Warlord

Chapter 15

“Amyu! Kill the Xyian!”

The words resounded in my head as I tried to draw a breath into my paralyzed body.

We’d talked about this, Marcus and I, when he’d trained me. We’d talked about how fear took your breath away. How it froze your muscles, how your heart would pound as your mind raced. We’d talked about what I should do, how to work with my guards, how to stay out of their way. About not doing anything stupid.

We hadn’t talked about betrayal.

“Amyu! Kill the Xyian!”

“LARA!” Keir’s scream filled my ears, even as I gathered my legs to spring off my stool. But it was too late. Amyu had the shoulder of my tunic wrapped in her fist. She yanked me down, and followed me to the floor, drawing her dagger with her free hand.

“Are we barbarians, to pull weapons in Council?” I heard Essa cry out, as the sounds of swords clashing filled the air.

“LARA!” Keir’s voice sounded closer.

“Stay down,” Amyu hissed. She covered me with her own body.

Relief flooded through me, at the same time that I realized what it must look like to the others. Keir’s scream was now an incoherent roar. “Amyu, Keir will kill you!” I gasped.

“The least of my worries,” she whispered. I watched as she raised her dagger and made it look like she’d plunged it into my body.

I heard Antas roar out in satisfaction. The rage was palpable, as bodies launched over us. I had the briefest glimpse of Iften and Gathering Storm, but I couldn’t tell what was happening. I twisted under Amyu, getting to where I could see—

In time to see Keir leap over the fire pit to land at my side.

He landed like a cat, sleek and deadly, intent on his target. The light reflected on his two blades, and in his eyes. Amyu sucked in a breath, and I couldn’t blame her for her terror. She got to her knees, ready to use the dagger to fend one of the blows.

“Keir!” I cried, and his eyes flicked over to me, then flicked back to Amyu. He took a step, about to strike. But then his gaze returned to mine, and sanity flooded into their depths. “Lara.” It sounded like a prayer, even as Keir sheathed one of his swords. He reached down to pull me to my feet. Amyu scrambled up as well.

I’d thought that would stop the fighting, but it didn’t. Chaos was all around us. Warrior fought warrior, Elder fought Elder. It was hard for me to make sense of it all. Keekai was running from her stool, down the tiers toward us.

Rafe and Prest, Ander and Yveni were suddenly surrounding me. Rafe gave Amyu a grim look. “Couldn’t do it, could you?”

Amyu grimaced.

“To the horses,” Keir growled. “Get her out of here.”

“No,” I protested, but Keir had already turned, and I could see Simus guarding his back, fending off two warrior-priests. Antas had attacked Essa, and—

Wild Winds was fighting Gathering Storm.

Warrior-priest against warrior-priest? I blinked, trying to understand, but there was no time. Prest grabbed my collar, and brought me around to face him. “Remember your lessons.”

I nodded. He released me and took the lead. Rafe was beside him, and Anders and Yveni were behind us. Amyu was next to me, dagger at the ready.

“The Xyian lives!” Iften’s voice boomed through the tent, and I winced at the attention focused on us. We’d barely cleared the firepits when we were pressed from all sides. Prest and Rafe stopped, and turned to form a line with Ander and Yveni. Keir plunged past them, caught my elbow, and we ran for the tent entrance. Amyu followed.

Outside, warriors and horses milled about in confusion. Keir warbled, and four horses came running, his black and Greatheart among them.

Battle cries came from behind us, and I turned to see warriors charging toward us, Iften in the lead.

Amyu ran toward them, slashing with her dagger. The warriors stopped, preparing to cut her down. But Keekai came running out of the tent and attacked them behind, wielding two swords, and screaming in fury. Behind her were Ander and Yveni.

As that group clashed more warriors came out, with no friend of ours in sight. I felt two hands at my waist and gasped as Keir tossed me onto Greatheart’s back. Struggling for balance, I buried my hands in his mane

“Go,” Keir snapped, looking back toward the fray.

“Not without you,” I snapped right back, angry and terrified in an instant.

Keir’s head whipped around, and he looked up at me, his eyes so very blue. For a moment, time seemed to stop as he gave me a tight, wry smile. “Stay on, beloved.”

“Keir—”

Keir reached out, and smacked Greatheart on the rump. “Flee!”

Greatheart lurched in surprise.

Caught by Greatheart’s movement, all I could do was cling to his back. Keir had already turned, drawing his swords and running to aid Keekai and the others.

Greatheart’s muscles bunched under me, preparing to run. “No, Greatheart—” I tugged on his mane. “No, don’t—”

Greatheart leaped away, with several of the other horses who’d heard the command.

A horse neighed in rage. In my confusion, I looked over my shoulder, hair and tears in my eyes, to see Keir’s black horse, riderless and rearing, pawing the air, trumpeting its anger. I blinked, tossing my head to try to clear my eyes. For one long heartbeat, I looked back.

The warriors were a mob now, a confusion of bodies and blades. Centered on one tall, dark-haired figure, fighting with two swords.

I looked just in time to see Keir die.

The first blade dug into his neck.

I screamed then, an echo to the black’s.

A sword plunged into his chest then, buried to the hilt. Keir dropped, his swords falling from his hands.

I screamed again.

It had only taken a heartbeat. Greatheart had taken no more than a stride. Now he tore the ground with his hooves, plunging through tents and people, obeying Keir’s last command.

Crying, I looked forward as he ran, and tugged on his mane, but he ignored me.

I turned back, to see warriors running from the tent, mounting their horses, pointing at me. I cried out again, in fear and anguish, and turned back to bury my face in Greatheart’s mane.

Weeping, I clung to his back, pressed low. Stay on, stay on, stay on. The words repeated over and over in my head, like a chant for the dead.

We cleared the tents, and still Greatheart ran, the other horses surrounding us, taking us deep within the herd. I could see other horses from the corner of my streaming eyes, running alongside, but I paid no attention. Still, Greatheart didn’t slow.

The pain in my chest left me gasping for air. My eyes and nose were streaming, my hair was in my face. I didn’t care. I gripped Greatheart tighter with my legs, and twisted my fingers in his mane. The sun had gone down, the stars were coming out, and still Greatheart ran.

Stay on, stay on, stay on.

A flicker drew my eye to my left. I glimpsed a rider, and fear coursed through me. They’d caught me. I turned to look, straining to see if it were friend or foe. The man seemed to glow in the light, as if he were Stardust or moonbeams. I sucked in a breath.

It was Epor.

There was no mistaking his bearded face, grim in the moonlight as he rode, warclub on his back. His hair, his armor, his skin all glowed in the light, washed in silver.

I jerked my head forward. No, no it couldn’t be. I was—

Isdra was two horses ahead of me, her long braid glowing silver. She looked over her shoulder, her face intent and serious. She wasn’t looking at me, but over my shoulder, as if watching for my enemies. She turned back then facing the front and urging her horse to go faster.

“We of the Plains believe that our dead travel with us, ride along beside us, unseen and unknown, but knowing and seeing.”

Marcus’s voice rang in my head. “Until the longest night. On that night, we mourn our dead, who are released to journey to the stars.”

I looked down at my hands, shivering, wanting to throw up. But curiosity forced me to glance to my right, to see if—

Gils was there.

Ah, Goddess, no. That had to mean that... I twisted as far as I could without risking my seat.

I caught a glimpse of Keir, three horses back, guarding the rear. Dark hair as he watched behind us, his two sword hilts jutting up behind his shoulders.

Pain flooded my heart. I cried out then, howling my grief and anguish to the sky. But the sky and the dead made no answer, and Greatheart never stopped. The sound tore from my chest, pouring out of me, but there was no comfort, no pity in the stars.

So I buried my face in Greatheart’s mane, and let my sobs overwhelm me. The horse could take me where he willed. What did it matter?

Stay on, stay on, stay on.

I came back to myself when I realized that Greatheart had finally come to a halt. His head hung down as he drew in air and his sides were lathered.

I felt heavy, unable to do more than breathe. It took long moments before I understood what had happened, and longer still for me to lift my head and look around.

Nothing. Nothing around us but the plains and horses.

I turned my head to scan the area. It all had that eerie glow of silver, from the moon high above. I could hear water flowing nearby. A stream, perhaps. But for miles in all directions, all I could see was horses and grass.

A sob escaped my throat. It was all I had strength for.

Greatheart took a few steps, and lowered his head. I could hear him drinking, great gulps of water. Part of me worried that he’d make himself sick. But he was thirsty, and I was too weary to care.

Down. I needed to get down.

I looked at my hands, wrapped tight in the horsehair. I had to think to get them to loosen their grip. They’d cramped so tight in the rough hair that I sobbed as they slowly let go. I slid from Greatheart’s back to fall in a heap at his feet.

Keir was dead. My beloved . . .

I curled into a ball and wept, until the blackness of despair and exhaustion claimed me.

I awoke, warm and safe, wrapped in blankets that smelled of Keir. I sighed, and smiled and reached out. . .

“Muwapp?”

I jerked up and awake, my heart pounding in terror.

An animal stared back at me, sitting by my feet, its long fur hanging down to cover my toes. It gave me a mild look, and started chewing its cud.

“Muwaaaapppp.”

They were all around me, six of them, my blanket of the night. I shivered a bit in the cold morning air, and realized that they had kept me warm. I sat still, breathing hard, letting my heart slow, recovering from the shock.

The one closest burped, and I was awash in grass-sweet breath. I laughed in spite of myself. They looked like large shaggy goats, except they had longer necks and large, floppy ears. I reached out and scratched one between the ears, and it burped again and almost seemed to purr.

“Muwapp. Muwapp.” The one at my feet got up, and shook itself like a dog.

The others rose as well, cranky and objecting, but obeying anyway. They moved to the stream to drink. The last one looked at me like I was some sort of very odd creature, and then followed the others. It left a tuft of wool behind, caught on the matted grasses. I plucked it, and held it to my nose. It had that spicy scent of Keir’s. I twirled it in my fingers, and smiled when I realized that Keir smelled like a goat.

Keir was dead.

It felt like I’d been struck in the chest, right between my breasts. I covered my heart with my hands, and bent over, moaning as the pain and memories washed over me, over and over. As the memories spilled out and re-played before my eyes.

Just when we’d sworn ourselves to each other. Just when we’d learned to trust and have faith . . .

My chest was so tight, I could barely breathe. I rocked back and forth, sobbing until exhaustion silenced my tears.

Something nudged me. I looked up to see Greatheart standing over me. He lowered his head, and sniffed my neck.

“Oh, Greatheart.” I reached up, and hugged him. He waited patiently as I clung to him, trying to get my tears under control.

When I could, I let go and tried to struggle to my feet. As I shifted to stand, I realized that my satchel was still on my hip, the strap between my breasts. I eased the strap over my head and just sat for a moment, trying to get my bearings.

I was a mess. My tunic was stained and wrinkled. My head was pounding something fierce, and my stomach was empty and growling. My hands hurt, and I opened them to see they were swollen, hot and raw. There were sharp cuts where Greatheart’s mane had sliced into my palms.

The goats were gathered at the bank of the stream, drinking and eating and chattering like old women on laundry day. Greatheart took a step and scattered them, so that he could drink, noisily sucking in water. The goats scolded with their odd sounds, but splashed through the water to the other side of the stream. I got to my feet and staggered over to kneel by the water, upstream of Greatheart.

I thrust my hands in first. The touch of the water made me hiss as it cooled my heated skin. I cleaned them as best I could, then cupped them and drank the cool sweet water. Only then did I splash my face, drying it on the sleeves of my tunic.

That done, I got to my feet, to look around in the light of day.

Grass and horses. No people. No tents. No enemies.

No ghosts.

I was just as grateful for the last.

I didn’t want to think, didn’t want to feel. My hands still hurt, so I decided to think about that for now. I walked back to my satchel, sat next to it and opened it wide. There was a salve that would help, somewhere in the mess.

The first thing I pulled out was bloodmoss. Carefully, I used a bit to close the cuts. They were still raw, still swollen, but some of the pain was gone.

The next item was my vanilla soap, dried and wrapped in cloth. I held my breath, not wanting to inhale the scent. Not now. I couldn’t think about that now. I set it in the grass, as far away as possible.

I rummaged further, surprised to see nothing broken, even the jar with the ehat musk. I wasn’t really sure what all was in the satchel. Gils had made it from an old saddlebag and a wide leather strap. He’d told me that he was putting in pockets for ‘useful things’. I could see him seated on the floor of my stilltent, looking up at—

I wiped my nose on my tunic, and tried to force myself to think about other things. But the images flooded into my head.

Gils convulsed, limbs jerking in spasms, his head thrown back, gasping for air.

Yers staggered, almost dropping the lad in horror. But Isdra stepped closer to Yers, taking more of Gils’s weight. They both managed to hold steady as Gils stopped thrashing as quickly as he had started.

My head came up, my eyes popped open. I looked out over the grasses, but I didn’t see them. Instead, I went over that horrible moment again and again, with the eye of a healer. A cold, unemotional eye.

Gils convulsed, limbs jerking in spasms, his head thrown back, gasping for air.

The patient had convulsions.

I moved then, my hand on his forehead. Gils was warm, but not extraordinarily so. “Gils?” I called his name, but there was no reaction, no indication that he was aware. I placed my fingers at his neck, feeling a slow, weak pulse.

The patient had not had a fever.

Quickly, I checked for any kind of head wound, or perhaps he was choking. But his head showed no sign of injury and his throat was clear. There was no sign of other injury, it had to be the plague, and yet there was no odor, no real sweat on his body. But the headaches could cause these kinds of problems, if they were severe enough. Gils’s breath was rapid and labored, perhaps ...

No head wound. No odor, no sweating. Breathing was rapid and labored.

Again, Gils jerked in spasms. His breathing was slowing, as was the beat of his heart. I looked around, finally focusing on Keir’s face, a question in his eyes. I met his gaze, and let my tears fall, answering with a shake of my head.

His heart had slowed, his breathing had slowed. My throat was as dry as a bone, my heart was racing. Seen now, with a cold eye and distance, I knew—

I swallowed hard, and faced the truth. Gils had not died of the plague.

But the only thing that I could think of that might cause those symptoms was poison.

I stared at the satchel, numb.

Iften spun on his heel, and glared at me with eyes filled with hate. He paused as he stepped past me. “You and your poisons made it to the Heart. But we of the Plains can learn to use poison, too. Remember that, Xyian.”

I remembered, all right. I also remembered that Iften had been alone with my brother at one point, when Keir had used him as a messenger. That attack in the market, they’d used a lance fletched with Iften’s pattern. Keir had no proof, but...

Monkshood caused convulsions. Monkshood, the poison my brother had offered me, to ‘preserve my honor’. I’d left it behind in my room when I’d given myself to Keir.

Left it in my room for my brother to find.

Was it possible that Iften had poisoned Gils?

I sat staring for some time, before the stinging of my hands brought me back to my task. I forced myself to concentrate on the tasks at hand.

I dug deeper into the satchel’s depths, pulling out all the contents for the first time. My medicines were there and I set them out by my feet. When I found the jar with the right salve, I stopped for a moment to rub some into my hands. I bit my lip as the medicine stung. That meant it was working.

At least, that’s what I told my patients.

I stoppered the jar, and continued to empty out the satchel. Clean cloths for bandages. A small leather pouch with . . . could it be?

The gurt spilled out into my hand, the familiar white pebble cheese of the Firelanders. My stomach rumbled, but I winced at the idea. It was so dry ... my stomach gurgled again, and I shrugged, popped one into my mouth, and chewed.

It tasted wonderful.

I crammed in another piece. Of course, it was only the hunger that made it taste good. Or maybe that my nose was so stuffed that I couldn’t smell it. I kept eating as I continued my hunt.

More of my familiar medicines, and the scrap of leather that held the bit of mushroom that Iften had spit out. I set them all aside and kept digging.

An unfamiliar jar proved to be sweetfat. I recognized the smell. I wondered what kind of grasses they used to make it, even as I set it down.

A small wooden box, with flint, steel, and tinder. Bless you, Gils.

Another small pouch, with leather working tools. A battered tin pot. Another small pouch, with ... kavage beans!

Dried meat, wrapped in a few folds of leather. A wooden comb. I started to cry over my riches when my fingers closed over a last item.

The spring knife that Marcus had given me.

I’d thought my tears had gone dry.

I’d been wrong.

I crushed the kavage beans between two river stones. They boiled in the small battered pot, over a tiny fire that I managed to get started on the third try with the flint and steel.

I drank the first bowlful before it really cooled, and set the crushed beans to boil again as I worked at the dried meat. Tough chewing, but my belly didn’t care.

There were berries by the water, hanging fat from low bushes only as high as my ankle. I almost plucked some, but the words of Joden’s song rang in my head. About what white berries did to your bowels.

I decided I wasn’t that hungry.

After the second bowl of kavage, my headache was gone. I repacked the satchel, and put what was left of the meat and gurt back into one of the pockets. I boiled the kavage beans a third time, carefully feeding the fire twigs and dried grasses. They curled in the small flame. The third time made a very weak and bitter brew. I drank it anyway, with the crushed beans, and sucked on the bits that remained.

I took my tunic off, and strapped the knife to my arm, as Marcus had taught me.

Keir was dead. Marcus had probably joined him, if not by another’s hand, then by his own.

“Death comes in an instant.”

Oh, Marcus.

I closed my eyes for a moment, then put my tunic on, and sat back on the matted grass. The sun was higher now, and I was warm enough. My little fire was dying, but I had no further need. I stared at it as my hands took up the wooden comb, and worked on my hair. Greatheart grazed nearby. The goats had wandered off.

I didn’t want to think. Didn’t want to feel. I sat numbly, and combed my hair.

The comb hit a bad snarl and I yanked in frustration. Might as well take this trick knife and cut it all off.

Marcus spoke. “If the sweat is as bad as you say, maybe we should cut her hair. It will be hard to keep clean, and will tangle.”

“No,” Keir answered softly. He was beside me, running his fingers through my hair, pulling it off my face. “No need. I’ll braid it for her. I’ll not see it cut.”

I closed my eyes at the memory, and the pain washed over me again. Keir . . .

I flushed with shame, knowing now what I’d asked of Isdra. She’d been prepared to follow Epor into death, and I tried to stop her, with the weakest of arguments. How hollow my words seemed now that I wanted to do exactly the same thing. There are no words, no medicine, to heal this wound. I was mortified that I had even thought I could.

My tears welled up again, the pain that I so desperately didn’t want to feel rising within my chest. We all like to think we’re strong, until we are faced with our own loss. I opened my eyes, and stared at the comb in my hands.

Goddess above, what was I to do?

My breathing slowed. Death held no fear for me, if I’d ride at Keir’s side to the snows.

I dropped the comb, and twisted my wrist. The blade popped out, just like it was designed to do. Bright and sharp. Xymund had intended that it be used to end my life, back at Water’s Fall.

It was sharp enough.

I looked at it for long moments, feeling a strange sense of peace. I knew the hows of the deed. I was a healer, after all.

“No.” I gripped his arm with my good hand and tried to pull myself up. Keir helped me without even thinking about it. “I want a bath now. I stink. I don’t care what the water is like.”

Keir blinked and frowned. “Gils needs to check—”

“Gils can check it after I have bathed.”

“Gils said—”

“Who is the healer here?” I took a step.

His lips quirked. “Master healer, if I remember right.”

I smiled. “The Master wants a bath.”

He smiled. “Then, Master, you shall have one.”

I smiled even as I sobbed, placing the blade against my wrist. Better to die at my own hand than at Iften’s.

Keir would be waiting.

Marcus would be waiting.

Papa would be waiting. . . .