by Milla Vane
She did, and the charging beast plunged to the ground. Immediately she turned toward the sound of more hooves pounding through the grasses.
This time Maddek halted her aim. “That is Danoh and Toric.”
Both riding, Yvenne was relieved to see. But behind her, Maddek stiffened.
“Were you bit?”
A bloody gash on Toric’s leg was already reddened and swollen. The young warrior nodded, though he was grinning as he held up a spotted pelt. “Though I have a new fur to wear.”
Danoh stared at the fallen whiptail with furrowed brow, and then she eyed Yvenne with Maddek behind her, their hands still ready on her bow. Any question she might have had was answered when another revenant burst from the grasses and together they loosed a bow that pierced its eye.
Laughing, Ardyl dipped the blade of her glaive into the stream to wash the steel clean. “Maddek’s bride was not boasting! With practice, she will be the finest hunter with bow and arrow we have ever seen.”
From her perch atop the horse, Danoh looked out over the grasses. “That is the last one—or at least the last one near enough to see.”
A maelstrom of conflicting emotions filled Yvenne. Sorry there were not more to kill and exhilarated by what she and Maddek had done and glad the danger was over—then utterly surprised when Maddek’s massive arms suddenly wrapped around her, and she felt the press of his face into her hair.
Holding her so close, so tight. As if she were more to him than a vessel.
Then his voice sounded low and harsh in her ear, hot with anger. “You vowed to follow orders that would keep you safe, yet you disobeyed.”
Hurt speared through her. “I vowed I would not fail in my duty toward you and your Dragon. Killing the whiptail kept us all safe.”
“Your duty is not to protect us.”
With aching heart she argued, “It is a queen’s duty to protect—”
“You are not their queen yet, but only my bride. When you have strength of your own, you may kill all the whiptails you like. Otherwise you will stay on the horse.”
Abruptly he let her go, then lifted her astride Kelir’s gelding again. His face was grim as he looked to Toric. “There will be more coming. We must find a more defensible camp. Can you ride hard now?”
The young warrior nodded.
But he would not for long. Not with the revenant’s poison within him.
Maddek turned to Kelir. “Do we have any of Nemek’s potions with us?”
Made by that god’s blessed healers, and which might draw out the poison to prevent the dangerous fever. The scarred warrior shook his head. His gore-painted face a mask of tension, Maddek glanced up at Yvenne. She knew what he silently asked.
Throat tight, she said, “I have none, either.” And warriors did not wish for what they did not have.
But this time, they all did.
CHAPTER 21
YVENNE
They had ridden quickly that morning, but it was nothing compared to the pace they set for the remainder of the day. Three times, revenants caught up to the riders. The creatures were no longer under her brother’s control but were still fixated on the humans as prey, their scent easy to trail on the road—and unlike the horses, the revenants never needed to slow or to rest.
By sunset, the tall grasses had given way to green marshlands studded with groves of giant ferns. Ahead lay the scattered remains of Hanan’s colossal statue that had once straddled the banks of the Ageras river. Exhaustion stole any amazement or wonder that Yvenne might have mustered at the sight of the gargantuan head half buried in the earth, its sculpted eyelashes so lifelike that the breeze stirring through them gave the appearance of the god stirring to wakefulness.
It was full dark before Maddek called a halt beside the statue’s head—because they could ride no farther. A flushed and fevered Toric was swaying in his saddle. As Maddek helped Yvenne down, they saw the young warrior slide unbalanced from his mount, caught at the last moment by Banek.
Pushing aside her fatigue, Yvenne told Maddek, “If you tend to my horse, I will tend to Toric.”
She knew not why his jaw tightened and his expression darkened, and she had little care. Nor did she care to hear any answer from him but agreement.
“If someone else looks after him, there will be one less warrior to stand watch tonight, though both revenants and soldiers might be behind us,” she pointed out. “And I am no stranger to caring for someone weakened by poison.”
That dark gaze searched her face for a moment before he gave a short nod. “You may.”
She would have, anyway. Just as she would continue shooting arrows into the eyes of monsters, with or without the approval of her would-be husband.
But although her throat ached when Maddek led away Kelir’s horse without leaving her the warrior’s bow, it was not the moment to wage that battle. The bite on Toric’s leg was inflamed, the edges of the ragged wound swollen. While the others set up camp in the marble shelter formed by the statue’s cheek and nose, she and Banek helped the young warrior to his furs.
His fevered face reddened more when she settled beside him and opened the small pot of salve Banek had given her. “You ought not, my lady. Take your meal and rest.”
“After you have taken yours.” Gently she smeared the medicine over the wound, glad to see that despite the swelling and the heat, no pus seeped out.
Still, it must have been tender. Instead of asking his usual questions, Toric sat with gritted teeth until she finished. As she put the salve aside, his gaze briefly touched her eyes.
“Do you sense him now?”
Her brother. “Not since the eagle fell . . . by your arrow,” she added, her voice warm with praise.
He blushed so fiercely his cheeks looked aflame. His gaze met hers before he averted his eyes again, and his voice was low as he confessed, “I never thought to see such things—wraiths and revenants. Those horrors only belonged to tales. Even the Scourge is nothing now but a pile of black glass and stone.”
“Such creatures were but tales for me, too,” she said softly. And her father and brothers the only monsters.
“They have seen them, in the march across the Lave against Stranik’s Fang.” A lift of his chin indicated Maddek and Kelir, who were returning to the fire with the skinned and gutted makings of dinner. “And old Banek here.”
“So I have,” was the warrior’s reply.
“But I never met any such creatures upon the Lave. There were only animals that might kill us, but that is no different from home—excepting the Farians, who might also kill us. Why do they want to?”
“The savages?”
Toric nodded. “Did your mother watch them?”
“Many of my foremothers did. But I do not think they ever made sense of the Farians’ ways.”
“The Tolehi monks believe that they view us as demons and that is why they are desperate to kill us.” He looked to Banek when the warrior grunted dismissively. “You do not agree?”
“I know not how their savage minds think. But I have faced a demon—and my only thought was of killing it. Not also of raping and eating it.”
Toric grimaced. “Or of wearing human teeth and skin.”
“No?” Banek’s quiet, rusty laugh sounded. “What do we do to drepa but make armor of their skin and wear their claws to boast of our hunts? Why did you take the fur from the long-toothed cat?”
With widening eyes, Toric said in realization, “We are the animals to them.”
The old warrior shrugged. “We cannot know for certain. But many savages I have seen crossing the Lave seem to me like young Parsatheans on their first drepa hunt.”
So that they might prove themselves as warriors. To Yvenne, that seemed as sensible an explanation as any. “And what would you rather face, Toric?” Yvenne asked. “A drepa or a Farian?”
“
A drepa. They will only tear you apart and devour you.” Sudden pride swelled in Toric’s voice, but the slurring of his words told her that the fever had him well in hold. “And I have singly killed more drepa than any other in my tribe.”
The lift of his chin directed Yvenne’s gaze to his neck, where a dozen raptor claws decorated a leather lace. She glanced at Kelir with a sly grin.
“You are from the same tribe, Kelir, are you not?” And he only wore three claws.
Kelir made a disgruntled noise, but his amused look told Yvenne that her teasing was well met. “At Toric’s age, I’d already seen two years of fighting against Stranik’s Fang—and there are few drepa south of the Burning Plains. When one is home longer, one can collect more claws.”
Perhaps, but the number of claws Toric wore seemed no less impressive to Yvenne—especially as the young warrior could not be many years past his bearded age. “How long were you with the alliance’s army upon the Lave?”
“Only three seasons.”
So after King Latan was assassinated the previous summer and Maddek was sent to reassume command, Toric must have traveled south with him.
“Three seasons only, yet you must have proved yourself well, because you already serve in the Dragon guard,” she said. “Whoever appointed you to this task believed you would not falter when faced with revenants and wraiths.”
His fever-glazed eyes brightened. “Someone must have told Enox of my bravery atop the Scourge.”
“Oh? What is that story?”
“When the warriors in our tribe reached our hunter’s age, we dared each other to stay a full night atop the ruins of the Scourge. I was the only one who remained until morning. The others were terrified by howls and screams. But I knew it must be the wind.”
Crouching near the fire, Maddek bowed his head, shoulders silently shaking.
Kelir wore a broad grin. “The wind?”
“I recall a similar storm when we made our attempt to prove our bravery.” Ardyl joined them, dumping her furs onto the ground and sinking down, cross-legged. “But it was only a mudbrain who hoped to best Maddek and me.”
The narrowed stare Ardyl leveled at the scarred warrior told Yvenne who that mudbrain was. “Kelir?”
“He might have won, too, if we’d abandoned him to the Scourge. Instead we went in loyal search of our friend—and in the canyon made when silver-fingered Rani split the demon open, we found him howling and moaning, so that noise echoed through the whole cursed place.”
Yvenne laughed but Toric shook his head, struggling to sit up as if to physically deny what Ardyl had suggested.
“It could not have been Kelir. He was at the Lave.”
Ardyl gave him a pitying look. “What of Seri?”
“She was home, but she could not—” Toric broke off, his frown deepening. “She is not even a hunter’s age! And was then still in her milk teeth.”
“Take your ease, warrior,” Maddek said softly, but with unmistakable command.
His breathing deep and ragged, as if merely sitting up had been a terrible effort, Toric nodded and eased back onto his furs.
Yvenne raised a skin of water to his dry lips. “Seri?”
“Kelir’s sister,” supplied Ardyl as Toric sipped. “Who is younger than half her brother’s age but already twice the warrior.”
Kelir made no objection to that description, only nodded.
But although Toric had eased back, again he shook his head. “A pack of drepa have taken up a nest in the eye of the Scourge. She ought not have gone near those ruins alone.”
Kelir’s grin slipped. “I will speak to her.”
Ardyl scoffed. “Will she listen?”
“I will speak to her,” Maddek said, and Ardyl did not scoff at that.
Instead it was Banek who spoke next, his brow furrowed and his words precise, as if each one were carefully weighed and measured. “There has been a cold clutch upon my heart since I saw the whiptail rise. I thought it merely worry, as more revenants still pursue us. Yet young Toric has made me think on the horrors I have seen—and realize that I have not seen power enough to raise a whiptail from the dead since the Destroyer’s time.”
Yvenne cast him a confused glance. “Did not the priests of Stranik’s Fang do the same?”
“In method, it was the same—using a bird as a familiar and creating revenants from afar. Yet never any revenant of that size. Usually those are raised by demons, not magic.”
Banek looked to Maddek and Kelir as if for confirmation. Both men wore a slight frown. “Nothing that large,” Kelir agreed slowly. “So perhaps it was not Aezil who sent them. Surely it would take an experienced sorcerer to raise such an animal.”
Banek shook his head. “Never would an experienced sorcerer allow himself to be flanked by Toric and Danoh, or brought down as easily as this one was. He had no great control or awareness.”
Dread clutched Yvenne’s throat. “You think it was a demon, then?”
“No,” the old warrior said. “What demon would send a bird to see for him? More likely, this is a sorcerer of great power but little practice.”
Maddek’s gaze touched Yvenne’s face. “Then perhaps Aezil’s bloodline gives his magics greater power.”
“Perhaps,” she agreed, her heart full of unease. If true, Aezil was a greater threat than her father. “He cannot be allowed much more opportunity to practice.”
A wry smile twisted Maddek’s lips. “The alliance council will not approve of you killing the king of another realm.”
“The alliance’s sole purpose is to defend against the Destroyer and those like him. If that is what my brother is becoming, then my arrow will soon put out his remaining eye.”
Maddek’s smile became a scowl. “I am your strength. So I will do it for you.”
“Only if your aim is better and faster than mine,” she retorted. “Because by the time I see my brother again, I’ll have had plenty of opportunity to strengthen my arm.”
His expression darkened further. Yet if Maddek meant to deny her, he did not before her view of him was blocked by Fassad crouching to examine Toric’s leg.
“You will see home again,” was the warrior’s pronouncement.
Yvenne could not determine whether such a statement was truth or hope—and thought they might need more time to reach that home than planned. She looked to Maddek again and found him watching her with a brooding stare.
“If it was Aezil who attacked us today,” she said to him, “then he must know we are headed to Drahm and intend to sail north on the Boiling Sea. Should we not change course?”
His eyes narrowed. “To where?”
Anywhere that her father could not so easily intercept them. No doubt news of their route was winging its way to Zhalen now. He could send a full army to the outpost on the Burning Plains by the time their ship reached the northern shore.
Which was what Maddek had hoped for. His vengeance could take but two routes: killing her father after marrying Yvenne and helping her claim the Syssian throne, or killing her father in response to an attack within Parsathean territory.
And her father’s army would ride north. Unlike Maddek, Zhalen had no alternatives. He would lose Syssia if he did not recapture Yvenne. So he would take any risk, even one as foolish as attacking Parsathe—or one that angered the alliance council.
But if Maddek killed her father near the outpost, he need not marry Yvenne, and need not help her beyond that point. And she would be left with her father dead, but her brothers still a threat . . . and with no protection or assistance.
She needed him to marry her and have reason to help secure her throne—even if his only reason was to secure the Syssian throne for their children. “South,” she said. “We should seek protection from the Gogean queen.”
His upper lip curled into a sneer. “The selfsame queen who wished to
be more like your father?”
“Because she wished to quiet dissent stirred by hungry farmers. But we would go to her with the promise of cooperation between Syssia, Parsathe, and Goge that would alter the balance within the alliance council and ease the burden upon her people. She would have every reason to protect us—and if our marriage is witnessed by the Gogean queen, my father has no hope of challenging our union before the alliance council. Then I only need give birth to claim my throne.”
His expression hardened. “You would have us cower behind Gogean walls until that day?”
Seeking protection was not cowering, but she knew it useless to tell him so. “Better than killed by the soldiers from the outpost.”
“It is your father who will die there.” Abruptly he stood. “We continue north.”
Her chest was painfully tight as she watched him stalk away. So they would continue north, toward the vengeance Maddek preferred.
A vengeance where she was unneeded, except as bait for her father.
With a heavy grunt, Kelir got to his feet and signaled to Danoh. “We will follow him and take first watch.”
Snorting, Ardyl rolled out her furs. “While you are behind him, try to pluck the thorn from his ass.”
Kelir nodded, his gaze flicking to Yvenne. She knew not what he saw upon her face that prompted him to say, “You might think him in a foul and angry mood, but it is only that his youngest warrior is fevered and his bride is in danger.”
No. Maddek had been in this foul mood since the whiptail, when she had saved them from danger. Yet there was nothing to do but nod. Perhaps it truly was worry for Toric.
But it certainly was not care for her.
CHAPTER 22
MADDEK
A bright egg moon shone down upon green marshes teeming with herds. Armorbacks snorted and squatted over dirt-mounded nests. Shaggy bison calves kicked their heels and danced between the columnlike legs of dappled trumpeters. At the deep, resounding call from one of those great beasts, hundreds more raised long elegant necks, their plumed heads turning as one.