Chapter 21 Locke #2
I stagger forward, exhaustion hitting me like a physical blow now my adrenaline has faded.
My knees buckle despite my best efforts to stay upright, and I brace a trembling hand against the rough bark of a tree, leaning there heavily while I struggle to catch my breath.
Rain, blood, and sweat soak through my clothes, making them cling uncomfortably to my skin.
My hands won’t stop shaking, whether from exhaustion or the aftereffects of channeling so much raw magic, I can’t tell.
They thought they could corner me like some peasant, trap me in my own domain and drag me back in chains.
They forgot who trained me, forgot the lessons carved into my flesh through years of merciless discipline.
They forgot what I am, not just a soldier, but something far more dangerous.
I was my father’s greatest weapon, his pride and his project, but he failed me in the end.
Used me and Rue for so long, treated us like extensions of his will rather than people with our own thoughts and feelings.
There is no love left between us. Only duty, and even that is fraying at the edges.
I slide down the tree trunk into a sitting position, every muscle in my body screaming for rest, when I hear the sound of hooves on the forest floor, moving fast and reckless through terrain that should demand caution.
The rhythm is uneven, desperate, not the measured pace of a patrol but something else entirely.
I unsheathe my sword with hands that shake more than I’d like to admit, forcing my spine straight despite the fire in my joints.
Another wave of attackers? Fine. Let them come.
My body may be broken, pushed beyond its limits, but I’ll fight until there’s nothing left of me but blood and bones.
I’ve bought her enough time, that’s all I needed to do, all that mattered in the end.
I close my eyes and try to center myself, drawing on reserves of strength I’m not sure I actually possess.
If this is where I die, at least she’s safe.
At least I got to feel the connection between us, that pull deep down in my soul that speaks of destiny and choice intertwined, and it’s enough.
It has to be enough, I tell myself as the sound grows closer.
A horse comes into view through the trees, coated in sweat and foaming at the mouth from its own exhaustion, eyes wild with the kind of fear that comes from being pushed far beyond endurance.
There isn’t a soldier on her back though.
Instead, she carries my brother, bloody and slumped in the saddle like a broken doll.
Rue’s dragging the reins with one limp hand, his usually immaculate cloak soaked through with rain and something darker, his face drained of color beneath a smear of dried blood that streaks from his temple to his jaw.
The horse comes to a trembling stop when she sees me, sides heaving with the effort of breathing. I sheath my sword and approach slowly, not wanting to spook an animal that’s clearly been through hell.
“Well,” Rue croaks, voice hoarse but still carrying that familiar note of smugness that means he’s alive and relatively intact, “you look a right mess, brother dear.”
Relief hits me so fast and hard it nearly knocks me over, a wave of emotion I wasn’t prepared for after hours of numbness and violence.
“Rue,” I breathe, stumbling forward on unsteady legs. “Shit. You’re bleeding.” The words come out rougher than intended, but I can’t seem to control my voice anymore.
He slides sideways in the saddle with theatrical flair, even injured and exhausted. I catch him just before he hits the ground, his weight familiar and reassuring against my chest.
“It’s nothing,” he mutters, collapsing against me with none of his usual grace. “Just a scratch, really. You should see the other fellow. Oh wait, you can’t. He’s rather thoroughly dead.”
“Since when do you let people stab you?” I question, trying to keep the worry out of my voice and failing miserably.
What the hell happened back there? Whatever it was, it was enough for him to ride his horse this hard without rest to get back to me.
The animal is half-dead on her feet, and Rue never mistreats his mounts.
At least I assume he was trying to get back to me, the alternative doesn’t bear thinking about.
“I was making a rather eloquent point about their questionable loyalties and general lack of intelligence,” he groans, some of his usual spark returning despite the pain, “and then someone had the audacity to stab me before I could finish delivering what was truly a devastating insult. Honestly, the youth today have no appreciation for verbal artistry.”
I tear a strip from my already-ruined shirt and press it firmly to the gash beneath his ribs, feeling warm blood seep through the fabric. He hisses like an offended cat and tries to swat me away with hands that shake from blood loss.
“Stop whining like a child.”
“I’m not whining, I’m dying,” he protests with wounded dignity. A beat passes, then he adds with perfect comedic timing, “Very dramatically, I might add. This is exactly the sort of death scene I’ve always imagined for myself, tragic, beautiful, with perfect lighting.”
“Always the performer,” I mutter, tying the makeshift bandage tighter and ignoring his theatrical wincing.
He slumps against the nearest tree, eyes fluttering half-shut as he takes in the unnaturally clean clearing around us. “Where’s the wolf? And our dear Esme?”
“Briar Row,” I say, the words coming easier now that I know they’re both safe. “They’re with Lucky. She’s got them hidden and protected.”
Rue exhales slowly, tension leaving his shoulders like air from a punctured bladder. “Thank the old gods and the new. Take me to Lucky immediately. She owes me the finest whiskey in her collection and a healing poultice the size of my considerable ego.”
All I can do is smile at his recovery. If he’s being catty and dramatic, then he’ll survive whatever happened to him. We both will, somehow.
We ride hard through the twisting paths that lead out of Kasamere, Rue barely staying upright behind me despite his best efforts to maintain some dignity.
His arms lock around my waist with surprising strength, his breathing shallow but steady against my back.
His own horse follows behind us, tethered to mine and grateful for the slower pace.
By the time we reach the outskirts of Briar Row, the moon has risen again, casting everything in silver light that makes the rain-slicked cobbled streets gleam like polished metal.
The Dog & Dagger tavern glows like a beacon in the dark, warm light spilling from its windows and promising safety, warmth, and answers.
Lucky’s waiting on the front steps as if she sensed our approach, arms crossed over her chest and expression unreadable. Her collection of earrings flashes in the lamplight like tiny stars, and there’s a wicked-looking blade strapped across her hip, ready for trouble, as always.
“Well,” she says, eyeing us both with the practiced assessment of someone who’s seen too much violence, “you two look like death fucked a swamp and spat you out still breathing.”
“Nice to see you too, Lucky,” I mutter, sliding off the horse with movements that feel like those of a man three times my age. “Are they okay?” The question comes out before I can stop it, voice low but carrying more concern than I’m comfortable with.
Lucky raises one pierced eyebrow, clearly not used to me giving a damn about anything or anyone beyond my own survival. I’m sure she’s seeing me in an entirely new light, and part of me resents the vulnerability that implies.
She nods, stepping aside to let us pass into the warm glow of the tavern.
“The woman’s awake and pacing like a caged wolf herself.
The actual wolf’s been all growly and protective.
I patched him up from those poisoned arrows, but he’s a shifter so he’s healing fast enough.
She needed rest but now she’s worried out of her mind about you, wearing grooves in my floorboards with all that anxious energy.
But they’re alive and whole.” She pauses, expression growing serious.
“I’ve been watching the roads, though. You won’t be able to stay here much longer.
Word’s spreading, and not the good kind. ”
“Good. We won’t impose any longer than necessary.
I won’t bring this shit to your door, friend.
” I exhale hard, feeling my shoulders relax for the first time in hours.
The weight of constant vigilance lifts slightly, replaced by gratitude so profound it takes me by surprise.
“You’ve done more than enough already. I’m in your debt. ”
Rue sags against me with renewed dramatics now that safety is within reach. “Lucky, darling, beautiful savior of my sadly abused person, fix me. I’m utterly broken and in desperate need of your tender ministrations.”
“Oh, you’ve been broken for years, sweetheart,” she says dryly, catching him as I transfer his weight to her capable hands. “This is just cosmetic damage. Nothing a few stitches and some harsh truths won’t cure.”
She hauls him toward the back of the tavern, barking orders to one of her girls to take care of the horses and make sure they’re fed and watered. I don’t wait around to see him settled, I’m already taking the stairs two at a time, drawn by an urgency I can’t quite name.
The door to my room creaks open before I can raise my hand to knock, as if she’s been listening for my footsteps on the stairs.
Esme stands there in the doorway, barefoot and wild-haired, wearing clothing that Lucky must have found for her.
Her hair is damp and tangled from sleep or worry, and her eyes are red-rimmed with exhaustion and something that might be tears.
She stares at me like I’m a ghost, like she can’t quite believe I’m real and standing in front of her.