The words had scarcely left his mouth before Reyker was there, tearing the man off me, shoving him away.
“They took nine of our women!” the man screamed.
My stomach twisted. Nine women. Taken, because Draki couldn’t find me. What would happen to them? Was one my injured nomad’s woman, whom I’d told him to fight to return to?
“We just give him the girl and he’ll give our women back unharmed! He swore it.”
“He won’t,” Reyker said, blocking the man, keeping him at bay. “He lies.”
“They took my wife, my sisters!” The man addressed the gathered crowd, pointing at me. “She’s one girl, not even one of us. Why protect her?”
Other nomads mumbled, divided. Some nodded agreement, others shook their heads. “She’s a guest. The code says we owe her sanctuary,” one said.
“We owe her nothing. The Dragon followed her here. I say give her to him!” shouted another. The crowd became a mob, nomads jostling, arguing, pushing at each other, eyeing me.
I searched for Zabelle and Mago, but they’d rushed off to meet with the other nomad leaders. There were few friendly faces here. Those who had danced with us and cheered for Aillira and Veronis’s first kiss had turned against us when forced to choose between us and their own people.
Reyker drew his hidden dagger.
At the sight of his weapon, the mob drew swords and spears. “See how they deceive us! They violated the code themselves!”
The man who’d started all this was losing his wits, sobbing and shouting. “My wife! My sisters! Give him the girl and he’ll give them back.” He tried to dodge around Reyker to get to me.
Reyker was too quick, locking his arm around the man’s neck. “I’m sorry. He lies. He will never give your family back.”
“The girl! Take the girl!” The man pleaded with the crowd.
A few of them stepped forward. Reyker unsheathed the sword of the man trapped in his grip, lowering it at them.
“You’re one of them.” The crazed man squinted up at Reyker in sudden realization. “He’s one of them! A beast!”
“Stop!” I leaned around Reyker, who stood like a shield between me and the mob. I sought words they couldn’t ignore. I sought Garreth’s fortitude. “You nomads call yourselves a clan? You want respect from the rest of Glasnith? Then stop acting like barbarians! What would your prince say if he was here?”
There was more mumbling. “Who does she think she is? She doesn’t know us.”
“She’s right, though.”
I pointed at the man who said this. “Go find Zabelle and the other leaders. No killing or trading will happen without consulting them first.”
He ran. The mob stared at me.
Reyker kept his sword raised in warning. The wild-eyed nomad struggled in Reyker’s grasp. “Let go of me! He’ll kill us all! Vile, soulless beast!”
I hadn’t noticed the lagging group of nomads riding through the gates toward us, bloody and weary from the attack, ferrying their dead. I caught a flicker of movement and turned to see a boy on a horse, his familiar face bright with rage.
His bow was drawn. Arrow nocked. String taut. I remembered where I’d seen him, in Reyker’s memories, just as his finger slipped from the string.
My vision blurred, washed in red.
My scream was slower than his arrow.
REYKER
Reyker’s eyes were on the circle of nomads, his ears full of shrieks from the man he’d pinned. He barely heard it, the snapping whisk of an arrow. But he felt it, slamming into his shoulder blade, throwing him off balance.
He heard Lira scream.
His grip loosened on the nomad. As the raving man tried to slip away, Reyker punched him at the base of his skull and the man fell to the ground, unconscious.
Where the arrow hit, Reyker’s skin tingled, a slow pulse throbbing deep in his flesh.
He saw the boy, sitting atop a horse, already nocking another arrow. The witness from the Rocky Isles. The one Reyker saved. The boy carried death in his eyes.
Retribution.
“No!” Lira screamed.
Mago had appeared and had both arms around her, holding her back. If she got free, she would throw herself in front of Reyker, thinking the boy wouldn’t risk shooting her. Reyker knew better. The boy’s hate blinded him. He would go through Lira to reach his target.
“Do not let her go!” Reyker shouted at Mago.
The boy aimed the arrow at Reyker’s chest. “To your knees, beast.” He looked at Lira. “Your woman? I’ll hear you beg for your life before her. Let everyone see how weak you are without an army at your back.”
Reyker closed his eyes briefly. The black river roiled.
A boy, he is only a boy. “I’m sorry for what I did to your people. You deserve vengeance. But I can’t let you take it. Not like this.”
“Silence, frost devil. You will cower before me. Listen to your woman wail. It’s the last sound you’ll hear in this world.”
Reyker’s fingers tightened on the sword hilt.
“Brayen, put down your weapon.” Zabelle crept forward, hands steady on her bow. She had an arrow aimed at the boy. “This man is our guest. We do not allow bloodshed within Ghost Village.”
“Guest?” Brayen spit. “He killed my kin! I won’t suffer him to live!”
“You forget yourself, Skerrian. This is the prince’s village, and in his absence, I am prince. Do as I say or I’ll shoot between your legs and let Eathalin dress you in skirts.”
“The prince will understand. This, I do for Skerrey.” Brayen released the string.
Reyker lunged sideways, sweeping the sword in an arc, slicing Brayen’s arrow in half. The sword was heavy in his hand. Too heavy.
Zabelle fired a half second after, her arrow catching the boy’s arm. She dropped her bow and leaped, grabbing Brayen’s leg, pulling him off the horse. “It doesn’t matter,” Brayen said. “He’s already dead. I already killed you, beast!”
Reyker concentrated on the pain, the dull ache spreading from his shoulder, down his arm, up his neck. Liquid fire, seeping through his veins.
Brayen’s quiver had fallen, arrows scattering across the ground. Zabelle picked one up, frowning at the arrowhead. The white splinters sticking from its tip.
Fangs.
Reyker’s arm twitched. The sword slipped from his fingers. He stared at it, lying at his feet. He’d expected death to catch him, but not like this. Killed by a mere boy. A boy he’d saved.
A spate of wild laughter burst from Reyker’s lungs.
Lira broke out of Mago’s grasp, running to him. His knees shook from the effort of bearing his weight. He let them quit, kneeling in the dirt, laughing like a madman. Lira reached him, cupping his face, whispering his name.
His veins were on fire. He scratched at them, clawed at them, until he was tearing bloody gouges into his skin, trying to rip his veins out. Lira trapped his wrists, calling for a healer.
Reyker bowed his head, laughing at the pain, at the gods, at the inevitable justice of it all.
He stood outside himself, watching from a distance, as Lira fed him liquor from Zabelle’s flask, cut his jerkin and tunic off, slipped a belt between his teeth. He bit down on it as Zabelle worked the arrowhead backward through the muscles in his shoulder, blood spilling down his back. When the arrow was out, a healer dug into the wound with pincers, extracting two curved slivers—venom-filled adder fangs—before bandaging his wound.
Reyker was dazed from blood loss and the venom coursing through him, half-drunk on liquor. The veins in his shoulder had turned deep violet; the color was spreading, already traveling down his arm.
“How do we get the venom out?” Lira asked.
The healer put a hand on Lira’s arm. “You don’t.”
“There must be something! Aillira’s Tem
ple—couldn’t a god-gifted healer help him?” Lira rushed at Mago, shoving the Bog Man backward. “You’re the one who made the damned weapon! Don’t tell me there’s nothing. Don’t tell me to stand here and watch him waste away from the venom of a bloody bog adder like—”
Like her ancestor Aillira. This was how she’d died.
“Inevitable,” Reyker said, not sure who he was talking to, or whether he’d spoken in his native language or another. He shivered, and Eathalin came forward to wrap a cloak around him, tears slipping down her cheeks.
“No one at Aillira’s Temple would agree to help a Westlander,” the girl told Lira, “but there is another way.” Some unspoken knowledge passed between the two Daughters of Aillira.
Reyker shook his head. “Whatever you’re planning, stop it now. Draki is out there. No one is safe outside the village.”
Lira’s eyes met his. She gave him a fiery look, one that meant she might have slapped him if he wasn’t already injured. Dying. “You sound like a coward, little lordling.”
She was provoking him, as she always did when he was on the verge of giving up. She wanted him angry, so he would fight.
It worked.
Lira looked at Mago and Zabelle. “Tie him to a horse.”
They rode hard.
Zabelle and Eathalin were in front, then Reyker, then Lira. Mago brought up the rear. They had tied Reyker as Lira instructed, his hands to the reins, his feet to the stirrups, his waist to the saddle. He’d cursed them for it, but he swayed in the saddle, wilted by pain and fatigue. His horse was swift and sure-footed, needing no guidance. Reyker pitied the creature. All their horses would be pushed to breaking. That was the plan.
As his body failed, Reyker’s mind cleared, and the conversation he’d overheard at the camp pieced itself together slowly. The venom was wending its way through his bloodstream—he had hours left, half a day at best. There was a place in the Tangled Forest, some sort of grove with mystics and gods, where Lira insisted he could be healed. At a reasonable pace, it was more than a full day’s ride. Lira meant to cover the distance much quicker. Zabelle would lead them to hidden nomad camps along the way to exchange the worn horses for fresh ones.
But leaving Ghost Village meant exposure. Eathalin was there to conceal them with one of her spells. Reyker didn’t trust it; Draki was near, and he wasn’t easily fooled. The warlord could still find his way inside Lira’s head.
Reyker knew how it felt. Draki had done it to him for years, until he learned to build walls around his mind. They weren’t impenetrable, but it kept the warlord out when he was awake or sleeping fitfully. Lira had no such shields. Draki would toy with her.
Reyker saw it when they stopped at the first camp—Lira rubbed her temples, scratched at the scar behind her ear.
Mago cut his ropes, helping him onto a new horse like he was an invalid. “How could you let Lira do this?” Reyker asked the nomads.
It was Zabelle who answered, tying Reyker’s hands to the fresh horse’s reins. “Look in her eyes, yeetozurri. No force on earth could stop her. She would battle the gods themselves before she let you die quietly. Such loyalty is rare. You’d best live to repay it.”
When Lira was mounted, she rode to Reyker’s side, holding a waterskin. “Drink,” she ordered, lifting it to his lips.
“How’s your head? Full of dragons?”
She waved her skoldar in his face. “I can keep Draki out, thanks to you.”
“Not forever.”
“As long as it takes.” She peeled back the bandages to check his wound and flinched at the sight. Reyker couldn’t see the wound, but he felt it swelling. His arm was numb, and all the veins from his shoulder to his wrist were bright violet.
“You tie me to a horse with no care for my pride, drag me into the desert so I can see Draki take you before I die.” Anger fueled him, sharpening his tongue. “You didn’t ask me what I want. It’s my life. Do I get no choice in this?”
“No.” She used the edge of the cloak to wipe the cold sweat from his forehead and neck. “Remember what you told me in the cave? Your life belongs to me. You are my sword. And I will not be disarmed.”
Before Reyker could respond, she slapped his horse’s haunches. They were off again.
The desert flew by in a green haze. Curled into himself, Reyker hardly noticed. The horse’s steady gait jarred him, the ache piercing deep into his bones.
They reached the second camp. This time when the nomads aided him onto another horse, he cried out. It felt like their fingers had ripped off his flesh. The cloak scoured him. His skin was white as bone, all his veins glowing violet. Lira came with the waterskin once more, but he could barely sip past the tightness in his throat.
Mago lingered nearby on his mount. “We must slow down. He cannot take it. You may kill him before the venom does.”
“We aren’t slowing down.” Lira’s fingertips brushed Reyker’s knuckles, as much of a caress as he could stand. “Do you trust me?” she asked.
“Can a wolf trust a deer?” He tried to smile. “I trust you. With my life. My soul. With all that I am.” He coughed and droplets of blood sprayed his lips. “Lira,” Reyker whispered hoarsely. There were too many things he wanted to say. There was no time.
“Ready?” Zabelle called.
No, Reyker tried to say, but Zabelle raced ahead, and all their horses followed.
He drifted in and out of awareness.
The third camp was close to the mountains. When the ropes holding Reyker in place were cut, he fell. His limbs were limp, useless. Mago caught him, struggling to settle him onto the next horse.
“Your giant cannot ride,” Zabelle said. “Not like this.”
“He doesn’t have to.” Lira climbed into the saddle with Reyker, sitting backward. She put the waterskin to his lips, but he couldn’t swallow. His throat constricted, his tongue swelled. It took effort to breathe. When he spoke, his words slurred.
He’d missed his chance to tell her. One final regret added to a lifetime’s worth.
Lira’s face swam in his dimming vision. “We’re almost there, Reyker. You can hold on.” She turned, folding his arms around her. “Tie him to the saddle, and to me.”
“You cannot hold him up,” Mago warned.
“Don’t tell me what I can do.”
They entered the mountain pass.
Reyker tried to sit up, tried to stay conscious; it was like wading through snowdrifts. Lira was warm and soft, tucked inside his arms, bearing too much of his drooping weight. He held on to her. This girl, this woman. She wanted him to live. She needed him to fight.
Wait, he told the soul-eating serpent-goddess pulling him to her poisoned bosom. Not yet.
As the Tangled Forest came into view, I kicked my mount hard. My horse dove into the trees, and my companions fell back. This last leg of the journey I had to do on my own.
I knew the lore. The Grove of the Fallen Ones was temperamental. It moved. It never left the forest, but sometimes it lay near the northern bluffs, other times it could be found at the southern edge. Occasionally it popped up right beside Stony Harbor. But it always appeared to those who sought its powers. The blind mystic had confirmed it.
Come to the forest. Seek the grove and you shall find it.
The Fallen Ones await your offering.
The mystic had seen it—she’d known something would happen to Reyker. And she’d known what I’d be willing to do to stop it.
“Hurry! Show yourself,” I beseeched the grove. I led the horse around tight-knit trees, sharp roots, thornbushes, fast-moving streams. Pushing it mercilessly.
My senses were saturated by Reyker’s ragged breaths, the waning heat of his body. He leaned on me heavily, but I managed. I had to.
The sounds of the forest suddenly tapered. The knotted trees we passed were covered in pestilent sores, their leaves br
ittle husks, their fruits rotted upon the vine. Grass and flowers withered, bleached of color. Raw pink animal carcasses hung from branches or slouched out of holes. The acrid stench stung my nostrils and turned my stomach. The grove was in a state of perpetual death. What sort of horrid place was this?
In the distance was a loch. That’s where the portal was, where I had to give an offering to gain a favor from the Fallen Ones.
The stallion staggered, its legs giving out. It went down onto its knees, taking us with it. I dug for my knife, sawing through the knots binding Reyker to me and the saddle, easing him onto his back beside the horse. His skin was marbled with veins, every one of them glowing in violent shades of purple.
“Reyker.” I shook him. He didn’t wake. I pressed my palm to his chest, over the fraying thread of his pulse; his heart limped sluggishly. Any moment it could stop.
I opened my mind and entered his soul.
It was too quiet, too still. A yawning emptiness. The black river inside him ebbed, returning to sea. The shiny baubles of his memories flowed with it, draining, disappearing.
“Reyker, don’t go.” My words echo off the canyon walls. There is no answer. “You said you would stay with me. I need you.”
There is movement. A gust of wind, a ripple on water.
I let his soul go and looked down. His lashes fluttered. The flaring violet veins were stark against the whites of his eyes.
“Help me,” I said, taking his hands, dragging him away from the horse. He scrabbled with his feet. We made it to the bank of the loch, where I knelt beside him, but he was gone again, eyes rolling back in his head. I brushed the sweat-drenched hair off his face. His lips moved, mumbling feverishly in Iseneldish. He called for his mother. He called for me.
“I’m here, Reyker.” I kissed the cold skin of his brow, pressed his icy palm to my cheek.
His spine went rigid. His body convulsed.
“Mystic!” Cradling Reyker’s head, I screamed for her until she stood before me.
“Mistress of souls.”
Beasts of the Frozen Sun Page 24
