Chapter 23
GALLMAU
G allmau knew Meri should have been back by his side in the blink of an eye, and when she wasn’t, that meant trouble. Then she collapsed to the ground, and everything went red.
He planted his feet and waited with his sword over his right shoulder, trying to channel the fury he felt into killing the men who had hurt her.
Gallmau had no idea how injured Meri was, or even if she was alive.
Those thoughts had to wait. He had to survive himself before he could help her, and that was all he could focus on.
The first rider burst toward him, his arm gripping one of the curved blades the Shields favored for combat on horseback, as his two companions followed on his heels.
Gallmau had trained with fighters aspiring to join the Shields—hell, he had considered trying to join the order himself.
He would need every scrap of knowledge he had learned about the famed guards of the Noviodunam to survive a fight with not one, but three fighters as blessed with size and strength by Saint Attilio as he was.
He prayed Sinan was wrong and he wasn’t facing actual Shields.
Two of the riders went sprawling off their horses as their saddles twisted. Meri had been able to sabotage their girths after all. Then the first rider’s horse started, as a flash of white-blue light and a loud bang resounded through the air.
That was more luck than Gallmau had expected. He swung his sword at the momentarily distracted rider and landed a solid blow to the man’s left arm, toppling him off the horse.
The man recovered faster than he had hoped, scrambling to his feet and blocking another hit from Gallmau’s sword.
The two of them traded blows for a few fast, furious seconds before Gallmau had the briefest opening—the other fighter had come in under his guard, with his face a handsbreadth away.
Gallmau brought the pommel of his sword up and into the man’s nose, hearing the sickening crack as bone shattered, the fragments driving backward and into the man’s skull.
The man hadn’t even hit the ground before another ear-shattering blast resounded, and a blaze of light blinded Gallmau.
He blinked spots out of his eyes to see another of the giant fighters on the ground, Sinan’s sword through his throat. The third was limping toward Gallmau—hurt by the fall off his horse, perhaps. Sinan had something small and metallic in his hand, and he threw it at the approaching man.
This time Gallmau figured out Sinan’s trick, and squeezed his eyes shut as the device detonated.
The sound and blaze of light halted the man’s advance and gave Gallmau an opportunity to rush the fighter.
The man knelt on the ground, a hand covering his eyes.
Gallmau hesitated a moment, the surge of battle fever fading as the reality he was about to kill an injured and blinded man sunk in.
The pause cost him. The man drove a short blade up and into Gallmau’s shoulder.
It could have been a killing blow—but the man’s strike went wide, as if on purpose, which didn’t make any sense.
Hot agony seared through Gallmau’s arm, and he lashed out with his own weapon.
The blow was off-balance and poorly directed, but the man was rising to his feet, his ruse over, and Gallmau’s blade caught him beneath the edge of his helmet.
He crumpled, blood spraying out from the severed vessels in his neck.
Sinan came up beside him, and the two of them watched as the man became still and lifeless on the blood-soaked grass.
“Who the hell were they?” Gallmau shook from exertion and revulsion, his ears ringing from whatever Sinan had used against their enemies.
He knew the glory of war was nothing more than a charade, a lie told to make the horror of killing other people more palatable.
This had been self-preservation, but the rush of satisfaction he felt over the death of three intimidating opponents sickened him.
“If they were Shields, they should have been in uniform and helping us, for Saints’ sake. ”
The necromancer beside him only said, “I don’t sense anything. No power at all.”
Gallmau snapped out of his post-battle fugue of guilt and reflection, and jogged over to the spot he had seen Meri fall.
As he tried to quell a growing sense of panic, he mumbled prayers to anyone he could think of—his patron Saint Attilio, the sea gods his older relatives chanted to, even the Prophets of Meri’s religion. Then he knelt beside her limp body.
Blood soaked Meri’s dark curls, and her eyes were closed.
Gallmau pressed his fingers to her neck, willing a pulse to beat against his skin.
She groaned, and there was a weak flutter under his fingertips.
“Wake up, Meri, please.” Gallmau patted her chest and abdomen, searching for injuries, and gently shook her. She didn’t respond.
“She’s alive?” Sinan caught up to him, but the necromancer was now gasping between words. He had saved Gallmau’s life by joining in the fight, but it had cost him. “We need to get to the trees. I can’t help you carry her, but I could take your pack, maybe.”
Gallmau shook his head and lifted Meri over one shoulder. “I’m fine. Lean on me if you have to.”
There was nothing quick about their pace.
Even with Gallmau half-dragging Sinan as he carried Meri, the journey to the grove of trees took far too long.
He kept scanning the skies overhead and swiveling his head to check the horizon, fearing a return either of the cursed Azhdarchid or more armed men bent on killing them.
Gallmau let out a sigh of relief as they passed by several tree trunks and into the shelter of canopy of leaves above them. Then he spotted a path of crushed vegetation to their right.
Someone or something as large as a man had come through here recently.
To hide or maybe to hunt? Gallmau squeezed Sinan’s shoulder and jerked his head toward the broken twigs and flattened ferns.
Sinan nodded, and Gallmau lowered Meri to the ground at the necromancer’s feet.
Meri was unconscious, and Sinan looked like he was about to collapse, but Gallmau needed his hands free to face whatever might be waiting for them in the woods.
He stepped forward with caution, each foot placed to avoid excessive noise. This was a hunt, like any other he had been on, and surprise would be his best ally.
It took about ten paces before he came upon the body.
The man lying on his back on a tangle of tree roots and moss looked oddly peaceful in death.
His arms were crossed over his chest, as if he had been laid out in a casket for viewing.
In both size and clothing, he was indistinguishable from the three fighters who had attacked them on horseback.
Gallmau wasn’t sure whether to be relieved or horrified.
He had his short sword out, ready to strike a killing blow if this was another trick, but the man’s gray pallor and bluish lips weren’t compatible with life. His armor was untouched, and there was no blood or other sign of violence. How had he died?
A shout from Sinan rang out, and Gallmau scrambled to get back to him. The necromancer stood over Meri protectively, his sword in one hand and another of his small explosive devices in the other.
“I’ll give you one chance.” Sinan sounded as menacing and ominous as ever, even as his knees wobbled and he struggled to remain standing. “Drop your weapons and surrender or I’ll shred the flesh off your bones while you’re still breathing.”
A large bush with red berries shook, as if in terror at the necromancer’s words, and a woman stumbled forward, her hands up and her voice frantic.
“No, please.” Valentina’s hair fell in a tangle around her shoulders to her waist, and her arms and face were covered in scratches. “Sinan, don’t hurt me.”
Gallmau rushed toward Valentina as the necromancer sheathed his sword and leaned against a tree trunk for support.
Thank the Saints they found her.
“What happened?” Gallmau let the Amoran physician collapse against him, then lowered her into a sitting position and crouched beside her. “There’s a body close by, dressed similar to the men who attacked us.”
Valentina choked back a sob, her usual self-control and focus lost. “It all happened so fast, the lightning, the rain. Captain Caron went forward alone to scout out any danger and never came back. A group of attackers came after us on horseback after he left. Jacques told me to run, and he tried to fight them off—but they had weapons enhanced with aquamancy.”
“Was Abarsam with them?” Sinan asked. He was panting now, his chest moving in an odd motion.
Gallmau hated to think the courteous Kushian aquamage Meri had been so fond of could have taken part in murdering his rivals, but Abarsam’s easy countering of Jacques’s fiery tirades in the Synod meeting room was still fresh in his mind.
Valentina shook her head. “They were fighters, all as big as Shields. One of them found me hiding here and attacked me. His hands were around my throat, and I panicked…” Her voice trailed off, and she stared off in the distance, her lower lip trembling.
Gallmau put a hand on her shoulder. They had found the only person in this Saints-forsaken place who could help Meri, but Valentina was in a state of nervous shock, traumatized by what she had seen—and what she had done.
“Did you disrupt his heart rhythm?” Sinan adopted an interested tone, as if unique magical ways to kill people were a fascinating topic for him. Of course, since he was a death witch, they probably were. The necromancer held out a water flask toward the medica, his face tightening from the effort.
Valentina drew back from Sinan and gave Gallmau a panicked look. He took the flask from the necromancer and put it into her hand, encouraging her to drink. She raised it to her mouth and took a few sips, then stopped as if the memories of what it had taken to survive were too much to bear.