Warlords, Witches and Wolves: A Fantasy Realms Anthology

by Michelle Diener

  He was carried over the river, laid down on grass, and he heard a stake being driven into the ground, and felt a rope being tied to his right ankle.

  He could feel the blood trickle from his wound, down the center of his chest to drip over the side of his ribcage. It felt like a lot, but he knew these things often felt worse than they were.

  A fire began to crackle near him, and the smell of food cooking affected him more than anything else.

  He and Ava had had nothing to eat since the day before, although at least they'd been able to drink their full at the stream before the general caught up with them.

  He hoped she would stay where he'd told her to stay. If they started torturing him, he worried she'd give herself up, and that would be unbearable.

  He also worried that he was too invested in her. He had only met her two days ago and some of his reactions surprised him—almost frightened him in their intensity—and yet, he didn't want to go back to being the way he'd been before.

  Voices murmured in quiet conversation around him.

  The sun was warm on his face and chest, and he realized he was comfortable and warm, more so than he'd been in a while. He didn't even need to run and hide. The worst had already happened.

  He wished he could sleep. Catch up on all the hours he'd missed over the last week. Except that would be a terrible idea.

  He didn't trust his reaction if they tried to wake him.

  So he lay in a half-doze, as the soldiers checked on him now and then, and spoke amongst themselves.

  “Here's the hunt master and Juni back,” someone called.

  There were exclamations of concern, and Luc guessed they'd been injured.

  He snapped out of the doze he'd been in, ready to give his full attention to what was going on.

  “What happened?” The general didn't sound worried, he sounded annoyed.

  “The dogs, sir. Something's spelled them.” The hunt master sounded beside himself. “They wouldn't come to me when I called, even ones I raised from pups. They stopped to drink and we caught up with them, and they wouldn't mind me, and when I tried to force one back, they attacked us. Attacked me.”

  “Juni?”

  “Something's wrong with them, sir. I don't know what. But the hunt master's right. They ignored him, and I've never seen them do that. When they'd drunk from the stream, they ran off again. Spooky quiet, sir, and fast. They just disappeared into the bush. We couldn't catch them.”

  “And Ava?”

  “No sign of her. And to be frank, I don't see how she could have been faster than us. We'd have caught her if she went that way.”

  The general was silent.

  “Do you think they were spelled, sir?” A soldier asked. “The dogs, I mean.”

  “No.” The general moved toward Luc.

  Luc could hear his steps, and then sensed him crouch near his side. “No, something's spooked them, or they've got the scent of something more interesting.”

  “Sir—” The hunt master started to speak, then thought better of it.

  No dog pack behaved the way Juni and the hunt master were describing. And the general was lying. Even Luc, with his eyes closed, could hear it.

  “Wake up.” The general shook him, then hit him across the face, but Luc had expected something like this when the general settled in beside him, and he didn't react at all.

  But there would be worse. A shake and a slap were child's play.

  When he felt the tip of the knife jabbing into his side, he made himself go even looser.

  Never react, never show pain.

  He'd learned the lessons of the Chosen camps well.

  “Is he dead?” someone asked.

  “No. He's bleeding where I stabbed him.” The general made a sound of disgust as he moved back and stood. “I'll have to question him in the morning, no matter what, and then we start picking this countryside apart, looking for the woman.” He paused. “Because if we go back without her, I can assure you, not even I will walk away from the Herald's wrath.”

  “But I thought—” Juni's voice trailed off.

  “Thought what, soldier?”

  There was a hesitation. “Thought the Herald wanted her . . . gone.”

  “No. He wanted her dead. Not running around the countryside, alive.”

  “But you said . . .” The soldier who spoke's voice trailed off.

  “I said we had to go back with her. I didn't say she had to be alive when we did.”

  Chapter 9

  The afternoon seemed to drag on.

  Ava was too afraid to move, so she was stuck in an uncomfortable position deep in the brush beside the river.

  The soldiers had obviously been pushing themselves as hard as she and Luc, because there was almost a festival atmosphere in their camp as they hunted, dressed game and then cooked it, chatting over the fire.

  The only person who seemed unable to get into the spirit of things was the hunt master.

  Being bitten by his own dogs had crushed him. Losing them probably had, too.

  Ava didn't feel guilty about it.

  Those dogs were ill-treated, and she had more than a suspicion they would have been put down for their part in her and Luc's escape.

  They would be better off with a good home in Grimwalt.

  When the sun eventually set, the men ate a meal around the fire, and when the general turned in, the volume went up a little, and then cut off, as everyone made their way to their tents.

  The tents were just two sets of poles which formed a triangle on each end, and a cross-pole, over which they'd thrown stained canvas covers. There were six of them, with two guards on watch.

  Ava heard one of the guards talking quietly to the horses as he checked on them. She waited for him to move on before she worked her way out of the bush, carefully crossed the stream, and made her way to the horses herself.

  The soldiers had only taken what they needed from their saddle bags, and Ava moved quietly and slowly as she looked through them.

  She found two sewing kits, and almost wept at the bounty that represented.

  She could see Luc, lying in the open near the fire, close enough that the glow of it washed over him, so the guards could keep an eye on him.

  At least it would give him some warmth.

  He hadn't moved all day, and she knew the general had stabbed him to try to wake him earlier.

  It had enraged her.

  He was obviously senseless, and she would have to get the arrow out and stitch him before they escaped. She would not be able to lift him onto a horse herself, and she didn't think she trusted her working enough to see if she could compel one of the guards to do it for her.

  It was too risky.

  It was also risky to simply take him, injuries, arrow and all, and go.

  Here she had the fire for warmth and light; clean, running water; and supplies.

  This was the best place to help him before they ran. So she would have to make it safe to do that.

  She rested a cheek against one of the horses' flanks, stroked it, and thought what she needed to do.

  She would have to render all the soldiers harmless to give her time to help Luc.

  But she needed Luc quiet and asleep while she did it, and so deeply asleep he wouldn't feel the pain while she removed the arrow and stitched him up.

  But first, the guards on watch had to go.

  She worked her way through the bags again, brought out a white undershirt. It had to be easy to see, so this would be perfect.

  She worked sleep into it at the hem, but also the need to hand the shirt to the other guard, so the working transferred to him. If this worked, they would both go down one after the other, while her only risk would be placing it somewhere they could find it without being seen herself.

  She waited for a chance, watching them as they made a lack-luster patrol, but they were never far enough away from the fire for her to creep closer without being seen.

  Eventually, afraid time was wasting,
she went back to one of the saddlebags that had contained something smooth and heavy, and brought out a piece of wood someone was carving. They had almost finished, and she ran her hand over the design with interest, before she threw it toward the river.

  It landed with a splash, and both guards turned. One took a burning stick from the fire and they walked over to look.

  She slipped from behind the horses, threw the shirt on the ground, and then ran silently back amongst them.

  “Must have been a fish,” one of the guards said, and turned.

  “Didn't sound like a fish,” the other answered.

  “Hey. Was this here a minute ago?” The guard walked to the shirt, bent and picked it up. He held it in his hand and rubbed the fabric between his fingers.

  “What is it?”

  The second soldier came up beside him, and the guard held the shirt out. “Look at this.”

  Ava held her breath, and then the second soldier took it. Sniffed it.

  “Maybe there's a breeze and it blew from someone's tent.” He didn't sound certain, because the night was absolutely still.

  The first soldier yawned, and then walked to the fire, curled up facing it, and closed his eyes.

  “I . . .” The second guard stared at him, then walked over himself, settled in beside his friend, and went to sleep.

  Ava felt a fizz of elation.

  But there were still plenty of others to go. And Luc to help.

  She found a soft scarf in a saddlebag that was nicer than the others. She guessed it belonged to the general.

  She thought through what she needed with Luc, and worked deep, healing sleep into the soft fabric.

  She gave the horses a final pat and then walked over to him, keeping her gaze on the sleeping soldiers, but neither of them stirred as she walked past them and crouched beside her lover.

  He was lying on his back, and the arrow was sticking out of his chest. It was difficult to look at.

  His side was also bloody where the general had stabbed him.

  As she dropped the scarf on his stomach, his eyes suddenly opened, his hand coming out to grab her wrist.

  She almost screamed in reaction, swallowing it down as he went limp the instant the scarf landed on his naked torso.

  He had been awake.

  She knelt beside him, shaken, then looked over at the tents, her heart pounding at the possibility that one of the soldiers might have heard her, but no one stirred.

  Did she take the scarf away?

  She decided no.

  This was good news, she realized. Luc wasn't as hurt as he'd seemed, and once she'd stitched him, they could get away faster than she'd thought they'd be able to.

  She walked to the tents and one by one began to stitch a working into the canvas. To sleep a long time. To not let any sounds disturb that sleep. To be afraid to come out until getting water became a matter of life and death.

  When she was finished, she went back to the soldiers sleeping by the fire, and stitched a version of the same working into each of their cloaks.

  At last, with everyone dealt with, she walked over to Luc and took out Banyon's knife. The rope they'd used was thick and it took time to cut through.

  When he was free, she took out one of the sewing kits, her own needle, and went to get a bowl of water from the river.

  There were a few medical kits in the saddlebags. Just bandages, cloths and some salves, but all useful.

  She used the cloths to wipe him clean of blood, then examined the arrow.

  The need to hurry was a constant thump in her chest, but she resisted the urge. She had bought them time. She would use it.

  She carefully took hold of the arrow and worked it out as gently as she could.

  It hadn't gone in deep and it came out suddenly in her hand.

  Blood, sluggish and dark, welled up from the wound and she wiped it away over and over, until it slowed.

  Then she stitched it closed, thinking the same thoughts of strength and health she had when she'd stitched his arm.

  His side was not as bad, and the bleeding had stopped some time ago, so she cleaned it, and stitched it closed, too.

  Then she stood and chose two of the horses.

  One had had nothing unpacked from its saddlebags at all, and she guessed this belonged to the man Luc had killed in the wood.

  The other horse she took was big. Big enough to take Luc's size and weight.

  She guessed it belonged to the general, although he wasn't a particularly large man, and she transferred the medical kits, food and some clothes she thought might fit Luc into its saddlebags.

  They had taken his sword from him, but it was lying near the fire, and she had a feeling he had become attached to it. She added it to one of the saddlebags, then went to fill one of the soldiers' cups with water.

  When she was ready, she led the horses closer to Luc and pulled the scarf off him, throwing it into the fire.

  He lay still for a long time, until the horses began to get restless and nickered softly. She bit her lip, wondering whether to wake him, when he turned, still deeply asleep, onto his injured side, and woke with a hiss of pain.

  “Ava.” His whisper was harsh, croaking.

  She held out the water to him, and he took the cup, emptying it in a few swallows.

  “Let's go.” She held out the horse's reins.

  His gaze went to the soldiers asleep by the fire, and his eyes narrowed. Found hers.

  He said nothing as they stared at each other while he rose stiffly to his feet, took the reins from her and lifted himself gingerly into the saddle.

  Suddenly, as if he'd just remembered he'd had an arrow in him, he looked down at his chest, bending his head to look at her stitch work.

  He caught her gaze again, and she knew she would not get away with not answering this time.

  He led the way, riding the horse upstream and crossing at a narrow, shallow point.

  She kept close to him, watching him carefully to make sure he was not into too much pain to continue.

  She needed to meet with the dogs. Needed to go her own way, and she suddenly had a feeling he wouldn't be as sad about that now as he had been before.

  It was a hard road to happiness, her grandmother had warned her.

  The best life partner was one who understood. Who supported.

  But years of keeping secrets had made trusting anyone difficult. Perhaps he would have embraced her talent. Perhaps not.

  There still might be a chance to find out, but it wasn't now.

  She had revenge to wreak.

  And a grandmother to comfort.

  She had put the guards to sleep.

  Luc knew that had to be true, because they had not so much as stirred, even as he and Ava had ridden away.

  No one in the tents had stirred either, but he didn't know how she could have spelled everyone, so he assumed they'd just been lucky, there.

  It was what she had done to him, though, that disturbed him the most.

  He had a faint memory of waking to find her bending over him, and then nothing until he'd woken again, arrow out his chest, two wounds stitched.

  He touched the arrow wound with hesitant fingers, something he'd done at least five or six times already. There was pain, but not what he'd expected. His side hurt worse, but he knew that the riding motion was contributing to that.

  She followed behind him, saying nothing, but he sensed her slow and then stop behind him when they neared the northern edge of the forest, and he stopped himself, turning the beautiful Gaspatian horse she'd chosen for him around.

  “I have to continue north. You need to go east. I think it's best we part ways here.” She spoke earnestly, her gaze flicking from his face to his chest, and then she urged her mount closer to him to check it.

  He pulled his cloak around him, covering it up, because he had a sense she was using his injury as an excuse, a way to deflect from other things.

  “Ava.”

  She raised her gaze to his.
“I . . . I hope I can find your Wave and join you later, if that would be acceptable to you?”

  Acceptable to him?

  He nudged his horse closer to hers, and pulled her close for a deep kiss.

  “I want you to come with me now.”

  “Even with . . ?” She waved her arm back the way they'd come, presumably to indicate the general's camp.

  “Even then.” She had spelled them. Had spelled him to heal him, he was now certain. So far, she had never done him harm. Had only helped him. He wasn't such a coward that he was afraid of strength he didn't understand.

  He had seen the fear of his own strength in the eyes of the guards at the Chosen camps, and he would not be like them.

  Never would he be like them.

  “I want to come with you.” She leaned closer to him, kissed the side of his neck before she drew back. “But my grandmother deserves to see me, hear what happened to her daughter. And I have another task I must complete before I find you again.”

  “Does this task have something to do with the Herald?” He knew it did. Had seen the look on her face when she'd left her mother's body lying in the dungeon chamber.

  And could he blame her?

  The Rising Wave was more than just an instrument of revenge for his own mother's death, but wasn't that how it started?

  He would not be a hypocrite.

  She studied his face, and must have found no disapproval there, because she gave a slow nod.

  He was afraid for her, afraid of the danger she would put herself in, but he could see the determination in her expression. “All I would say is that revenge often twists in our hands, and becomes something else. Joining me, helping me, would be fighting against the Herald just as much.”

  She lifted her shoulders. “I have a more personal revenge in store for him, but I'll keep your advice in mind.” She trailed fingers down his cloak. “And I will come and find you as fast as I can.”

  “I will look for you every day.”

  She hesitated, and he could see the gleam of tears in her eyes as the sun rose behind him.

  “I will think of you every day. And hope you are safe.” She bent, fiddling with the flap of his saddlebag, and pulled out a handkerchief.