Gilded serpent, p.23
Gilded Serpent, page 23
“Will they give up?” Teriana’s whispered words seemed loud after the silence.
It wasn’t enough smoke to drive away men. If this had been a fortress under siege, he’d have choked the tunnels with the smoke of bonfires-worth of green wood. If he’d had something poisonous to burn, so much the better. Except they had nothing but bone-dry wood, and giving up their clothing to the flames would only delay the inevitable. But these were animals, so maybe—
The scratching resumed.
“Shit!” he snarled. “They’re digging around. We need more smoke.”
“It’s too narrow to get more fuel down there.” Teriana’s eyes were wide with fear. “We need to fill it back up. Put the cot or the stove over top.”
The stove. Marcus’s attention jerked to the cast-iron stove and the tin pipe rising to the roof above. The angle was wrong, but it might work.
Slamming the stove door shut, Marcus wrapped his hands in the blanket, took hold of the sides, and heaved, sliding the pipe out of the hole in the roof.
The shack immediately filled with smoke.
Tipping the stove over on its side, Marcus dropped to his knees next to the stovepipe and cut it with his knife, sawing through the metal even as his lungs filled with smoke, his eyes burning and watering.
He heard Teriana coughing, felt her wrap sodden fabric over his nose and mouth, his fingers burning from the escaping heat.
Beneath his knees, the ground was shifting. Trembling. In moments, it would collapse and the wolves would be in. Work faster.
But he couldn’t breathe.
Coughs wracked his body, the knife sliding in his grip.
There is no quitting here, only dying.
Wrenching on the stovepipe, he bent it backward, snapping it off and sending choking clouds of smoke into his face.
The world was swimming, everything moving as he tried to angle the pipe into the hole.
Then hands shoved him aside.
Marcus fell against the gap in the wall, sucking in desperate breaths of clean air. The wolves were yipping and running around the shack, several of them slamming their paws against the walls.
Teriana.
She was coughing, consumed by the clouds of smoke, barely visible in the faint light. Grabbing hold of her shoulders, he tried to haul her back, but she pulled away, choking out, “Almost … got … it. There!”
He dragged her against him, pushing her face against a gap so she could breathe fresh air. Her shoulders shook with coughs, but the sounds of digging had ceased, whatever she’d rigged filtering enough of the smoke into the wolves’ tunnel to drive them out.
But not all of it. Smoke rose from the stove, the air of the shack a grey haze. Marcus’s eyes burned. His throat felt like it had been scoured by sandpaper, and he wheezed with every breath, an attack upon him although he didn’t think it would be a bad one. Pressing his face to a gap in the boards, he sucked in cold fresh air.
“How long until dawn?” Teriana’s voice was scratchy, barely audible over the wind.
“I don’t know.” It felt like an eternity since the sun had set, but with night stretching for sixteen hours, it might be another eternity until dawn. Sweat cooled on his body, a chill setting into his bones, and Teriana shivered in his arms.
“Will they try again?”
The wolves had eased off in their attacks against the shack walls, and while he could still make out the sounds of motion outside, the pack had grown quiet. “They need to eat. Since it won’t be us tonight, they’ll need to find something else.”
Easing his arm out from under her, Marcus went to the stove and added more wood to the fire, keeping the stove door cracked enough that the flames could breathe without choking the shack with smoke. The faint light allowed him to see how Teriana had rigged the stovepipe to fill the wolves’ tunnel, using something to create an elbow connecting the pieces of pipe.
Wiping tears from his stinging eyes, Marcus reached out to touch the bend, feeling leather beneath his fingers before he recoiled from the heat. Boot leather.
Swearing, he crawled back over to Teriana, finding her naked foot, which felt like ice beneath his hand.
“Cold,” she mumbled.
“I know.” He found the bottom of her boot where it had been discarded after she’d cut off the haft, and replaced it on her foot, then tucked the single remaining blanket around her, eyeing the hanging wolf pelt. That would keep her warm, but he was rushing the process of curing it as it was, and if he took it off the frame before it had dried and rendered it unusable, they were dead.
You’ll both be just as dead if you freeze.
Heat radiated from the stove, but the wind gusting through the gaps they’d made in the wall drove it away. Yet he didn’t dare replace the board with the amount of smoke seeping into the shack, and building the fire up higher for heat would only make that worse.
Adding another piece of wood to the fire, he went back to Teriana, pulling her upright. “You need to get up … and … move,” he said, struggling to get enough air to speak. “If you pass out … you’ll … freeze.”
“Too tired.”
She was nearly deadweight in his arms, swaying on her feet. His own body ached from the chill, his hands and feet numb, only his head warm beneath the hat he’d made from the blanket. Pulling it off, he shoved it down over her tangled braids, the wind biting at his ears. “Come on, Teriana.” A fit of coughing stole over him. It was a bloody miracle this hadn’t killed him. “Stay with me. Stomp your feet.”
Her face rested against his shoulder, cocooned in the blanket he’d wrapped around both of them. She stomped one foot. Then the other. Then she began to cough, and her knees buckled.
“Shit!”
There was no helping it. Lowering her to the ground, he unfastened the wolfskin from the cot’s frame. It was mostly dry and had grown stiff and unwieldy. Pushing the cot against the wall, he rolled Teriana up in the blanket and set her on it, her face near one of the gaps in the boards. Then he curled up around her, pulling the wolfskin over top of them and molding it around their bodies as best he could.
It was so cold. So cold. The world swam in and out of focus, his thoughts fuzzy.
There is no quitting here, only dying.
He had never quit. Never given up. And he refused to do so now.
“Stay awake. Stay awake,” he wheezed, forcing himself up to add fuel to the fire before retreating back to Teriana’s shivering form.
How many more hours until dawn? There was no way to know. But he needed to keep the fire burning until the sun lit the sky.
“Stay awake, stay awake,” he repeated, using all the tricks he’d been trained to use to stay alert on a watch. Except his body was leaden with exhaustion, his eyelids refusing to stay open. The dense fur was soft against his cheek, and the painful burn of the cold slowly receded beneath its weight. Time began to skip, the cold and smoke of reality driven away by dreams where tens of thousands of wolves descended on his men and Titus did nothing but stand there and laugh as they were torn apart.
He jerked awake, half-falling off the cot. The fire was little more than glowing embers, so he added more wood. Outside, there was not even a hint of light to break the darkness.
“There is no quitting.” He climbed back onto the cot. Curled around Teriana and took hold of her hand. “There is no quitting. There is no…”
43
LYDIA
Lydia’s hands turned to ice as she pulled the blight into herself.
As she pulled death into herself.
Then the pain took hold. It burned like acid up her arms, and she clenched her teeth trying to hold in a scream as she fought the desire to pull away from Lena.
Black lines radiated up her arms, her skin turning grey, the agony unlike anything she’d ever experienced. Her heart battered against her rib cage, her breath coming in little panting gasps, but she couldn’t stop.
Because it was working.
Lena stared at her with wide eyes, then seemed to realize what was happening. She tried to push Lydia away, but Lydia dug her fingers into her friend’s shoulders and held on. She dug her heels into the other girl’s waist to keep her from pushing her free as she pulled the blight from her friend, searching and digging for the last strands of it, refusing to leave anything behind.
She wrenched out the last little bit, and then an arm closed around her throat, dragging her away from Lena.
“What in the name of the Six is going on?” Dareena demanded, then her eyes fixed on Lydia’s face and widened at what they saw. “Gods, girl.”
She opened her mouth to explain. To tell the High Lady that she’d done it.
But all that came out were screams.
The blight attacked her from the inside, the burning inescapable, and she fell to the floor, clawing at the stones, clawing at herself in an attempt to get it out. Strong hands caught her wrists, forcing them to the ground, but she fought back.
“Gods-damn it, Lydia!” Dareena shouted in her face. “Fight the blight, not me!”
Her mark was fighting, but for every two steps forward, she took one back as death consumed her strength. And she wasn’t certain which one would win.
Then she was up in the air, Dareena shouting instructions as she raced down the hall, Lydia slung over her shoulder. “Hold on, girl,” she ordered, but all Lydia could do was sob and cry, snot and tears covering her face as they descended the stairs.
“She’s infected!” she heard someone scream, but Dareena didn’t stop moving until they reached the barracks and dropped her on a cot. She rolled on her side, digging her nails into her arms, barely noticing the soldiers around her. Barely able to see as it was, her spectacles missing.
“Someone needs to put her down!”
The sound of a sword being drawn filled Lydia’s ears, along with Dareena’s voice, ominous as she said, “By all means, gentlemen, you are welcome to try.”
“With respect, Your Grace,” one of the soldiers said, “if she’s infected, she’s dead. All you’re doing is torturing her.”
“With respect, you idiot,” Dareena snapped, “Lydia may have found a cure for the blight, and I for one would like to hear how she did it. So do the whole city a bloody favor and keep your mouth shut.”
After that, the world faded in and out of focus, Lydia’s throat raw from screaming. Vaguely, she knew Lena and Gwen were near her, could hear their whispers of comfort in her ears and the feel of their hands gripping hers. But it was all distant to the fight going on inside of her. A fight that felt like a war between gods with her body the battleground.
“What’s going on?” Quindor’s voice. “What’s happened to her?”
“I was infected,” Lena said. “And Lydia … I’m not sure how, but she pulled the blight out of me and into herself.”
“You were infected?” Quindor hissed between his teeth. “You need to be isolated. Someone—”
Reaching up from her stupor, Lydia caught her friend’s arm. “You don’t touch her.”
“Don’t presume to give me orders, girl. I—”
“Listen to her, Quindor,” Dareena said, her gaze still on the watching soldiers. “Because I most certainly do presume to give you orders.”
The Grand Master gave an annoyed hiss, but left Lena alone to bend over Lydia, pulling open her robes, his eyes unfocused as he examined her. “The blight is retreating.”
She could feel the acidic burn fading, the blight drawing in on itself near her heart for one last stand. But she refused to let it win.
Closing her eyes, Lydia bit down on the insides of her cheeks and focused inward, directing her mark at herself, feeling the blight weaken and crumble, and then suddenly, it was gone.
She’d beaten it. Saved Lena and beaten back the blight, but gods … the thought of having to do this again. And again and again for all those who continued to be poisoned by the Corrupter. She wasn’t certain it was even possible.
But there was hope, because if Hegeria’s mark could drive it out of a body, surely one of Yara’s marked could drive it out of the land.
Exhausted, she rolled onto her back, staring up at the ceiling above. Then she whispered, “Someone needs to tell the King I’ve found the cure before he starts the purges. And while they’re at it, tell him he needs to find a living tender, because I think I know how we can push back the blight.”
44
KILLIAN
A bead of sweat rolled into his eye, but Killian couldn’t risk moving to wipe it away. Not when the Anuk raiding party they were about to ambush was drawing ever closer, the warriors’ eyes watchful as they scanned the hills and cliffs flanking the path. Other than rocks and scraggly pine trees, there was little cover to be had this time of year, and Killian was relying on the element of surprise.
Below, the first raider’s horse stepped past the marker, and a heartbeat later, the deafening roar of falling rocks filled the air. Debris tumbled across their path, and recognizing they’d been ambushed, the Anuk warriors drew their blades, retreating back the way they’d come at a gallop.
Only to come face-to-face with the Mudamorian force trailing them.
There was no way for them to get the gold-laden camel over the rocks, but they could get over them on foot, if they chose.
Go, Killian willed them. Take the escape route and run.
But instead, the Anuk pulled their weapons.
Anger flared through him, and Killian shouted, “Attack!” Leaping to his feet, he slid down the steep embankment, hearing Sonia and the rest of his soldiers following behind.
The Anuk drew tight around the camel, large shields held above their heads against the barrage of arrows from Killian’s bowmen, their swift desert horses prancing beneath them.
Killian pulled his sword, the bowmen ceasing their assault as the two forces collided.
He crossed blades with a big man, metal singing as they fought, the man’s horse squealing and reaching for Killian with yellow teeth. He stepped out of range, then spun and ran the warrior through, not stopping to watch the man fall before rounding on the next.
It was a brutal and bloody dance, the forces well-matched in skill and enmity, but Killian saw nothing but his opponents. Felt nothing but the thrill of the adrenaline coursing through his veins as they fought and fell to his weapons.
“Killian!”
Sonia’s voice tore him from the moment, and stepping away from a fallen man, he searched for her.
“The gods-damned camel!” she shouted, pointing.
His eyes tracked to where a lone rider led the laden camel toward a narrow gap left by the rockslide, and without thinking, he caught hold of the reins of one of the horses, swinging into the saddle.
Digging in his heels, he galloped in pursuit, not stopping to look if any of his men followed.
Clearing the slide, his eyes fixed on the Anuk warrior, the small man’s sand-colored clothing blending into the coat of his horse, face obscured by the veils they wore to block the endless desert sun.
The camel carried a heavy burden, and Killian rapidly gained ground.
The warrior hazarded a glance over his shoulder, and Killian saw how his eyes widened, but instead of abandoning camel and gold, the man tried to urge it faster.
“Fool,” muttered Killian, and he laid his spurs into the small horse’s sides and leapt over a pile of rocks the raider was forced to ride around. Drawing up alongside the camel, he sliced the taut leather lead, the camel slowing even as the warrior’s mount galloped on.
Catch him, a voice whispered in his head. Kill him.
But Killian ignored the voice, instead slowing next to the camel.
The warrior hauled on his mount’s reins, the horse wheeling and bucking as the man glared back at Killian. Yet instead of retreating, the idiot dug in his heels and charged back toward him.
“Have it your way,” Killian muttered, lifting his blade.
Sword met sword with a clash of metal. The horses sidled next to each other and lashed out with teeth and hooves, as trained to fight as their riders.
The warrior was good. Better than any Killian had fought today, moving with speed and skill. But he was half Killian’s size, and in the end, strength counted for something.
With a hard strike, Killian sent the other man’s sword spinning off into scrub brush. But in a flash, the Anuk warrior had a knife in hand, ready to throw it.
Killian was faster. His sword sliced through the air toward the warrior’s exposed side. Right as the man’s veil slipped, revealing the face of a boy.
Too late, Killian tried to alter his strike, but his weapon still slid along the boy’s ribs.
A hiss of pain filled his ears, but instead of attempting to flee, the boy lifted the knife, obviously intending to fight to the bitter end.
But Killian had never harmed a child. And he refused to do so today.
Reaching down, he caught hold of the boy’s leg and pulled him off his horse, sending him tumbling onto the rocky ground. In a heartbeat, he was off his own mount, pinning the boy’s arms with his knees while he pulled up the side of the boy’s bloody shirt to assess the wound.
“What are you doing, you Mudamorian piece of shit!” the boy shouted. “Too much of a coward to finish the fight?”
“It’s too hot to fight,” Killian answered. “And I got what I wanted.” He gestured toward the camel, which stood half-asleep in the sun. “Unlike you.”
Killian ripped a piece of fabric from the boy’s shirt and bound his wrists, tightening the knot as the boy squirmed, trying to get free.
Ignoring the onslaught of cursing that was eerily reminiscent of Finn, Killian stuffed a piece of fabric against the boy’s wound, then bound it tight. “Go home,” he said. “Tell your people that if they raid again, they will find me waiting for them. And that I will show them no mercy.”
“As if we expect mercy from a child-killer like you!” the boy snarled. “Nor do we wish it. What we want is vengeance.”
Killian blinked. Child-killer? “What are you talking about?”
