3. Drusilla
CHAPTER THREE
DRUSILLA
W ith Ovi’s arms wrapped around her waist, Dru leans forward, the hooves of her horse beating at the road.
Ovi speaks into her ear. “You could’ve been nicer.”
Dru turns her head to the side. “You’re right, I could have. But when have you known me to be the nicer of the two of us?”
“True, you’d be a hardened soldier without me.”
Dru can’t help the smile on her lips. They both knew that’s exactly what she’s become, despite Ovi’s best efforts: a duty-bound assassin made cynical by the shitty world around her.
They gallop through a quieter part of Nusquam, purposefully avoiding any path that takes them past the tabernae in an attempt to stay clear of all the soldiers.
Although, they should all be on the battlefield by now.
Nearly half the village sits in smoldering ruin around her, the homes reduced to crumbling cinders in the time it took to fetch the horses.
Gray smoke fills the sky, burning Dru’s eyes and throat.
We picked the wrong day to come to Nusquam.
As they near the river, the country of Namicus on the opposite bank sparks with firelight. Their legions send a steady stream of flaming arrows across the water, the Imperium soldiers responding with massive stones from their catapults. An unending torrent of needless violence.
Yet she can’t look away. In rebelling against the Imperium’s might, the Namicans chose the only weapon in their arsenal that stood a chance: surprise.
It won’t last.
As Marcus predicted, the entire Namican army has forded the river.
From a safe distance, she watches the last few stragglers trudge through the towing waters and up the muddy bank, axes and swords in hand.
She marks their bravery well. But after this skirmish ends, they’ll be known for little else?—
An arrow slices past her face.
So much for avoiding any soldiers.
Ovi tightens her arms around Dru. “Time to go.”
Dru’s already tugging her horse away from the source as more arrows fly over their heads, whooshing past them. Flicking the horse’s reins and digging in her heels again, she pushes the beast to go faster, hoping they can get out of range of the archers.
Unfortunately, there’s nowhere for them to hide beside the river. Before Dru can think of what to do next, a squelch sounds at her back, and a thump reverberates against her. A beat later, a strange gurgling noise emanates from Ovi’s throat, and her grip loosens around Dru’s waist.
Fuck. Fuck.
Dru’s mind goes quiet. Whipping around as best she can without unseating herself or alarming the horse, she reaches a hand behind her. But she’s too late.
Ovi slumps to the side, her limp body crumpling to the ground in a heap. Dru immediately yanks on the reins to bring her horse to a stop and slides off. Heart in her throat, she runs over and falls to her knees in the tall, dead grass beside her friend.
Ovi lays on her side, the pointed end of a black-tip arrow protruding from her chest. Namican-made. Nothing—not even Imperium armor—could’ve stopped the sharp obsidian from ripping through Ovi’s cloak, her tunic, her flesh and bone…
Stomach roiling, Dru digs her fingers into the hard dirt as her ears fill with the chaotic rhythm of a swarm of bees, her breath coming in short bursts.
She can’t, for the life of her, tear her gaze away from her friend; from her wide eyes and slack jaw; from the way the deep red blood pools beneath her lifeless body and stains her hair.
Tears bite at the back of her eyes and she places a trembling hand on Ovi’s cheek, still warm. There’s nothing she can do to stop Ovi’s life from slipping away, to keep her last breath from passing over her lips and her heart’s last beat sounding.
But it’s the helplessness that reminds her of who she is and what she does.
For what am I if not what the Faithless made me.
Amidst the bedlam in her heart, Dru squeezes her eyes shut and breathes deep.
A calm cultivated from years of practice envelops her, sharpens her.
Despite the horror at her feet, the buzzing recedes and her mind clears.
Her eyes open, and she clenches her jaw, quiet fury breathing new life into her limbs.
Ovi’s death won’t be in vain.
Getting to her feet, she lunges toward where she believes the arrows originated from?—
Strong arms capture her before she can get far. She struggles in the stranger’s grasp, not caring about anything else except getting her hands on Ovi’s killers.
“Dru, it’s me.”
Marcus.
But he doesn’t matter—not while cold vengeance rages through her. Ignoring his arms caging her in, she searches the tree line opposite the tabernae for the soldiers who murdered her best friend.
There, she finds a pair of archers hiding beneath their cloaks in the gloom, sending another slew of arrows into the tabernae for anyone who might still be taking refuge there.
Wrath burns her from the inside out. Her hands clench, her body impatient to tear them apart. To make them pay for what they did.
One of them killed Ovi, took her life as if it were nothing, and she’s not going to let them get away with it.
Plenty of people have died at her hand; this time, at least, it will mean something.
Wrenching out of Marcus’s grasp, she leaps in the archers’ direction.
With their backs to her, she takes her time sneaking up quietly behind them, waiting in the shadows for them to re-notch their next arrows.
Moving as quickly as she dares, she reaches the olive trees sheltering them in a dozen bounds.
Dagger already in her grasp, she softly approaches the first archer, thrusting the blade beneath his jaw from behind and sinking it in to the hilt before he even knows she’s there.
Blood coats Dru’s hand as he gasps for breath, choking on it.
Dropping his bow, he falls to his knees, the sound no louder than the pulse in her ears. Crimson gurgles out of the corners of his mouth and throbs from his neck, splattering onto her sandals.
Behind her, a bowstring draws.
Yanking her dagger from the flesh of the dead man and letting him crumple to the ground, Dru spins on her heels. Blood arcs from her blade, the metal flashing in the cinder-light. She drops to her knees, rolling to the side right as the arrow flies over her head.
Finding her bearings quickly, she lashes out, slitting open the back of their calf. They scream, knees buckling.
But they draw another arrow from their quiver before she can bring her dagger around again. Grasping it like a weapon, they attack wildly, a grunt wrenching from their throat. The sharp obsidian tip rips across her face, splitting her cheek open.
She barely feels it, knowing they’ve left themselves vulnerable.
Grinning, she leaps at them, tackling them to the ground before they can swing their weapon back. Her hand circles their neck and squeezes, the tip of her dagger pinned at their ribs.
“Why?” they choke out before she can strike the final blow, face paling.
“You killed my friend,” she seethes. “A life for a life.”
Digging their nails into Dru’s forearm, they must catch the inside of her arm out of the corner of their eye and recognize her tattoo peeking out of her cloak.
“You’re one of the Faithless.” Desperation livens their bloodshot gaze. “Don’t do this—please, we want the same things. We have the same enemy.”
Ovidia’s life was worth more than any of that.
“Right now, you’re my only enemy.”
With a guttural yell, Dru thrusts her dagger between their ribs.
Surprise flits across their face only for a moment before the light leaves their eyes.
She climbs off of them before the blood can reach her sandals, wiping her blade on their cloak and sheathing it.
Looking down at the two Namican archers, her heart remains hard, her vengeance unquenched.
She hoped it would make her feel better, avenging Ovi’s death.
But, as often as she’s been ordered to do it, killing people doesn’t appeal to her the way it does to others.
And taking their lives won’t bring Ovi back.
Sorrow grips her chest and throat in a vice, making it hard to breathe. Only time will tell if she’ll come to regret what she’s done.
Leaving their bodies to the mercy of the Phaedran army, she walks back toward her horse.
The bard cowers on the other saddle, hugging his lute as if protecting a child.
Marcus stands between her horse and his, holding both their reins.
She makes no attempt to read his stony expression.
What good would it do? Her soul has been ripped apart and scattered across the river beside Ovi’s body, and there’s nothing he can say that’ll change what happened.
“I’m— ”
The sharp look she sends his way snaps his jaw shut, forcing him to drop whatever half-hearted apology he had planned,.
With Marcus’s help getting back on her horse, Dru gallops off without another word spoken. She has no idea where she’s going, only that she needs to keep moving.
The more distance she puts between her and Ovi, the tighter her heart constricts, leaving her breathless. As much as she wants to, she can’t stop to give Ovi a proper Faithless funeral, to burn her body and spread her ashes over the earth.
No, Ovi will be left to the whims of whatever country wins this meaningless battle. All Dru can hope for is kindness and a shred of decency. Though the Imperium has never shown proof of either.
Any sorrow she might’ve felt for the soldiers on either side of this skirmish died with her.
She heads straight for the Pelagus River, turning her horse to ride alongside its steep bank. The current keeps pace with her beast’s hoof-falls, the black waters ebbing in white-tipped tendrils. She barely notices, numbness enveloping her like an icy blanket in a northern winter storm.
She glances over her shoulder to see the last of the Namican soldiers touch solid ground, meeting their enemy’s steel with their own. War cries pierce Dru’s ears. Her head spins at the sound, her own memories drowning her, of the brutal attack on her own village, of her mother screaming.
Dru squeezes her eyes shut, just for a moment?—
“Watch out!”
The haze clears from her mind right before she misses a bend in the path, nearly hurling herself and her horse into the river. Shit. Instinct jerks on the reins, leading them to the beginnings of a worn path which disappears around a hillside.
The suffocating numbness falls away, leaving her shivering despite the warm night. Tall grass dyed black from the night whips at her bare legs, irritating her skin as she fights to catch her breath. Any fight she had left in her dissipates, leaving her a bit faint.
She waits for Marcus and the bard to catch up to her, heart thumping hard and fast inside her chest.
“Stellae, what were you thinking?” Marcus demands, his expression hard, his words laced with venom.
While she shouldn’t have to defend herself to him, of all people, she can’t help feeling embarrassed for nearly ending her own life, and her horse’s.
Thinking quickly, she replies, “Considering we were just ambushed, I was trying to find the best path to Anziano as quickly as possible.”
“There’s only one path, and it’s a full day’s ride.” Marcus’s grip tightens on his horse, eyes glinting in the moonlight. “Tell me now if you won’t be able to make it.”
Dru bites the inside of her cheek. How dare he? “I have traveled farther and longer in this life than you can imagine.”
His expression doesn’t change. “That may be true, but a fair few would be fit to do so after their friend was murdered in front of them. With the Phaedran army so close, we can’t have anything slowing us down.”
Her nostrils flare, and the painful memories of those she’s watched die subside. “Your king needs me, not the other way around.”
“He’s not my king,” Marcus amends. “And that’s irrelevant. Can you make it there or not?”
Refusing to give him the satisfaction of a reply, she clicks her tongue between her teeth, and the horse sets off again at her command. She doesn’t look back, assuming Marcus and the bard will follow, willing her rage to abate the tears stabbing behind her eyes before either of them notices.