Chapter 7 Divine Intervention Made Me Do It
CHAPTER SEVEN
DIVINE INTERVENTION MADE ME DO IT
The smell of old blood and sour wounds permeated the small room. It was cloying, clawing its way down his throat until he could taste it. Fighting the urge to gag, to run from the tent and breathe in the fresh air, he stood tall.
Ridan spent so much of his life picturing the moments preceding this.
When he would raise his sword in defense of his people, when he would shoulder the burdens of his clan and come through victorious.
It haunted him in his sleep. Fingers twitching as his muscles continued to train even as his mind begged for rest.
But this he had never prepared for. Which, in hindsight, was foolish. There wasn’t a seasoned warrior alive who didn’t bear scars. Who didn’t have stories where they thought the final blow was coming for them?
Battles were glorious. This was just…
Ridan supposed death wasn’t always worth writing songs about.
Dried blood tugged on his skin. He’d been tasting copper for hours now, and he had no idea if the wound was still bleeding, or if clots had caught between his teeth. Was it blood loss that made him so dizzy or the sight before him? He wasn’t sure he wanted to know the answer.
Arms crossed to hide their trembling, he watched as Iylah and Sehleh did their best to treat his mother’s wounds.
She was conscious now, teeth digging into a strap of leather as the healer worked to clean and stitch her wounds.
She was deathly pale, scars a sharp contrast to the pallid flesh that looked to be no more alive than the bodies rotting on the field.
Sehleh had been out with the rest of the non-combative clan members. They’d holed up in a valley just beyond the clan, ready to flee if the battle didn’t go their way. She’d only just returned, holding back tears as she helped the exhausted healer keep their chief alive.
Ridan knew healing enough to know that his mother would not come out of this whole—if she survived at all. Her breathing was quick, blonde lashes heavy with dirt and blood, fluttering as she tried to remain conscious.
After he killed Bargrave, Osmond managed to get their chief off the field. How, Ridan didn’t know. He couldn’t see anything but the opponent in front of him, eyes tracking blades like he’d trained for his whole life.
It hadn’t been enough. There was no amount of practice that could prepare him for the feel of his sword sinking into a man’s chest. Even a man like Bargrave.
He knew his sword was sharp. His father kept it pristine, but to see it—the blood, the crunch of bone breaking, the sucking sound of blood seeping into failing lungs…
Nausea coiled in his belly, and he bit back a retch.
“If you’re going to be sick, do it outside, boy,” Iylah snapped, never taking her eyes off her work.
“I’m not,” he denied through gritted teeth.
Sehleh looked up at him, her eyes dark. “Ridan, maybe you should step out. You don’t need to see—”
“Let him stay,” Restrina choked out from around the leather between her teeth. “He needs to see.”
She wasn’t looking at him, staring steadfastly at the ceiling of their tent.
They’d put her on the table, flaps closed, to try and keep the curious out.
He knew there would be a crowd gathered outside.
The worry was palpable. Even as they cleared the battlefield of the dead and tended to the wounded, they had one eye on the closed tent flaps.
Iylah finished her last stitch, sitting back with a sigh. Grey hair stuck to her sweaty skin. She was covered in blood and gore. Muttering under her breath, she left to get a healing poultice.
Restrina spit the gag out and took a shaky breath. Without lifting her arm, she twitched her fingers towards her son. “Ridan, come here.”
He obeyed without hesitation, stepping up closer to her head so she could see him.
Her eyes bore into his. He knew those eyes.
They were capable of so much. He remembered them filled with tears when she finally allowed herself to break down over the loss of her mate.
Remembered them crinkled in laughter when he finally managed to tackle her, pinning her to the ground after a lifetime of losing.
Eyes so sharp, he was convinced his mother could see through mountains.
“What were you thinking?” her voice was low, hoarse.
“I—”
“You were told, ordered, to stay off that battlefield.”
He dropped his head, ready for his scolding. He’d had so many. But this felt different. All those other times, he deserved it. They were for things he knew he shouldn’t do—skipping his classes or putting a frog in Jonen’s boots.
“I was,” he admitted, meeting his mother’s stare. “And I’m not sorry I did it.”
“You could have been killed!”
“So could you! So could Osmond! Or Henroen! You didn’t keep them from the field,” he shouted, ignoring the way Sehleh flinched.
“Because they are seasoned warriors. They were best suited for the position I put them in. You,” she lifted her hand, grabbing Ridan’s in a vice grip. “You are too young, Ridan. You don’t have the experience to be out there.”
“Obviously I do!” he didn’t yank his hand free, enjoying the strength he felt in his mother’s fingers. “I killed Bargrave with father’s sword!”
Restrina flinched, looking at the bloodied sword hanging at his side. “But you almost didn’t,” her voice was small. “Do you know why I asked you to lead them?”
“To keep me safe—”
“No,” she snapped. “I asked you to lead the non-fighters to keep them safe. You were supposed to protect them, lead them to safety if I could not.”
Ridan swallowed, feeling the first tinge of shame. “I left Jonen and Corric…”
“They are not my son!” her voice wavered as it raised. “They are not a future chief! They will not be tasked with the safety of every single man, woman, and child who calls the Stone Blade home. You will be.”
He felt his lip wobble and bit it until it bled.
“Ridan, warriors can only be successful in battle if they know their loved ones are safe. Do you think Henroen could wield his ax if he thought his mate was in danger? Or Osmond could fight effectively if he was worried about his sister?”
Her peppery scent was beginning to seep through the smell of sickness. “Being a chief isn’t about glory. Or power. It’s about doing the right thing, even when it’s not what you want.”
His omega wanted to whine, to drop his head and nuzzle into her neck like he used to. Beg for his sire’s approval and love. He looked down at the sword on his hip, sticky with blood.
“I just wanted to be like him.”
The iron grip on his hand softened, and she stroked the back of his hand with her fingers. “I know, and that’s what scares me.”
When he met her gaze again, her eyes were wet. “Your father was the greatest man I’ve ever known, and great men are often taken too soon.” She let a tear fall through the grime on her cheek. “And you will be even greater than him.”
Ridan had only ever seen his mother cry once, right after his father’s death, after she’d bundled them up to the mountains to grieve in private. She allowed herself to cry once, and then never again.
But she was crying now.
“Greatness takes time, pup. It needs years and experience to flourish.” She brought his wrist up to her neck and scented him. Scenting was intimate. It said things words could not, and when his wrist touched her neck, he felt a rush of love and pride.
“Try not to be in too much of a hurry.”
Ridan dropped his forehead to his mothers, eyes closed as they scented each other.
He had never actively sought kind words from his mother—he didn’t need them.
Not when words could be so feeble and fickle.
No, Ridan heard everything he needed to in the way her eyes flashed in satisfaction when he hit his first bullseye.
Or when she spent hours teaching him how to sharpen his blade and then took him on hunts to show him the best way to stalk and kill prey.
Iylah stormed back into the tent. Her eyes narrowed at the two and she sucked her teeth. “Barely this side of death and you’re wasting breath. Stubborn Oldsuns.” She shooed Ridan out, telling him to tend to his wounds.
He stepped outside and took a deep breath, looking at the dusky sky. Exhaustion clung to him like dew, but he didn’t go for a rest.
Ridan returned to the battlefield to help treat the wounded and care for the dead.
He had greatness to chase.
Brune had a standard by which he measured himself.
He couldn’t remember when he came up with it.
Perhaps he was born with it, or perhaps it was something all Guttersnipe kids knew.
But whenever he found himself overwhelmed, or scared, he would take stock of himself and knew if he could be sure of three things, he would be all right.
He was fed.
He was warm.
He was dry.
Closing his eyes, Brune repeated those three things. Despite finding himself laying his head in a foreign land, surrounded by people who were trying to kill him only a day ago, he reminded himself over and over again—he was fed; he was warm; he was dry.
Niklas lay beside him, curled up on the opposite side of a small unlit hearth. It wasn’t terribly cold without it, the hide of the tent keeping out the night. Neither had bothered to undress, laying down in their armor despite the discomfort. They even wore their boots.
After the battle, he found himself swept up, grabbed around the arm by the large mustached alpha he’d seen near Chief Restrina.
The man made Brune feel small as he effortlessly towed him and Niklas away from the battle, depositing them in this tent.
He didn’t say not to leave. He didn’t say anything.
And so they lay here, waiting for…something. Death? He could hardly blame the Clansmen if they greeted him with a morning kiss of steel. Brune had been born their enemy. He marched on their lands, killed their people.