Chapter Three
Theos pushed himself hard on the way back up the mountain.
He wanted to get where he was going, but more importantly he wanted to be distracted.
If all his concentration was needed to find secure footing and pull his tired body along step after step, there would be no energy left for him to imagine what he was heading toward.
Because, of course, he was going to find Andros dead.
The young prisoner had known he couldn’t cure a rock viper bite; that was why he’d protested when Theos told him to try.
He’d only gone along with the stupid plan because Theos had threatened to kill the other prisoners, not because there’d been any chance of success.
That was what his mind told him. And if he’d known that it was true, he’d have slowed down.
There was no need to run up a mountain in order to help bury a friend.
Alternatively, if he’d known for sure that Andros was fine, there’d be no need to go up the mountain at all.
He could just wait in the valley, make his visits to the city, and be content.
It was the tiny nugget of doubt that pushed him forward. He made himself stop for the night when it became too dark to move safely, but he just rolled himself in his blankets and chewed some jerky rather than starting a fire, and at first light the doubt roused him and sent him on his way.
Snow clouds appeared midmorning, still far to the west but coming closer, and the wind developed a damp, sharp bite. It wouldn’t be the first snow of the season, not in the mountains, but any fresh snow was one more complication to consider. Theos hastened his already quick steps.
Then, in the dying light of that second day, he turned around a bend and saw the dancing glow of a fire not far distant.
He advanced with care, not because he expected hostility but because it was never wise to blunder into a camp of highly trained soldiers. He heard the sentry stir from the trees by the side of the path, just where he should be, and then, “Hold and identify yourself.”
“It’s Theos, Xeno.”
“I thought it might be. Thanks for coming back. Go on in.”
There was no emotion in the man’s voice, nothing to help Theos guess what he was heading into.
So he walked on cautiously, and when he saw the bundle of blankets over by the trees, he knew he’d been right.
Andros had died, and they’d wrapped him and put him over there awaiting burial.
Maybe they’d found no soil on the mountain deep enough for a grave and were going to carry him into the valley.
But then the blankets stirred, just a little, and the boy rose from his spot by the fire and walked over to his patient.
He spoke gentle words, none comprehensible, and then crouched down.
Theos strode toward the fire and was greeted by Achus and Elios, the two Sacrati who’d volunteered to stay behind, and the boy stared for a moment before returning his attention to his patient. Worrying whether his work was good enough, hopefully.
Theos dropped his pack by the fire and then approached. Andros was bundled up in blankets beyond what the weather required, his face pale and drawn, but he was alive, his breathing more natural than it had been when Theos left.
“Come to carry me home?” Andros said hoarsely, and Theos crouched beside him, edging the boy out since he didn’t seem to be doing anything anyway.
“I shouldn’t have to,” Theos replied. “You’re Sacrati—a little nip like this shouldn’t be a problem. You’ve already had four days off, and now you want special treatment? You bring shame on yourself, Andros.”
Andros’s weak cough was probably meant to be a laugh. Theos wanted to touch his friend; it felt strange to avoid the casual contact that had always been how they’d communicated best. But Theos didn’t know the rules for dealing with sick people.
He let himself run the fingertips of his hand down over Andros’s cheek, then turned back to Achus and Elios. “He’s hot. Fevered.”
“He’s been hot and cold for days,” Achus said. “Finnvid says it’s normal.”
Theos frowned at the Sacrati by the fire, then at the prisoner now crouched by Andros’s head. “Finnvid?”
“My nursemaid,” Andros whispered. “He’s more than just pretty.”
There was something going on. “He ‘says’ it’s normal?” he asked.
“Not ‘says,’” Elios clarified. “Not in words. But he’s noticed, and he’s not worried about it.”
Theos raised his eyebrows at the boy. “Finnvid?” he said, and the boy raised defiant eyes to meet his. “Can he move?” He made his fingers walk in the direction of the valley. “Tomorrow morning, can he move?”
The boy—Finnvid—grimaced. He pointed at Andros, mimicked the walking gesture, and shook his head emphatically.
“Snow’s coming,” Theos replied, though he didn’t know why he was bothering to use words at all. He pointed to the sky, mimed that something was falling, and then rubbed his arms and shivered with mock cold.
Finnvid bit his lip, then rummaged through the debris on the forest floor. He found two twigs, held them parallel, and laid a leaf on top of them.
“A stretcher,” Theos interpreted. “We could carry him.” They’d have to take the longer paths for some of the way down, the ones followed by traders with their mules instead of sure-footed soldiers. And they’d have to rest more often, if being moved was hard on Andros.
Maybe it would be better to build a shelter, do some hunting, and wait out the season.
But just because full-strength Sacrati could survive a winter in the mountains, it didn’t mean that Andros could, not in his weakened state.
He’d be better off recovering in the warmth of the valley, with tasty foods and a soft bed.
“Maybe I did come to carry you home,” Theos murmured. He leaned over and kissed his friend’s forehead. “Do you think you’d be able to make it on a stretcher?”
Andros took a deep breath, then choked a little as he released it. “Everything hurts,” he admitted. “All of me. But . . . I could manage.”
Theos nodded. He looked at the Elkati and said, “Tomorrow? We’ll carry him down?” and went through the whole ridiculous series of pantomimes.
The boy nodded cautiously.
So the decision was made. Theos spent what light was left finding two strong sticks, and then went out to take Xeno’s sentry post, leaving Xeno free to sleep in the camp with Andros.
They all woke the next morning and shook the fallen snow from their blankets and ate a quick breakfast of dried fruit.
Then they strung blankets between the long sticks, rolled Andros on board, and started moving.
Even with two teams of Sacrati to take turns carrying their injured comrade, travel was slow. By midmorning, Andros was breathing in ragged gasps, and Theos reluctantly ordered a break. He waved the prisoner over to tend his patient, and stood watching with a careful eye.
“I’m surprised the boy can think with you making that face at him,” Xeno said as he gently lifted Andros’s head to allow sips of water from his waterskin.
“Does he need to think? He’s not doing much.”
“Maybe he’s trying to think about what to do.” Xeno looked up at Theos and said, “He was good, Theos. When Andros was at his worst? Finnvid was good. He knew what he was doing. He saved Andros’s life.”
“Not yet he hasn’t.”
Xeno scowled at him but didn’t reply, and Theos stamped away to the far side of the trail.
He hated feeling useless, hated facing a challenge that couldn’t be met with strength or courage or cunning.
Everything in him cried for action, and everything outside him told him to be patient. He preferred to trust his insides.
So he built a fire, filled a cookpot with snow, and added dried meat and vegetables until he had a passable stew. There was enough for all of them, and he put a little in a bowl and carried it over to where Andros was lying.
“Can he eat?” he asked Finnvid, showing him the bowl.
The Elkati shook his head at the food, then at Theos, and pushed the bowl away impatiently.
Theos turned to Xeno. “Has he not eaten? In this whole time, he’s not been eating?”
“He’s had broth,” Xeno said.
“No wonder he’s so pale; he’s starving to death!”
“Finnvid knows what he’s doing.”
“Starving someone to death?” Theos frowned at the prisoner. “Why?” He mimed feeding the stew to Andros and then made a questioning face. If Andros ate, what would happen?
Finnvid made a puking sound and lifted his hands to show imaginary food pouring out of his mouth.
Theos held his fingers close together. “We’d just give him a little bit, not a feast!”
Finnvid shook his head stubbornly, his expression almost scornful.
Theos huffed and rose to his feet. He had no idea whether to trust the boy’s knowledge or his intentions, but he absolutely didn’t like his attitude. “The prisoner eats what Andros eats,” he declared. “No different, no more. If Andros can survive on sips of broth, then so will the Elkati.”
Xeno seemed as if he wanted to argue, but then looked at Andros’s drawn face and nodded.
“Tell me when you think he’s ready to move, Xeno.” Theos stepped away, then added, “When you think so. Not when the precious Elkati gives his permission.”
Another grudging nod, and Theos turned back to the fire and added food to the bowl before sitting down to eat it.
When he was finished, he checked his equipment and did some basic exercises, enough to maintain his flexibility and balance without draining strength he might need.
And then he waited. Not entirely patiently.