16
Crawling through the undergrowth in the forests of the Red Mountains would be perilous enough in the daylight. In the dark, it’s like begging for death. But I have no choice.
The only reason I’m not already dead, caught up in a spidermaw’s tendrils, is because the bounty hunters I’m pursuing camped near the trade road, a long and circuitous route patrolled by soldiers and foresters who work for the Crown.
Those patrols usually clear away the spidermaws right next to the road, or the ones near the roadside clearings designated as camping sites for merchant caravans and travelers.
The two bounty hunters chose one such clearing as a resting spot for themselves and their carpet.
One of them is sprawled inside a small tent with his boots sticking out the front.
The other is on guard, sitting by the campfire they built, whittling a piece of wood and taking occasional swallows from a flask.
They’re both big fellows, packed with muscle.
A long, bulky bag lies near the tent, bearing a leather tag. I’m guessing it contains the carpet they rented.
Now and then, the hunter who’s on guard glances at a tree a few paces away.
Vawn kneels there, with his hands bound together and attached to a low tree branch just above his head.
He’s still shirtless despite the chilly air.
The nearby fire shines rose-gold on his skin, the contours of his muscles shadowed in bluish-gray.
His entire torso is marked with bruises and lacerations, and his knuckles are raw and bloody.
Both fists are clenched like he’s ready to punch someone again, and his stomach tightens with each ragged, angry breath.
As I watch from the bushes, the tip of his tongue slips out, soothing the swollen cut on his lower lip.
If he could use his glyphs, he would. It’s possible they were damaged or overspent during his conflict with the hunters.
I reach down and ease the two slim weapons out of my boot seams. The pain in my belly has eased a little, but it’s still a dull, throbbing reminder of an internal injury I can’t define, one that scares me more than the cracked rib, the broken finger, or my surface wounds.
Soon, I will need help from a doctor, an apothecary—someone. But first, I must free the prince.
A rustling sound comes from the trees on the opposite side of the camp. Branches thrash, leaves flutter, and something flashes, a hint of luminous pink and glittering gold.
The hunter by the fire leaps to his feet, picking up his weapon.
It’s a clumsy-looking thing shaped like a small cannon.
I’ve heard of such devices—they involve compressed powder being ignited to blast projectiles out of a guiding barrel.
I’m surprised to see one here, in the hands of these men.
Maybe they took it from a previous mark.
More fluttering comes from the forest, along with several whimpers and moans. The hunter stalks toward the noises, hesitating at the edge of the trees before taking several steps into the undergrowth.
I creep across the campsite and duck into the small tent, trying to ignore the agony that flares through my midsection when I move.
The sleeping hunter wakes with his carotid artery already punctured, spewing his blood onto the dirt. He gurgles through the spill, eyes bulging at the sight of me.
I stay there for a moment, seeing the recognition on his face, the shock that I’m still alive. I sense the panic he feels as the life leaks out of him.
“You hurt me,” I whisper. “And you touched him. So this is your reward. Your bounty. Was it worth harming my prince?”
The awareness flees his eyes, and with a final bubbling rattle in his throat, he goes utterly still.
Severin is leading the other hunter away from Vawn, but I doubt the hunter will be stupid enough to go very deep into the trees. Once he realizes how far he’s getting from camp, he’ll turn around and go back. I need to free Vawn by then.
After cleaning my needle blades on the dead hunter’s pants, I shove the weapons back into my boots. They’re so slim that they’re hard to hold, especially with injured hands.
Right beside the deceased hunter’s head is a pile of belongings… including my belt and my knives. I grab them, but I can’t buckle them on. My bruised fingers are too stiff.
We can rest soon, I promise myself silently. We just have to cut Vawn’s ropes. Just that last thing. Then rest.
I’m talking to my own fingers. That’s a new level of insane for me, born from the blood loss, the pain, and the exhaustion. I’m nearly at my limit. If I’m honest, I passed it a while ago. I’m barely able to stay on my feet as I emerge from the tent, clutching my belongings in my left hand.
Vawn is watching me, his face a tortured mask of sympathy and rage.
He doesn’t speak as I stagger toward him.
I manage to draw one of my knives, dropping everything else on the ground.
My shoulders ache so much that lifting my arms high enough to saw at his ropes proves to be a challenge, even though the branch to which they’re tied isn’t very high, not far above my eye level.
At one point, I sway violently, nearly cutting his arm by accident.
“Sweetheart,” he whispers. “Did you kill one of them?”
“Yes.” I blink to clear my vision and continue working the edge of the blade through the ropes.
“Good. You’re doing so well, beautiful.”
The blade bites through the last few fibers, and Vawn’s hands drop in front of him. He shakes off the loops of rope and tries to get to his feet, but he goes back to one knee, swearing under his breath.
“Wait for the circulation to return,” I warn him. I prop my back against the tree, fighting the urge to close my eyes. If I do that, I’m afraid I won’t be able to open them. I’ll pass out.
Vawn uses the trunk for support as well, pulling himself to his feet beside me. He flexes his fingers, holding them out to show me how his glyphs were scratched off with the tip of a knife. It was brutally done, grooves carved so deep they nearly reach the nail bed.
I look up at him. “I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have left the house.
I had a feeling… and I didn’t listen to my gut…
” My knees wobble, and I slide down to sit against the trunk.
The movement tweaks my rib, and I let out a gasp of pain.
My knife rolls out of my hand onto the grass. Wincing as he bends, Vawn picks it up.
A streak of colorful light soars out of the trees and skims in front of us. “Quick!” calls Severin. “On me!”
But I can’t move. Can’t force my body to obey me anymore.
Vawn picks me up and places me on Severin. He tosses my belt after me, but he doesn’t climb on himself. He stands there, jaw knotted with rage, as the remaining bounty hunter crashes out of the undergrowth.
“Got free, did you?” snarls the hunter. His eyes snap to me, where I lie voiceless and suffering on the carpet.
“She survived? Fuck. I guess we get to kill her again. Rotley!” He glances toward the tent.
But he must realize that Rotley is dead, because his gaze swerves back to Vawn.
He lifts his weapon, aiming it at me and the carpet.
The shot goes off, but Severin darts swiftly aside, managing to cup my body so I don’t roll off. A whir and a solid thunk follow the shot, and I lift my head enough to see the hunter staring down at the knife hilt protruding from his chest. A good throw, if not a killing one.
Vawn doesn’t wait for the hunter to retaliate. He snatches up a rock and leaps at the larger man, striking the knife hilt with the rock, driving it deeper, probably piercing a lung. Then he smashes the stone into the man’s face, over and over, each blow punctuated by a roar of agonized vengeance.
“I think he’s dead,” says the carpet conversationally to Vawn a few minutes later.
Vawn keeps heaving the rock back and crashing it against parts of the hunter’s body. His roars are weaker now, more like fractured groans.
“Leave him be,” I murmur to Severin. “He’s working through some things.”
“He can work through them later, when you’re not wounded,” Severin replies.
“Can he, though? He keeps having to postpone his grief, his rage, his bitterness, all those emotions. He shoves them aside because they aren’t convenient, because survival is more important. Eventually, that’s going to make him sick in his mind.”
“Humans.” The carpet manages to put a wealth of derision and wonderment into that single word.
Then he speaks louder, addressing Vawn. “The hunters are dead. I have been repaired. And your bodyguard is wounded, perhaps mortally. Would you like to keep pounding a carcass with a rock, or would you like to fly with us to safety at Anyssir Castle?”
The prince turns around, his body spattered with the blood of the hunter. He lets the rock fall to the ground. “We’ll go. But first—”
He drags my knife out of the hunter’s corpse.
It must be stuck in bone, because he has to plant one foot on the man’s chest to get enough leverage to yank it free.
Then he marches around the side of the tent and comes back with both our satchels and one of the hunters’ bedrolls.
He slings them onto his back, buckles my belt around his waist, and climbs onto the carpet.
He moves me as carefully as he can, draping me across his lap.
“What about the other carpet?” I ask.
Our carpet’s tassels bristle. “What about it? Are you trying to replace me?”
“Of course not. It’s just that it’s a potential asset—”
“One we don’t need.” Severin rises, lifting us clear of the campsite and the trees. “Off we go, to Anyssir Castle where there are physicians, as well as allies loyal to the Crown.”
“We hope,” I mutter, letting my eyes drift shut.