My ears prickle at the sound of someone’s soft whimpering. I shift onto my side, expecting it to be River, but she’s sleeping soundly. The noise comes from downstairs. Eyes groggy with sleep, I tiptoe across the floor and down the stairs, peering out into the the open room.
The curtain separating Mama Opal’s half of the room from the cots Axle and Shade occupy is drawn. She is not the one whimpering.
Shade is curled up in a ball, knees tucked nearly to his chin. He shivers. But not with cold. I can see the sweat glistening on his face in the firelight. The quivering of his lips. The tremble in his jaw.
He’s having a nightmare.
“Get off me!” he cries out suddenly. I flinch at the broken desperation in his voice. “Let go! Don’t. Stop! Please, stop. Stop. Stop!” He begins to writhe uncontrollably, the covers falling off of him. Spasms jerk in his neck.
I start to step into the room, but Axle rises from beside him. He slams Shade’s shaking arms to the cot and leans over his friend. “Shade! Shade, snap out of it! Open your eyes. You’re safe. We’re in Agron. We’re safe!”
Shade’s eyes fly open when Axle presses knuckles against his sweaty chest. I see the zigzag scar, partly obscured by the tossing blanket. He sits up quickly, the blanket falling away. He tries to jump off the cot. Axle grabs him around the shoulders and holds him still, until his breathing slows.
“You’re safe, Shade,” Axle says, his own arms trembling.
“It felt real,” Shade whimpers. I’ve never heard him sound so broken. Never seen tears pour from his eyes. He bites his lip to keep from screaming again. “It felt like we were back there again. They were . . .”
“It’s over, Shade. It’s in the past. You’re safe now. We’re both safe,” Axle soothes, patting him awkwardly on the shoulder. There’s tension in his own shoulders, and a faraway look in his eyes.
Slowly, I back up the steps, trying not to make a sound. Back underneath the covers, it is hard to fall asleep. Shade’s pitiful wails echo in my mind, horrifying me. I had thought him an invincible hero on her first meeting. I had thought him an ass upon our second. I had thought him an angry tyrant for the past few weeks. Now I find him strange. Why does he hide behind a mask? Why does he have nightmares? What was the “there” he was talking about?
I try to think. To sort through the puzzle, the intricate maze, that has become the Wild boy. But I lose myself in the complicated web.
What does he fear so much?
Chapter XXI
“Shit.” I rub the new drop of blood from my leg. The thorns in this part of the forest are brutal.
My unintentional outburst has prodded my target even farther from my reach. Back arched and head down, I stealthily creep along the forest floor, nearly on my knees. The brown tail I’ve watched for near thirty minutes is gone, but the long line it left in the dirt is easily traceable. I slip the dagger from beneath my skirt and palm it gently, the cold hilt melting into my hand like a second skin.
Shade was pissed when I arrived late for our practice the next day. I tried explaining that I was unaware we had practice since he’d made it perfectly clear the day before that I needed no more training. He then proceeded to interrogate my observation skills by forcing me to tell him the differences in everything around me. Leaves. Twigs. Animal tracks.
Axle arrived halfway through but made no move to interrupt or challenge Shade’s foul mood. He merely leaned casually against one of the bigger trees and chewed on a long blade of grass. Every once in a while he would smirk when I’d dare to argue against Shade’s lesson. A look from my brooding teacher would wipe it away.
Finally, after hours of languid talking, Shade pointed somewhere in the forest and told me to bring him a “ragrartan.” The species of animal that was my first meal in the Wilds. I remembered its appearance very well.
“How?” I’d asked him.
“Track it. Hunt it. Pretend it’s a monster. I don’t care. But bring it to me before sunset or I’ll give you another lesson in physical exercise you won’t forget.” The threat was empty and he had known it. We both knew I was perfectly capable of holding my own in a battle with him – now.
But unwilling to back down from a challenge I’d retrieved my dagger, refused the sword he offered me, and strode into the woods with head held high and shoulders straight. Now I regret the haughty foreplay. Little red bumps surround the many pin-sized red dots on my legs from the thorns.
The ragrartan is sneaky and makes me go in circles. It knows it’s being hunted, the ugly bastard.
I am close. I can feel it. The animal’s tail marks have grown deeper. It is moving slower. Tired? Giving up? Oh, gods, I hope so.
I stop.
Over the silence of the forest a slight wind stirs the leaves above my head. It’s not the breeze that draws my attention, though. It’s the smell it brings in the air.
Smoke. Rotting flesh.
Blood.
For a moment, my muscles tighten as memories assault me. A smelly hand pressed over my mouth. Teeth in my neck. The icy breath of a nightmarish captor. I shake them away.
Ducking low behind a cascade of leafy branches, I peer through the green shrubbery. Leaves rustle loudly. Branches snap beneath solid weight. Five men – no, six – stumble over the rocky ledge. My throat tightens.
They are not Agronites.
The smell of blood and rot is so strong bile rises in my throat. I drag a hand over my mouth to muffle any noise.
One of the men is supported on the shoulders of two of his comrades. Dried blood covers him from head to foot, and I note the jagged holes in his armor. All of the men are blood-stained and covered in black ash.
They also have weapons.
Slowly, I creep back. Whoever they are – wherever they’ve come from – they will not welcome my presence.
My foot connects with something hard. A loud screech – like rusty hinges, only ten times louder – shatters the silence.
The ragrartan shoots from my hiding place and straight past the newcomers, tail held high in fright.
“Who’s there?” The tallest – and least wounded – of the six stumbles forward. Blood is clotted around a gash in his thigh, but his walk is steadier than the rest of his comrades. His eyes scan the treeline and pause over my canopied hideout. “You there . . .” he calls.
Shit!
I slowly creep backwards.
“Please . . . don’t go. P-please . . .” he whimpers. His steps quicken with anxiety. “Help us.”
His comrades join in. The wounded man whimpers pitifully.
My ribs hurt from the tension.
“C-come out,” the initial leader pleads. He reaches my hideout and forces the leaves away.
I stand up and dart sideways, out of his reach. But, now, I am in plain view.
The leader’s eyes narrow when he catches a glimpse of my face. “A Kelban!” he snarls.
Damn it!
He has his sword out – a fierce, double-edged object better suited for cutting trees than battling – and hacks at me. I step back and the tip of the weapon brushes past my torso, teasing fabric. Now I regret not taking the sword Shade offered me.
He hacks at me again, and air kisses my skin as I narrowly avoid the blade once more.
“S-stop!” I gasp, but realize suddenly that they cannot understand me. They speak strictly in a rough ancient dialect of Kelban.
“Kill the bitch, Westave!” one of the wounded men moans. “Kill h-her . . .”
“N-no, I’m . . .” I start to say in their dialect but pain on the upper part of my arm cuts me off mid-sentence. A line of blood tattoos the length of my forearm.
“I’ll kill you, foreign bitch!” This time when he comes at me I ram the pommel of my dagger into his stomach, then his shoulder, forcing him backwards. He stumbles and regains his footing, brows raised in shock.
I position myself in a defensive stance, the soles of my feet raised slightly off the ground for quick movement. “Come on then!”
/>
He does.
I don’t fight him head on. I use every muscle in my body to meander away from his weapon. The sword is too strong for full contact with my simple dagger, and I can’t kill him. That is out of the question.
I know Shade and Axle are tracking me. They wouldn’t send me into the woods alone without wanting to keep tabs on my activity. They can’t be far off. They’ll come when they hear the noise.
I duck away from Westave’s sword.
Behind me, a voice – faraway – says my name. “Kyla . . . Kyla . . .”
“Shade!” I scream at the top of my lungs, only to realize I’ve taken my eyes off my attacker. I swivel around, dagger ready to strike, but it’s too late.
Iron strikes me across the face. My chest cracks against the ground as I land. I reach for my dagger, inches from my outstretched fingers. A boot kicks it away into the shrubbery. I flip onto my back, intending to get up, but that same boot pins me.
The side of my face pulses with pain.
Westave raises the sword above my head. I imagine its thick edges smashing the sides of my head. Cutting my neck. Slicing me in half. A tree branch looms above his head, strong and alive with color.
The pulse shoots from my face to my hand like a secret message and the branch sways above his head when my fingers tremble.
The sword begins its descent.
The branch sways with my movement . . . I jerk my wrist in a snapping motion.
The branch breaks. Falls. Lands on my attacker’s shoulders, knocking him sideways to the ground. Pinning him. His sword clatters next to my leg, uselessly.
I scramble to my feet and retrieve my dagger from the leaves.
Westave’s comrades move to help him.
I brace myself for another fight.
“Kyla!” the voice is louder and sharper than before.
“Here!” I call.
Shade and Axle crash through the remaining timbers, swords already drawn, and muscles tight for a battle.
“Kyla . . . your arm . . .” Shade is at my side without warning, fingers probing my skin. He locates the gash slashed just above my elbow. His eyes narrow.
“If you lick it, I’ll kill you!” I whisper.
The corner of his mouth wrinkles. A smile? A frown?
He turns around, but doesn’t step away. Instead, he places himself in front of me, sword fanned out at his side. One of the men crouches low to the ground and his face pales. Good. He has common sense, at least.
“Who the hell are you and what the hell are you doing here?” Shade snarls. If I didn’t know him I would piss myself. He sounds like a demon from hell.
“Gavrone,” the leader says, regaining his feet. He brushes leaves from his arms. “We need to speak with your Keeper!”
Otis.
“You will,” Axle says, his voice tight. “But first you will surrender those weapons and walk in front of us like good boys. Can you do that for us?”
Westave’s face reddens at the mockery. “Listen, boy, I don’t know who you think you are but . . .”
“Me? None of your damn business who I am. And personally I don’t give a ragrartan’s ass who you are either. You want to meet our Keeper? You surrender those weapons and walk in front or we’ll leave your rotting carcasses here in the forest to consult with the wildlife. Understood?” Axle gestures at the ground with his sword. “Lay em down.”
Reluctantly, the weapons meet the dirt.
“Now . . . walk,” Axle says.
“What about her?” Westave snaps, emphatically waving at me. “That Kelban bitch is . . .”
“With us,” Shade cuts in. “Move!” He prods them forward with a threatening twist of his Illathonian blade, and Westave has the good sense to discover silence.
“I will say this,” Axle says as we gather the weapons to return to Agron, “you’re increasingly lucky, darling.” His eyes flick over the fallen tree branch.
I refrain from replying.
Because I damn well know that luck had nothing to do with it.
Gavrone is a quiet, sleepy village in the heights of the mountainous regions around the Wilds. It’s main purpose is the breeding of wild goats and sheep. Three days ago, Gavrone had been under the appearance of another uneventful night when shadows had attacked from every corner. Destruction had hung heavy in the air. Westave, one of the Keeper of Gavrone’s most trusted assistants, was given orders to get help. And quickly.
“It happened so fast. One minute we were standing guard, joking with one another, and then it happened. Fire. Screams. Darkness. We couldn’t see anything. They were so many of them. The air was thick with them. Our Keeper told us to find Agron. To get your help. We all know the stand you make against the creatures and how you defend the gate of our kingdom. We must request your assistance in this matter.” Westave finishes his appeal and steps back, away from Otis’s chair, and returns to his place against the wall.
Otis taps a thoughtful finger against his chin, silent.
I sigh heavily. Shade cranes his head slightly in my direction from where he stands beside Otis’s chair as a representative. I look away quickly. His gaze makes me feel uncomfortable.
The Gavronites spent nearly an hour telling Otis of their trek through the forest, how many shadows followed them before daylight forced them to retreat, and about their encounter with me. Westave insisted I be escorted from the room, but Shade whispered something to Otis that obliged him to ignore the request.
“It’s like a curse descended on us,” one of the wounded men says. Every head in the room looks at him. “They were screeching. Screaming. Celebrating. Like the decimation was a festival for them. A cursed ritual.”
“A curse we seem to share with your unfortunate villagers,” Dirk mutters. “Have you an idea what caused such an event to happen?” He speaks to the man – but he leers at me.
“Dirk . . .” Otis’s voice carries warning.
“I honestly can’t say. It goes beyond my level of understanding. But perhaps our Keeper can tell you more when you arrive in Gavrone. If you decide, Keeper of Agron.” The man cranes his neck in submissive apology.
Otis stands. “We will send help. Eight of the best Guardians of this village. If Gavrone still stands, they will help you recover.”
“Thank you.” Westave bows.
“Axle. Shade.” The two stiffen when Otis looks at them. “Accompany them. I expect a full report that I can administer to the King. He will want to know about this unfortunate attack. Perhaps this will open up his eyes to the dangers we are facing out here and persuade him to send more sufficient troops.”
Keegan stumbles forward. “I will go too.”
Axle curses silently.
Dirk smiles as if he and his son share some secret, and my blood chills. “Me too!” I blurt out. As soon as the words leave my mouth, I want to bring them back.
Dirk sneers. “Yes . . . take the Kelban bitch with you. Maybe the curse will lift from our village once she has left its gates.”
Several people within the light of the fire visibly flinch.
“Wait. What curse?” Westave says.
“Dirk, that’s enough! If I hear another thing about this curse business I will silence that tongue of yours once and for all. Do not think I won’t do it.” Otis turns his attention to Westave. “Rumors. Childish stories. Nothing more. It seems Agron has become a weakened city of superstition instead of the strong gateway to our homeland that we intended it to be. As soon as the winter season is upon us I will attempt to correct that.” He glares at Dirk and looks at me. “You may go. But you will have a guard.”
I nod in confirmation.
“Who would want to guard the witch?” Dirk mutters. “She might strike them dead in their sleep.”
“Shade likes to watch her.” Axle elbows his friend in the arm. “He’d be honored to accept the task.”
Oh, I want to stab him so much!
Apparently, I’m not the only one, because Shade glares, and Axle puts
six feet of distance between them. As if he thinks that will stop him from getting a proper beating later on.
“Yes.” Dirk smiles. He’s pleased? “Let the savage guard the witch. He’s the only one capable of subduing the demon anyway.”
“Then it’s settled. You leave first light tomorrow.” Otis begins his exit.
But not before approving Keegan’s request to accompany us. The bastard’s eyes leer over me a full minute before he shifts his attention to Shade and gives him a slow, sly wink.
Hell, this is going to be . . . well . . . hell!
I pack light. Only a blanket, a leather quart of water, a day’s worth of food, and a shawl that River insists I will need for the change of air in the mountains.
The town square is bustling with people readying the Gavronites and fellow warriors for their journey. I search the crowd for Shade but don’t see him. Probably hiding from the faces. I find the nearest corner and re-check my travel pouch.
“You’re missing something,” a slow voice says.
I quickly slip the pouch onto my back and turn around.
Keegan blocks my exit with an arm against the wall. He chews with his mouth open so I can see the green frassas root inside. Resisting the urge to gag, I cross my arms, forcing him to give me more space or let my nails clip his chest.
“I don’t need that. I’m not an addict,” I respond.
He palms the dark green leaves in his hands gently. “Nor am I, but they are medicinal relief from the pressures and anxiety of this barren wasteland. How are you adapting to our wild habitat?”
“We both know you don’t give a shit how I’m adapting.”
He chuckles. “Right to the point. You’re not fond of beating around the bush, are you, lovely? At least that part of your personality hasn’t changed since I met you.”
“Trust me, you’ve no idea how much I’ve changed,” I snap and try to elbow past him. He grab my arm and pushes me back against the wall.
“Really?” He raises a brow. “Fine, then. If you ever need some friendly advice or a second opinion, feel free to search out my confidence.” He leans closer and his lips brush my ear. “Preferably outside of camp in the middle of the night, if you’re feeling desperate,” he whispers.
Ostracized (The Ostracized Saga Book 1) Page 36
