worked best on the next target. Flipping it so she held the blade in her hand, she took aim, and then let it fly. The blade tumbled, end over end before sinking deep into the fake hornets' nest. The nest swung in the wind for a few seconds before falling to the ground and splitting open to release her knife. She scooped up the blade, returned it to its home, and then examined the nest. In fragments, with its wire cage broken open for display, it no longer blended into the woods. She debated hiding it, but did not want to delay her training. No one else but Cal had been within miles of the cabin over the last few weeks. Even the Mardróch lurkers had disappeared with the deepening cold. She made a mental note to come back for the nest after she had completed her route, and took off running again. She detoured around a fallen tree lying across her usual path, and then doubled back toward the cabin and her third target.
The wind whipped past, swirling pebbles and leaves within small tornadoes. She shielded her face with her hand, and then lowered it when the wind settled into a breeze. The air warmed by ten degrees. She released the clasp holding her cloak across her chest and tossed the heavy wool material over her shoulders, allowing it to fly behind her like a cape. She felt liberated. She felt alive. She plucked the serrated knife from her belt again, took aim, and let it fly. It sank into the center of a large knot on a tree ten feet away. Although the tree was not part of Nick's official course, it had become her personal target. The knot bore the white scarring of her triumphs, a constant reminder of how much she had learned.
She veered off her route, toward the tree to reclaim her knife, and skidded to a stop when a mix of exhilaration and agony crested behind her, coupled with a low, raspy noise. She mistook the noise as laughter at first, but when she whipped around, she recognized it as labored breath. Her pursuer struggled to breathe, forcing rattling air into his lungs.
He froze in his steps. For a heartbeat, Meaghan wondered if Nick had laced her breakfast with another potion, but then a sudden spike of anticipation came from the man in front of her and she knew better. This attacker was real. She swallowed her fear, and drew her last two knives, holding them steady in her hands.
The man, if she could call him that, stared at her with bloodshot eyes. His dark hair lay plastered against his head with sweat. His skin, although normal in places, had turned ashen in others. When he raised his hands and blue electricity fizzled on the edge of his fingernails, her panic spiked with the realization of what he was—a creature both human and Mardróch. His nose had begun to twist and sink. He parted his mouth, revealing partial webbing at the corners, and then cast his hands toward her, howling when lightning sparked back across his palms.
Anger emanated from him, then determination. Meaghan tightened her fingers on the hilts of her knives and debated her next move. Although she suspected she could outrun him, she could not risk turning away. She needed to see if his lightning bolts started working, which left her only one option. She had to fight.
She waited a beat, stepped back, and then began circling as she kept her eyes pinned on his. He did the same, drawing a sword from a scabbard on his back and pointing it at her. A tilted smile crossed his face and then he charged, lifting the sword up and driving it down toward her head.
Crossing both of her knives, Meaghan blocked his blade. The impact shot through her forearms, resonating pain, but she gritted her teeth against it and pushed back, forcing him away. He circled his sword through the air and took another swing at her. She sidestepped him, but did not have time to avoid the blade's next strike. It met her side, slicing through her sweater and biting into skin. A cry escaped her mouth before she had time to control it. Sticky warmth rolled down her skin, soaking her clothes, but she could not allow it to distract her. Her attacker charged once more and she dropped to the ground to roll out of his way.
Jumping to her feet, she faced off with him again, maintaining the same careful steps as before. This time, she did not give him the chance to make the first move. A fast step forward, a quick flick of her wrist, and she drew blood. A long gash opened on his forearm.
He howled again, a noise similar to that of a lone pack wolf, and swung his sword toward her with his uninjured arm. She ducked, driving her other knife into his shoulder. He teetered back, yanking the hilt of her knife from her hand, and then retreated. Stopping a few yards away, he pulled the knife from his body, and tossed it behind him.
Down to one weapon, which would be useless against a heavy sword blow, she passed the knife between her hands, determining which would be the strongest. She settled on her left. Although her right was dominant, she feared the gash in her side would inhibit her movements. She lifted the knife, preparing for a kill. One perfect throw, a strike to the heart, and he would be felled. A miss and she would be defenseless.
She tensed, preparing to run if the latter happened, and then froze when a low whistle streaked past her ear. A moment later, her attacker dropped to his knees, an arrow imbedded deep in his stomach.
CHAPTER FOUR
A SECOND arrow found its way into his skull, silencing the man's terror forever. He fell backward. His eyes remained open, staring at the white feather quill between them, and Meaghan held back the sickness threatening to charge from her stomach. She tightened her grip on her knife, unsure of what she would be facing next. Certainly, someone who had just saved her life could not be dangerous, but her heart still raced, and her brain still held on to fear, so she turned in preparation for a fight. A hand clamped down on her wrist.
“Meg, it's me.” Nick's voice came through before she recognized his face. She succumbed to his arms. His fear washed over hers and she realized he had used his power to block hers during the attack.
He tightened his hold on her, drawing her closer, and then froze when she whimpered. Stepping back, he lifted his left hand. His fingers and part of his sleeve dripped with blood. His gaze snapped back to hers. “You're hurt,” he said.
“It's okay,” she told him, though she could not seem to s
top shaking. She wanted to crawl into bed, to hide from the world in the cabin, but another instinct overrode the desire. “There are others around,” she told him. “I can smell them, but I can't tell how many there are. Can you?”
Nick nodded, but said nothing about it. Instead, he pushed up the hem of her sweater and frowned. A jagged gash ran from the bottom of her rib cage to her hip.
“Nick,” she begged. “Tell me how many.”
“Two,” he said. “They aren't close. We have time to get back to the cabin.”
“We need to hide the body.”
“There's no time. I'll come back after—”
“No,” she interrupted, grabbing his arm. She could not stand the thought of the Mardróch finding the dead man, and in turn, stalking the cabin until she or Nick gave its location away. She could not stand the thought of wondering if another creature might be around each time she ran this route. “It has to be now. There's a tree with a hollow trunk not far from here. That way,” she pointed into the woods. “It should be big enough.”
The wind swelled, whipping through the forest at a speed that only added to her fright. She stared through the boney arms of a bare tree into a darkening sky. Angry clouds gathered in warning of a fast approaching storm.
Nick drew her cloak around her shoulders, securing it before he pressed his lips to her forehead. “I'll hide him,” he promised. “Go back to the cabin and make jicab tea. I'll be right there.”
She nodded. When she had almost reached the clearing surrounding the cabin, she remembered the hornets' nest. Although it would not be as obvious as a dead body, she had no doubt anyone hunting for her or Nick would not miss the clue. She detoured toward it. Now that her fear had started to ease, her side ached. Her muscles stiffened, and her feet moved like heavy rocks. When she reached the nest, she leaned down to pick it up and regretted the movement. Pain shot across her rib cage, driving her to her knees.
For a moment, she could not breathe or think. She forced her mind back to her task, grabbing the nest before struggling to her feet. The forest sounded distant, as if the thick clouds above had filled her ears. She shook her head to clear the sensation. The world spun, and she gripped the low limb of a tree to keep from fainting. She concentrated on the distant clearing until the feeling passed, and then began walking again. She struggled to place one foot in front of the other. When snowflakes fell, small and infrequent at first, she barely noticed them. Only when they cascaded as thick flakes, melting against her cheeks and gathering on her wool cloak, did she realize the storm would not pass in an afternoon.
She exited the woods into the clearing and the protection of the invisible barrier, but she did not feel safe. She had to reach the cabin. Grass passed beneath her, at first brown and then white as ice took hold. She planted her boots with careful steps until she had reached the door to the cabin. The knob refused to budge. She removed her gloves and grabbed hold with both hands. Metal froze to her skin. Her arms shook with the effort. But this time, she managed to force the door open. Relieved, she slipped inside and shut the world out behind her.
Her cot commanded her attention. She took a step toward it, and then paused. Somewhere in the cloud expanding through her brain, she heard Nick's voice. He had told her to do something once she arrived, but she could not remember what. Her mind refused to focus on anything but sleep and the warmth of her blankets. She went to them, lay down, and slipped into darkness.
§
THOUGH NICK had sewn a wound more times than he cared to count, he had never had to do it under these conditions. He needed sutures and potions. He had a needle and fishing line, plus a small bowl of alcohol to sanitize them. He scanned the items beside Meaghan's cot, then took a deep breath and forced it out to ease his frustration.
Wind howled, whistling through the cracks in the door and creaking the roof in its best effort to get inside. Nick turned a wary eye to the closest window and frowned at the wall of white greeting him. It would be at least a day before the storm let up, and longer before the snow melted enough to allow travel to Neiszhe's village. Until then, he had no other choice. He had to stop the bleeding.
A log popped in the fireplace, and Nick turned his attention back to Meaghan's wound. Red stained the white bandage he had applied after he returned to the cabin, but it had not soaked through. That eased his mind some, though her pale skin and slow pulse did not. He could not delay any longer. Taking a deep breath, he threaded the fishing line through the needle, and started working.
Her blood flowed freely once he removed the bandage and he ignored it as best he could, piercing her skin with steady hands that belied his nerves. The tip of the needle met only the slightest resistance before slicing smoothly through with a flash of silver. Nick quelled his stomach, then turned the needle back around for another puncture. It seemed unnatural to knit skin as he would a tattered piece of cloth, and despite years of performing the task, he had never grown used to it.
He focused on pulling the edges of Meaghan's wound tight and closing it with slow and steady hands. As he had expected, he did not get far before her muscles tightened. A fraction of a second later, she gasped. He dropped his arm over her chest, pinning her to the bed before she could jerk upright. Her eyes opened wide, her pain and fear strong enough to trigger his sensing power. He waited for her to look at him before he spoke.
“You're still losing blood,” he said, his tone calm and emotionless. Though he wanted to comfort her, he needed her to obey him first. “I have to finish or you won't live. Do you understand?”
Her breathing hitched, ragged underneath his arm. She curled her fingers into the blanket, gripping it until her knuckles turned white, but he kept his eyes pinned on hers, waited for her to nod, and then continued speaking in the same even tone. “I can give you some jicab root to chew, if you want.”
She shook her head. Her struggling stopped, and he loosened his grip. “If you don't take the root,” he told her, “no matter how much this hurts, you have to stay still. Are you sure you can do that?”
Her eyes slipped closed. For a moment, he thought she had passed out again, but then she forced a whisper past her lips. “Finish it,” she said. Tears escaped the corners of her eyes, coursing silent trails down the sides of her face, and he refocused his attention on her wound. She tensed with each puncture, with each pull and knitting of skin. Her hands tightened on the blanket, but otherwise, she remained motionless. He worked as fast as he could and when he finished, he left her to pour a cup of tea. Returning to her side, he slid a hand down her face, soothing the tears away, and waited for her to open her eyes again. Pain and confusion clouded them when she looked up at him and he realized it would be some time before he could consider her fight with death won.
“I have jicab tea for you,” he said. She nodded and struggled to sit up, but hissed with pain from the effort. He eased an arm under her shoulders, lifting her so he could slide pillows behind her back. Even the small amount of pressure had her wincing. “Drink, Meg. You'll feel better after you do.”
She followed his instruction and then managed a feeble smile. “I guess I shouldn't have asked you to hide the body,” she whispered.
He returned the smile. The tea had dulled her pain enough so he could no longer sense it. “I would have preferred not to, but you were right. The Mardróch arrived soon after I finished. They missed me, but there's no way they would have missed a dead man.”
“Mardróch,” she whispered, closing her eyes. “I got the nest. I was afraid they'd find it.”
“I saw it on the table.”
“What was that thing?” she asked. Her words had started to run together, and it took him a moment to realize she meant her attacker. “Who,” she corrected. “Who was he? He seemed familiar.”
“Did he?” When she did not respond, he moved his hand to the top of her head. Her breathing slowed in sleep, so he leaned down to kiss her on the forehead and then eased her shoulders up again, removing the extra pillows befo
re he lay her back down.
He recovered the half-finished corn husk project from the floor where he had dropped it when he had sensed her danger and began working on it again. Though he had no doubt she would be lost to sleep until tomorrow, he felt just as certain rest would not find him for quite some time.
CHAPTER FIVE
NICK FINISHED his project before lunchtime. After cleaning up the mess he had created, he decided to make a soup, hoping he could tempt Meaghan into eating when she woke. He found a stockpot and rooted through the shelves for anything useful. Their supplies consisted mostly of nuts, dried beans, and a mix of root vegetables. Cal delivered meat on occasion, usually venison jerky or salted fish, but they had not been so lucky this time. When Nick had unpacked the supplies, he had found only a large bag of silten. The silver grain had the texture of sand, and lacked flavor, but it had almost as much protein as meat. It would sustain them well enough.
Unfortunately, it would not work in soup. It turned to mush when it sat too long in water. He doubted Meaghan would mind, though. She could barely choke down the grain when she felt well. If he wanted her to eat more while she healed, he would need to go hunting when the storm cleared. A day's outing should at least produce something more palatable he could roast.
For now, he would have to do the best he could with what they had on hand. Dried herbs and a few cubes of powdered chicken stock would make a good broth. Carrots and potatoes would round out the flavor and fresh-melted snow would give them plenty of water. He picked up two metal buckets and stepped onto the porch. Snow continued to fall, draping a blinding curtain across the air and coating the ground with at least a half foot of snow. He filled the buckets with the soft powder and brought them back inside, setting them by the fireplace.
Aerenden: The Gildonae Alliance (Ærenden Book 2) Page 3