Page 16

W e approach the rocky pass bridging Harmoria and Portael on foot.

We’re to climb with bow and arrow into the cliffs that rise sharply on either side of the narrow pass where the battle rages.

Their armour is light; it allows them swift and quiet movement into rocky crevices, but this lightness also amplifies the din ahead—the clash of metal, the roar of commands, the warcries of the Wyrds, the thuds of the fallen. ..

Kjartan steers me into a nook in a wall of rock, large enough for a healer to patch a few men up, but little else, and when I peer around the edge I get an eyeful of fierce movement only a dozen yards away—

There. Quin on horseback, the last barrier of defence on the pass, slashing with his mighty sword. My heart pounds and my sweaty hands clutch the rock concealing me.

Two Wyrds uniformed in blue and seated upon black horses charge at Quin at once, and Quin masterfully steps his horse to avoid the brunt of it, turning their force to his advantage and throwing them off their steeds.

Kjartan has his bow out and fires an arrow at the Wyrd who rises and tries to stab Quin’s horse.

The killing thunk of the arrow has my stomach rioting. He’s a soldier violently forcing his way into Skeldar land, but he’s also a young man. A boy under orders.

Commander Kjartan grunts. “Beyond this pass there are tens of thousands of them. Their numbers are heavily stacked against us. I pray to all the gods that jarl’s backup arrives soon.”

Nicostratus.

A fresh wave of Wyrds charge into the pass, and I feel the weight of the men’s exhaustion as they quickly drag the wounded behind them and regroup at Quin’s orders. This must be the Wyrds’ tactic. Tire us out with wave after wave of fresh attack.

Commander Kjartan orders our men to bring the wounded to me, and while the battle continues, behind the shield of Quin’s fighters, I staunch wounds, stitch skin with swift precision, bind broken limbs, and use potions to ease their pain.

Some are sent back to camp, while others grab their axes and roar their way back into battle.

In the next lull, I search for him. He’s close. Closer than before. Only a half dozen yards from me.

We’ve lost ground.

Regardless, Quin remains on his steed, swinging his sword, throwing back a handful of Wyrds in one blow—

I gasp as a Wyrd rises from the supposedly vanquished and throws a short spear. Quin sees, but too late to dodge it completely. The spear slices along his upper arm and in his moment of pain, another Wyrd swings his sword.

Quin’s horse rears violently at the attack and Quin is thrown to the ground, his head hitting rock. He doesn’t get up.

Four Wyrds close in, swords gleaming.

I’m yelling and running, my heart in my throat.

Commander Kjartan’s stormblades have been sent further up the cliffs with their bows, Kjartan himself twelve feet above me on the wall. There’s no way they can reach Quin.

I run hard and slide on my knees to Quin’s side as arrows whistle overhead and plunk into Wyrds. The air tastes of salt and iron, dust and bitter blood, and it’s not allowed to be his . With all my strength, I haul Quin by the arms, dragging him away from the battle and into my rocky nook.

Blood streams from a cut at his hairline and I hurriedly staunch the flow, feeling the pulse of it leaking through the too thin fabric.

With gritted teeth, I dunk my needle in my shallow bowl of strong spirits, thread it and stitch him up.

Each moment of resistance as I pierce through his skin has me murmuring to him.

He’ll be fine. It’s a surface wound. It’s just for now.

When he has meditated, I’ll guide him through a vitalian spell to remove any scar. I could heal him constantly from the shadows if only...

Magic is better. It just is .

“You need to meditate! You need...” My voice breaks and I throw down my needle and check his pulse.

Steadying.

I let out a long breath and grab a tonic to rouse him. It slips over his lips and down his chin, and I force a finger into his mouth and pour more. He gags and swallows, and blinks.

“Close your eyes,” I tell him and dust a powder against infection over his head wound. I carefully blow away any that fell onto his eyelashes. “You’re drained.”

He grimaces as he sits. “You shouldn’t be here.” I tie a hard knot in the bandage on his arm, making him wince, even chuckle. “Just as well you are?”

“Better.”

“Got any pearl heart to keep me going?”

I snatch his face in my hands and kiss him fiercely. “This will have to do.”

He stills and laughs and kisses me again until I’m gasping. There’s a battle raging around us, there’s blood being spilled onto earth, and his warm lips are urgently parting mine .

“Such self-restraint,” he murmurs.

I flick his good arm.

Laughing quietly, Quin pulls back. He whistles, and at the vibration of approaching hooves, he staggers up and throws himself into the saddle. With one last lingering look my way, he charges back into battle.

Commander Kjartan slides down the cliff and back into the nook. His voice is gruff, heavy with responsibility and regret. “If we lose this ground...”

His words hang in the air like a death sentence.

If we lose this ground, they’ll take Portael.

Once they have Portael, it’s a half day’s near-defenceless march to Ragn and its many innocent lives.

Lives like those who dropped their ‘blessed’ runes in despair.

Lives like my aunt’s, whose belly gently swells with child.

I clench my fists. Stare out towards the horizon. Evening sky is bleeding as red as my stained hands. Where are Nicostratus and his men? I turn my gaze up at the cliffs, at all that hard smooth stone. Could something have stalled him? Is he hurrying determinedly towards us, hoping we’ll hold out?

I push off the dense rock. “Blocking the pass would stall the Wyrds, wouldn’t it?”

Commander Kjartan’s sharp eyes follow my gaze to the cliffs. “If enough rock came down, they’d need at least a day to dig out.”

“Enough time to rest and re-gather.”

“We’ve no way to shift it.”

Quin has a way. After he’s meditated. When he’s full of spiritual power. Although surely Nicostratus will have brought reinforcements by that time...

A blood-red sky darkens into a black one.

Fresher stormblades arrive, muttering that there should have been more of them by now.

They charge into the fray, and Quin and his men slump out of it, bloodied and dismayed as they look over the men relieving them. Who will make it back?

Kjartan escorts me and his men back to camp. He’s quiet, like we all are. I glance at the tents. Everyone’s exhausted. They’re at their end, and there’s no pearl heart left. They crawl towards their mats to sleep. Hopefully they at least can dream away their reality.

I halt abruptly at a chilling thought. It feels like an icy fist clenching around my stomach.

Nicostratus.

What if he’s looked into my things?

What if he entered the dromveske?

What if . . .

I peel off from our group and run. When I get to Quin’s tent, I almost smack into him caning his way out of it in fresh clothes. “Where are you going? You need to sleep. You—”

“I need to meditate,” he says quietly and continues past me. “Come.”

I follow him to the back of camp, to the hill where I’d come yesterday.

It’s a crisper evening and the sky stretches forever over us, twinkling with a million stars.

Could they really be the souls of the dead?

Could the soldiers from today already be there?

How can something so painful be so beautiful?

Quin seats himself crossed-legged at the top of the hill where breezes whip at his hair. “You’re pacing,” he murmurs. There’s a question behind it. Why? How can I help ?

My stomach lurches and I open my mouth. Say it. Tell him. But no words come out. I slam my mouth shut again. I shouldn’t say it now. Quin needs to meditate, needs to regain his spiritual energy. I can’t interfere with this. He must concentrate.

I force myself to stop pacing and settle beside him, my own hair flickering in the wind along with his. Below us stretches abandoned Portael and the large inky river running through it, and further in the distance are the larger hills of Ragn...

I dig my hand into the grass.

“You’re breathing is uneven,” Quin murmurs.

I let go of my breath and forcefully steady it. “Meditate.”

His brow pinches, but he inclines his head. “Rest. This will take a while.”

With heavy spirits, I lie down and curl onto my side, bracketing him. For two hours I come in and out of sleep, each time feeling sicker as I glance over Portael and see it quiet. No movement. No soldiers marching to join us.

After the third hour, Quin uncrosses his legs. I should sit up now, tell him... But I’m curled on my side, rigidly still.

Quin feels it. He shifts to rest a hand on the back of my head. “Caelus?”

My heart bangs, and his gentle fingers slide out of my hair.

As he moves to stroke again, I push up quickly, avoiding the touch. His expression flickers and he drops his hand. “Talk.”

“I...” The words are gummed up, too sickening to speak. I gesture towards camp. “How would we win this war if these men were all we had?”

“We’ll have more—”

“ If. ”

Quin observes the camp and does his quick calculation, ending with a grimace.

I shiver.

He takes off his cloak but I stop him from giving it to me, hand balled into the soft fabric. Could there be another way? To stop them dying? My gaze rises sharply from his cloak to him. “The rocks. Break them. Block the pass.”

“If they see my magic—”

“Then don’t be seen!”

“You were so brave today. Why are you afraid now?”

“It’s war. Of course I’m afraid.”

“This is something more.”

“I just think, while you wait for backup, let the men and the healers rest.”

Quin searches my eyes, and I avert them.

“What if,” I hurry on, “while they’re busy digging, we could get into their camp and... and... destroy their food? So they’d have to retreat to get more? There are dead Wyrds amongst the bodies in the pits. We could take their clothing, we could—”

“ We could nothing!” Quin bites out. “Today, I was afraid if a single Wyrd passed me, you’d be killed. I won’t let you be surrounded by them.”

“It’s my punishment .”

“I will not let anything happen to you. We will win,” Quin says more softly. “Nicostratus—”

The words finally fall out of me in a whisper, “Is not coming.”

Quin pauses, and carries on, “When he comes—”

I cover his mouth with my hand, shaking harder. “He has my dromveske. He’s seen it. He’s heartbroken. He’s angry.” I look at the horror entering his eyes. “He’s not coming.”

I can’t remove my hand. My voice comes out strangled.

“He asked me to stay away. He warned me about coming between you. You knew it too; you asked me too. And I couldn’t stay away.

I kept justifying why this time it didn’t count.

You’re captured and I’m only saving you.

It’s just one last moment. It’s the eve of war.

You’re wounded... But I can’t keep justifying it. Look at the consequences. Look .”

I drop my hand from his mouth and sweep it toward the sleeping fighters and the stormblades still fighting at the pass, then sweep it towards Ragn and the vulnerable lives depending on us there.

Quin closes his eyes and when he opens them again, he too is staring at all the souls on the line. “He will come. Maybe he’ll be late. But he’ll come.”

I heave to my feet and turn away from him. “Until then,” I say on a breaking voice. “Every death is on me.”