“And go wait for Marc to be out of council, right?” Kirk implored, rising to his feet. He didn’t know how he managed the feat with the way his knees were shaking.
“Right.”
“Marc will know what to do, won’t he?”
Otho’s hands stopped sorting, and he glanced up. The frown on his mouth was almost as unnerving as the Imperial message. “I don’t know. But if the dirt we found today isn’t enough to get that bastard off the throne, nothing will be.”
Kirk didn’t say anything aloud, but his thoughts were dark.
If we don’t hurry, there may not be anyone left alive to contest Neetra’s coronation.
Chapter Twelve
Kezra couldn’t help but notice how thin Gib had gotten. Sitting just within the glow of the campfire, shadows collected in the dips of his hollowed cheeks and sunken eyes. He looked as though he hadn’t slept in ages.
With a sigh, Kezra set aside her sword and pocketed the whetstone she’d been using to sharpen the blade. Her own heart wasn’t up for merriment or chatter, but Gib was her friend, so she felt compelled to engage him. “How are you feeling?”
True to his nature, as soon as Gib realized he was under scrutiny, his mouth curled into a half-hearted smile. His eyes gave up his lie when they refused to sparkle. Kezra’s heart twisted. She hated seeing him so lost.
“I’m not sick, if that’s what you’re asking,” he replied.
“You know damned well what I’m asking.”
Kezra didn’t bother to mince words. They might have left Liza’s tribute in Perth, but Gib still carried the weight of his sister’s death. Kezra worried, now that they’d crossed Shiraz’s border ten days ago. At any given moment, they could find themselves standing face to face with the enemy. Gib needed to keep his head about him lest he lose it entirely. Perhaps she was being too harsh, but Kezra couldn’t think of any other way to get through to him.
Gib winced. He refused to even look at her. “Everything hurts. I’m so tired and sore it’s hard to focus on anything. Koal tries to talk to me, and I can’t remember what he says. Zandi wants to spend time together, and I don’t have anything to say. I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”
Your heart is still healing, Kezra thought, though she’d never say the words aloud. She knew Gib would shut down if she did, so she settled for saying, “This is going to take time. And riding to battle is hard on anyone. I’m going to have calluses on my arse until my hair goes white.”
Gib chuckled, but only just. “Yes, and when I’m lying on my deathbed, I’ll still be finding sand in unfortunate places.” He stopped there, his faint smile falling away.
Gods, he looked like he was going to weep. He probably needed to, but Kezra didn’t know what to do for him right now. His pride wouldn’t allow him to cry in front of the soldiers. But she would push him again, when they next had a moment alone. If she pushed enough, he might get the grief out of his system before they went into battle. The thought of Gib being so scattered while facing the enemy made Kezra’s stomach knot.
“The boat’s a’comin’!” some imbecile shouted, and both Kezra and Gib raised their faces toward the riverbank. In the distance, Kezra could just make out the outline of the Ardenian barge against the darkening horizon.
“’Ay!” the man yelled again. “E’ryone! The boat’s ’ere!”
Kezra rolled her eyes. The fool might as well announce it firsthand to the Shirite scouts, who were sure to be watching the encampment this very moment. While the idiot was at it, he could let them know that not only was there food aboard, but medicines and other vital supplies. Maybe Shiraz could even make some fine torches with the women soldiers’ sponge moss and linen strips.
“Keep your damned voice down!”
Kezra shuddered, not at the reprimand itself, but at who gave it. She hadn’t realized Nawaz was so close.
He stood beneath the awnings of the Healers’ pavilion, watching the approaching vessel with a shrewd eye. Even in the waning daylight, his blue jerkin stood out against the din of leather and mail armor. The polished crossbow he’d possessed since Kezra could remember was strapped to his back; now that the army had ventured into enemy lands, he never seemed to be without it.
Despite herself, Kezra wished she was close enough to see his eyes. Of all his features, they alone haunted her the most. They were what kept her awake at night, restless and hurting. His eyes had always been so damned beautiful.
Stop. Just stop.
Cheeks burning, she turned away. There was no reason to dwell on what she’d never again have.
Gib’s scrutiny was as heavy and unyielding as her own. “How about you? How’re you feeling?”
A spike of raw emotion speared her innards. Is this how Gib felt when she tried to talk to him about Liza? Kezra knew if she opened up, if she spoke, she might very well lose her precarious grip on control. She couldn’t speak rationally about Nawaz. Not now and perhaps never again.
Gib seemed to understand. He sighed deeply, his gaze distant. “Perhaps the real war isn’t even the one against Shiraz. Maybe the real war is the one being fought inside ourselves every day.”
“Then I’m tired of war. Bone weary.”
Gib nodded his agreement but said nothing more. Kezra could tell her friend’s thoughts had shifted inward again. It was just as well. She didn’t feel like talking either.
Out of the corner of her eye, she watched Nawaz take a torch into one hand and make his way toward the riverbank. The barge glided through the tranquil waters. Kezra squinted, barely able to see the forms of the crewmen on deck through the gloom.
Gib climbed to his feet with a sigh. “I’m gonna go make sure Koal doesn’t need me for anything else tonight.” He placed a hand on Kezra’s shoulder as he passed by. “You’ll be okay until I return, right?”
Kezra swatted his hand away. “I don’t know how I’ll manage without you.”
Gib might have grinned, but he’d turned and left before she could get a good look at his face.
Her attention returned to the river. For a time she watched the barge as it floated closer, until it finally came to rest just offshore and anchors were dropped into the water.
Nawaz was already ordering soldiers to help unload the barge. The men on deck were silent as they lowered the gangplank. It was odd that none of them seemed particularly worried about the potential difficulty of unloading the vessel in the dark. Why weren’t they lighting any torches?
Kezra’s hands twitched as the little hairs on the back of her neck stood on end. She’d slipped her fingers around the hilt of her sword before she even realized it.
“Hey Kez.” Nage tromped up beside her, a bundle of tinder stacked in his wiry arms. “Where’d Gib get off to?”
“Went to find the seneschal,” Kezra replied absently, keeping her eyes on the barge.
A chuckle rumbled in Nage’s chest as he added a few scraps of bramble to the fire. “Typical. He always goes runnin’ off when there’s work to do. What about your brother? He go to see the seneschal, too?” Nage wiggled his eyebrows.
Kezra snorted. “No. He’s on patrol duty with Gara tonight.”
“Ah, that’s right. Lucky them.” Nage nodded in the direction of the river. “So much for relaxin’. I reckon we’ll be haulin’ cargo ’til the wee marks. Hope they got mugwort salve this time. You don’t even wanna know where I’ve been findin’ blisters lately.”
Any other time Kezra would have laughed along with him, but not now. An indiscernible grunt rolled off her tongue, but she refused to tear her gaze away from the riverbank. Nawaz was helping a group of soldiers secure the gangplank in the sand so the supplies on the barge could be unloaded. He called out a greeting to the crewmen on deck, but something wasn’t right. Why weren’t they answering him? Kezra’s grip tightened around her sword and she stood up.
Nage’s brow furrowed. “What is it? Somethin’ wrong?”
The words had barely left his lips when a commotion erupted b
ehind them.
“Shiraz brigade!” someone roared. “They’re attacking the camp’s west side!”
For a moment, all who were gathered froze, uncertain if this was some kind of crude prank or even one of Morathi’s premeditated drills. But then a horn began to blare, and everyone knew this was neither ruse nor exercise. This was real.
All around, soldiers unsheathed their weapons and went running. The men who’d been helping Nawaz dropped the gangplank into place and followed the others, leaving the Healer alone on the riverbank. Kezra’s heart thudded in her ears, but she didn’t move.
“C’mon!” Nage said, scrambling to his feet. “Let’s go!”
The hand that wasn’t clutching her blade shot out, grabbing Nage’s sleeve. “Wait.”
“B–but—” Nage sputtered. “We need to help!”
Kezra held her ground. It was treason for a soldier to not follow an order, but something wasn’t right here. She didn’t know how she knew, but she did. Weapons Master Roland had always said to trust one’s own intuition. So she did now.
It was just her and Nage and Nawaz left standing on the bank. Everyone else had gone running. And that’s when the second attack came.
The crewmen on the barge raised their voices in a unified, bloodthirsty war cry, and Kezra knew the truth instantaneously. These weren’t Ardenian crewmen at all. They were Shirite fighters, and this entire thing was a trap.
Kezra’s body flew into motion. She dashed forward, reaching Nawaz’s side before he’d even gotten the first bolt spanned into his crossbow. His wide, horrified eyes met hers briefly, but they had no time for words.
Cold steel flashed in the moonlight as cutlasses were waved in the air. The glint nearly blinded Kezra. She could hear Nage behind her, screaming for help. She opened her own mouth to yell as well but abandoned the effort a moment later. The Shirite fighters were already filing onto the gangplank, surging toward her.
She didn’t dare take her eyes off the enemy, but she heard the snap of Nawaz’s crossbow, and the Shirite leading the onslaught crashed into the water, an arrow lodged deep in his throat. It was a small victory but not enough. Two dozen more Shirites were still barreling at them.
“Kezra!” Nawaz’s panicked voice rang in her ears, but she wasn’t listening. If she could slay just one of them before the others cut her down, she’d be content. She wouldn’t run, and she wouldn’t die without a fight. She only hoped help arrived before Nawaz or Nage suffered the same fate.
With predatory eyes, Kezra targeted one of the fighters, a man who was neither tall nor broad, indistinguishable in every way except for the bright colors of his native garb peeking through the stolen Ardenian armor.
“You,” she said, deathly calm, as if she were selecting a sparring partner.
He came at her, but hesitantly. His lack of finesse was already apparent. He wasn’t trained, not like Kezra. With a heave, she swung her sword, catching him in the arm, cutting the limb straight to the bone. Blood seeped from the ugly gash. He howled and swung clumsily with his own weapon, but Kezra sidestepped and avoided the blow.
She tried not to think about the fact that he was probably younger than even her, that he was someone’s son, someone’s sibling, someone’s beloved. She couldn’t think about any of that, lest it destroy her.
His pilfered breastplate fit him poorly. Kezra saw her opportunity. Through gritted teeth, Kezra let out a growl and thrust her sword at him. The sound the blade made as it sank into the man’s chest was nauseating, but less so than the throaty wail that followed. He collapsed, bleeding and gasping, and only the fog of battle trance kept Kezra from vomiting.
She gagged as she pulled her sword free of him. No amount of training could have prepared her for this. Not for taking a life. She didn’t feel valiant. She felt like a murderer. Maybe she wasn’t suited for war after all. Maybe she did deserve to die.
No. Focus.
Kezra whirled around, expecting at any moment to be overrun by the other Shirite fighters. But they were running away from her, up the riverbank and farther into the camp. With a confused cry, she gave chase. Why weren’t they trying to kill her? Why were they running away? What were they—
Sudden and scorching heat seared Kezra’s face as a nearby tent erupted in a violent plume of flames. Blinded by the explosion, she staggered back. Her skin felt like it was melting off her skull. She couldn’t see anything.
“They have a Firestarter!” someone gasped. It might have been Nawaz, but Kezra’s ears were ringing so deafeningly she couldn’t be certain.
A Firestarter?
Kezra squinted against the burning smoke. Through the haze, the enemy brigade moved together. Those with weapons had formed a barrier around one man, hooded and draped in dark clothing. Fire spewed from his fingers and down his wrists, as though his arms themselves were living torches.
Daya, help us.
More flames. More excruciating heat. Another tent burning.
Shouts rose above the hiss of mage-fire. Ardenian soldiers were beginning to reappear now, but it might already be too late. The entire camp could be reduced to ash by the time the Shirite Firestarter was thwarted.
“They’re heading toward the pavilion!” Nawaz howled. He crouched across the clearing, firing off one quarrel after another. “Cut them down! Don’t let them ransack our supplies!”
In the midst of the inferno, Kezra’s blood turned ice cold.
Oh gods, he’s right. Dammit, they’re not trying to kill us. They’re trying to take out our medicine and food!
Soldiers rushed the Shirites, slashing at them, doing anything to slow their progression. A handful of enemy fighters had already fallen to Nawaz’s deadly bolts, but the rest were fiercely protecting the Firestarter, all too willing to sacrifice themselves so his devastation could continue a few moments longer—and a few moments was all he needed.
The Firestarter waved one glowing hand, and the tent just beside the Healers’ pavilion exploded, consumed in flame like it was made from dry tinder. Soldiers scattered like ants, trying to escape the blaze. Some of them were on fire, too. Their tortured screams filled the air.
Kezra let out a strangled cry, caught somewhere between rage and horror, and threw herself back into the fray. Steel clashed against steel, ringing in her ears and all the way to her core. She swung her sword, cutting through the enemy horde. Blood sprayed around her in every direction—enemy blood, but also that of her fellow soldiers.
A burning globule whizzed by, so close it grazed her cheek. The stench of scorched hair and flesh filled her nostrils. Whether it was her own or that of her fallen comrades, Kezra didn’t know. Her head hurt like hell, and she could feel something hot and thick trickling down the side of her face, but she didn’t stop. She couldn’t stop. She had to get to that mage.
Ahead, the Firestarter stood directly in front of the pavilion with his hands placed against the cerulean canvas. Strange, foreign words rolled off his tongue. Kezra didn’t understand the incantation, but she understood the meaning. This was it, the final stand. Any instant he was going to ignite the tent and every scrap of medicine and food the army had would be destroyed. Kezra’s heart sank into the pit of her stomach. She wasn’t close enough. She couldn’t reach him. But maybe someone else could—
She craned her head around. “Nawaz! Nawaz, take out the Firestarter!”
Nawaz already had his crossbow pointed at the enemy mage. People ran around him, crossing his line of sight again and again, but his fierce eyes never wavered from the Firestarter. Motionless, like a predator on the hunt, he crouched and waited for an opportunity to strike.
Kezra cut down another fighter standing in her way, and as the man rolled aside, she saw a narrow path open to the Firestarter, not wide enough for her to make a run at him, but more than enough for one of Nawaz’s quarrels.
“Now!” she shrieked. “Shoot him!”
Nawaz’s finger hovered over the trigger, and vehement electricity gushed through Kezra’s vei
ns. She’d never known him to miss a mark he set for himself.
Do it. Take the bastard out.
A wild, triumphant grin spread across her face—
But the swish of his bolt sailing through the air never came. And the muffled gasp that filled her ears didn’t belong to the Firestarter but to Nawaz.
Kezra looked back, horrified, as a lone Shiraz fighter jumped from the shadows and collided with Nawaz. The Healer managed to get his crossbow between himself and the enemy’s blade, but the impact sent him teetering backward. The Shirite came at him a second time, cutlass aimed at Nawaz’s chest. Kezra screamed as the two men went down in a tangle of flailing limbs and angry grunts, rolling down the riverbank and disappearing from view.
No! No! No!
She started to run toward the place she’d seen him go down, but a sudden impact from behind sent her spiraling facedown in the dirt. Heat licked her shoulders, and the sizzle of scorching canvas filled her ears. Her vision darkened and then went completely black.
When Kezra’s eyes fluttered open, someone was violently shaking her arm.
“Kezra? Wake up! Kezra!”
Nage. She barely recognized his voice, frantic as it was.
Kezra rolled onto her back. Had she blacked out? And for how long? The sky above was a red sea of chaos, rippling with smoke and fire. Blinking, she tried to clear her stinging eyes and fuzzy head. People raced around her, shouting and carrying buckets of water that sloshed and muddied the ground. What was going on? Where were the Shirites? Was the fight over? Had the enemy been slain? Her chest constricted. Nawaz! Where was Nawaz? Was he all right?
She sat up so fast it made her dizzy. “W–what happened?”
Nage let out a relieved sigh. “Oh, thank The Two, you’re okay.” He took Kezra by the wrists and pulled her to her feet. “C’mon, we gotta get water! That damn Firestarter just about torched everythin’ before we took him out.”
Battle Dawn: Book Three of the Chronicles of Arden Page 23
