Sanctuary

CHAPTER TWENTY

S eventy-five swords lifted to salute her. Seventy-five swords flourished and the hilts were then struck against metal breast plates like a rough-hewn bell.

Petra stood on the steps of the carriage, one hand on her husband’s forearm, the other on her heart, moved beyond the words she knew.

“You are their princess on this march, Petra. You will be the princess of Mynydd Pass. When they fight, they will fight for you.”

Rand’s words were for everyone to hear. At the city gates, his voice rose like a rich clarion call. These men, so few to march out against the forces of Bessarabiah, devoted to Rand, would champion her as the symbol of this battle. She was the face of the people of the Cloistered City.

She wanted to say something in return. She wanted to lift her voice and say she would hold their reverence like the gift it was. She would perish before she became unworthy. However, her throat clogged with emotion and tears blurred her vision. All Petra could manage was a curtsey.

Inside the small carriage, equipped for her relative comfort, she sat down and listened to Rand extol his men further. He acknowledged their number was small and gave them glory for it. The emperor, in his trust and wisdom, knew there was no need for excessive numbers against Bessarabiah. Soldiers of Vale were superior. Their aim rang true, and their hearts were steadfast. One man of Vale was worth three of Bessarabiah.

Perhaps little of it was true but one doesn’t send a soldier to his death acknowledging his life is fodder for a bigger cause.

To her, Rand had all but called it mandated suicide.

“Whatever happens,” he said softly, at the window of the carriage, “know that I am the Sacrifice. Your life will be safe.”

A rallying cry lifted into the air. The heavy gates were drawn back, and they sallied forth. Only for a few moments did Rand linger near her window before he rode to the front, commanding Yates secure the back of the line.

She was in the middle of the regiment. The two elks hitched to the carriage followed the other mounts, trusted to keep in step without a driver, but closely flanked on both sides. The march would not stop for nightfall, lest the journey double in length. Respite would only be long enough to water and feed the elks.

Petra took one of several pillows and placed it under her buttocks to pad the wooden bench she sat on. Though she wore a heavy cloak, she pulled a blanket over her legs. This was not a grand, insulated carriage of the wealthy. She rode in a modest hackney, light enough to keep pace with the march.

Rand had told her that was the only thing she need conform to, during their sojourn. She could sleep as much as she wanted and eat whenever she felt like it.

But I will rest when they rest. I will be as much a part of them as I can. As much a part of him as I can.

In those dark hours before dawn, before either of them had risen, she felt very much a part of him. By the fire embers, she had watched his chest rise and fall. In the relative silence, she had listened to the rhythm of his breathing. Sometimes it matched her own.

“I am part of him.”

The plan, as Rand and Yates had gone over ad nauseum, was to make haste then and fully prepare the soldiers and families. Measures to fortify the structure would begin immediately and outlying families would be made to come within the fort walls.

Plans to use the natural advantages of the fort would be set in place. Hot coals and burning logs could be easily carried onto the upper parapet and heaved over while boiling water poured out from the mouths of the carved fu-dogs. If there was time to make slingshots and carve more arrows, Rand wanted that done, too. Even though the fort had always been prepared to defend itself, he wanted more.

Yates argued that Rand was preparing as if trained soldiers did not reside there year-round. To this, though, Rand had shaken his head and replied that he feared the worst.

Petra watched the men around her from behind the damask flap of her lone window. If she leaned far enough, she could see her husband. Change had overcome him. On sharp glances back she saw a harsh glint in his eyes. The line of his mouth was grave. His shoulders were rigid and his chin forward. When he shouted commands, she heard them clearly; his voice was not hampered by the jangle of armor, the scuff and cuff of hooves, or the sound of men talking.

They moved north and the terrain changed quickly. From rolling meadows and sloping pastures, it became craggy hills. The soil was shallow and mostly gravel. Rocks rested where it seemed bushes and trees should grow. The winds out here ricocheted off the hills and reformed with renewed vigor, snapping across the uneven valleys.

She pulled her cloak over her chin and mouth. How cold the men must be. How cold they were willing to be. And how much more they were willing to suffer. Whatever their intentions had been when they enlisted, they were soon faced with the fact that their mortality was not their own. In fact, their death was a defense to shield others. There would be no time to see the faces of those saved, nor hear their thanks. Some, in fact, might die unknown and stand in eternity with their sacrifice unnoticed.

But I will not let the sacrifice of my husband go unnoticed.

***

N IGHT EMERGED. IT DID so without stars or a setting sun. It surfaced murky and trimmed in fog. She heard her husband call for a halt.

Practiced, organized rush ensued. Large canteens packed on the elks at the rear were carried to the front. Each animal got its turn to drink before the vessels were left open to catch morning mist. Next the elk were divested from their saddles. Long rope leads were tied to their bridles and then driven into the ground, allowing the beasts some room to move about.

With their mounts taken care of, the soldiers next attended to their own eating and sleeping arrangements. Tents were pitched with sparse skeletons. Their rest would not be long; take-down must be fast. Troughs for fires were dug on the opposite side to keep the wind from guttering the flames. Petra saw that Rand’s tent stood taller than the rest. Where the other men might only be able to kneel in theirs, Rand would be able to stand, albeit slightly stooped.

Does he expect me? Perhaps he and Yates must convene for the next part of the march. Yet, if I am not seen walking to his tent, will the men talk? Or will they chatter more if I seem so brazen as to walk among them without my husband? It might be better to let him fetch me, but I hope he knows I don’t care either way. I’ve walked barefoot through fresh cow pies.

It felt girlish. There was a flittering feeling in her toes and nose. In her mind’s eye, Petra imagined being scolded by her mother for craning her neck unbecomingly just to catch a glimpse of her beau turning the bend in the road.

As if such a thing had ever happened. She had heard stories.

Petra moved away from the window. She set herself to the task of opening the trunk that carried her overnight things. Thick woolen socks and mittens. A hemp foldable mattress and fur pelts to trap warmth while sleeping on the ground. There was a dense scarf she’d wrap around her ears and head, too.

Elbows deep, she heard an abrupt knock. Smoothing her hair and rumpled garments, she rose and opened the door.

It was not Rand.

Of course it was not.

Much as he honored her by bringing her, despite the soldiers knowing their captain was a Sacrifice, there were still appearances to maintain. A man of rank did not fetch his own wife.

And I would do well to remember it. It will be better when we get to the fort. I won’t have my brain jostled around for long hours turning me into an adolescent.

The soldier bowed. “Madame Tsenturian. My lord and captain has sent me to fetch you.”

“Let me gather my sleeping things and I will follow you.”

“No need, Madame. Your personal trunks will be carried. Captain Tsenturian said you are not to lift anything.”

“My husband tries to pretend we are still in the Cloistered City.”

“I should lose my hand if I let you heft anything, Madame.”

She smiled. “I am not a rebellious wife. Lead on.”

“The ground is uneven, Madame,” he said, guiding her. “We will walk slowly.”

Inwardly, Petra grinned. There were callouses on her feet; she could have walked barefoot through the camp and only noticed the cold earth. These men would be horrified to know she did not soak her feet in fragranced oil each night. Once upon a time, her nails were never free from dirt, and she thought nothing of it.

They did walk painfully slow. At length, Petra reminded the soldier that she was not elderly and should like to meet her husband without cherry-stained cheeks and nose. With an apology, he took normal strides, and she was free to walk without shuffling her feet.

Not only was there a fire beside Rand’s tent, but there was also one inside. The sturdy fabric glowed, and his shadow painted the walls. Bowing, the soldier held open the heavy fabric that served as an entrance.

“Do you bring me a sick woman?” Rand snapped. “Wind like this gets in the lungs. What took so long?”

“Forgive me, Captain. I feared she might roll her ankle on the terrain.”

“Lady Tsenturian is not feeble, nor do I want her to become so.”

“Yes, Captain.”

“Go.”

The flap, weighed down by a log sewn into the bottom, dropped. Though the wind gusted outside, elks grunted, and men’s voices rumbled, she felt very alone with her husband.

Irresistibly alone.

Petra feigned a shiver and Rand immediately drew her to the fire.

“I told him to guide you carefully. I did not think he would treat you like a child whose legs cannot reach the ground.”

“He said he would lose his hand if I carried my things. I don’t blame him for being cautious.”

“I ought to cleave his brain in two so he can think clearer.”

“They are not used to a woman in their midst.”

He nodded and folded his arms across his chest. “Neither am I.”

She looked from him to the fire. “I’m sorry.”

“I didn’t mean...”

“I didn’t think I’d ever ruin someone’s life.”

“You haven’t. Quite the opposite.”

“What?”

He drew her to sit.

In the firelight, his eyes were fathomless, like rubies at the bottom of the ocean, deeply pigmented. Now, her shiver was genuine. Stubble shadowed his jawline. The smell of a winter’s night clung to him, mixed with the metallic aroma of his armor, and underlined by perspiration. Masculine. Attractive.

Petra didn’t think she scooted closer. But she did.

“I don’t think my life is ruined either,” she whispered.

His arm went around her. His touch was gentle, almost reassuring, but the sudden familiarity blinded her from the inside. Yet, in the same moment, the flap on the tent whisked aside and a gust of sharp air shot inward, guttering the fire’s flames.

Rand set her upright and stood, an impatient snarl between his lips.

“Announce yourself when she is with me!” he bellowed.

Yates snapped in half to bow. “A flock of birds passed overhead moments ago. It startled the elk.”

“Birds flying at night?”

“Yes.”

The snarl lowered into his throat. “What sorcery is this?”

***

Y ATES’ NEWS DISTRESSED Rand. He begged her to find rest because he was not sure he’d be able to do the same. Under fur pelts, the smell of smoke and dirt mingling, she watched him sit in front of the fire. He stared as if he might discern answers in the erratic flames. She had not realized her exhaustion until she lay down and his body was the last thing she saw before slumber sought to restore her.

But it was foiled.

Petra woke to screams and explosions. Metal clashed and elk brayed in panic. The instinct to run slammed into a frozen sensation of fear that numbed her chest. From the blankets, she scrambled but Rand pinned her down.

“Stay!” he thundered.

“What’s happening?”

“Bessarabiah attacks!”

“Rand!”

More frightful explosions erupted through the air, answered by men screaming.

“Stay down, Petra! Whatever you hear, don’t move!”

His sword was already in his hand, and he lunged for the tent opening, but gasped and clutched his side. As if a blow had been dealt to his ribs, pain tore at his face and Petra felt her mystic Ensign ache. She watched the powerful body shiver, teeth clench, and the tendons on his neck bulge.

“I won’t move!” she yelled. “I’ll be safe. Go!”

With a growl, like an animal ripping itself from a trap, he hurled himself through the opening. The Ensign on her body answered his vanishing and she clutched her side to stave off the ache that now pulsed in time with her heart’s beat.

“Don’t do this to him! It’s not his fault. He has lives to defend,” she yelled over the din, to the Ensign, to Eternity, to any power with mercy who listened.

Another explosion. Hooves clove the ground. Horses neighed. Bessarabiah rode equines, making their seats taller than the men of Vale.

Across the walls of the tent, the battle played before her like a nightmarish theatrical spectacle. Shadows of men collided. Swords were no match for the strange cylinders the enemy wielded, shooting bric-a-brac and flame from the end. Horses tumbled to the ground. She saw headless elk crumble. Like puppets from the underworld, bodies flailed when struck and the soul screeched from its home, erupting through throats.

Petra vomited. She fisted her hands over her ears. More sour bile pooled in her cheeks and the smell of smoke clogged her nose. Yet, like a bird held by the specter of a snake’s stare, she could not look away.

Tears stung her eyes.

This is my fault! I shouldn’t be here. I weaken him. Should I run out and free him from this bond? I’d be struck down immediately. But then I undo what he strives to maintain. I betray him when he took all this on without resentment. No. I won’t betray my husband.

She spat out the rancid saliva and pulled the pelts closer.

Bodies were beginning to tumble into the tent and swords had pierced the walls. Petra kept to the center, hoping the whole thing would fall. No one would ravage a collapsed tent. She’d be kept safe beneath.

In the melee, she did not see one of the enemy shadows aim his hand-cannon at the tent. Nor did she move soon enough to keep from being burned by the fringes of his shot. Suddenly, her hands felt like they were on fire. The sickly-sweet scent of her own flesh was in her nose and a soldier of Bessarabiah stormed forward.

Clad in hellish armor, his helmet horned and the pads on his shoulders thick with spikes, he locked eyes with her. The end of his hand-cannon smoked still, and Petra swore the metal glowed from the explosion.

To her feet, she scrambled. She ground her teeth to keep from screaming. Her hands felt like someone poured coarse salt into her veins. She tucked them in her armpits and covered her chest. For although she was fully clothed, the man’s eyes still scanned her body as if she stood naked.

“What do I find here? A woman in the company of soldiers? Their harlot? I did not think Vale had become so progressive.”

Petra stepped back, thinking to put the fire between her and the man. Although he did not block the entrance, if she tried to pass him, she was within his easy reach. Something must disarm him, however feeble, so she had a chance to run.

“Are you mute?” he asked. “Did they cut off your tongue so you could not protest?”

He neared, rounding the flame. Petra moved accordingly and they began to circle one another. More than once, she passed the entrance, but stood no chance of outrunning her adversary. She must do something to him. She must do something.

But what?

“What a novel idea,” the man continued, his country’s dialect seeking to put trills on “r” sounds, “to keep a wench for the needs of the army. Marches are tiresome. Men need to relax.” He licked his lips. “So, they pick a woman like you, not pretty enough to say no. But with eyes,” he said, adjusting himself at the thought, “like a siren. How deep could I sink myself into you, little maid?”

His words felt like they smeared dirt on her skin. She wanted to rub herself clean and get away. But all that was within reach were the pelts she had tread over in this ugly dance of predator and prey. Throwing a blanket at him was nothing. Even if she risked taking off one of her shoes and hurling it, it was nothing.

Where he had exploded his entry-point, the edges still burned and were eating away at the tent as the wind blew. Sparks danced in the air.

If only she could direct those sparks at him. He’d be blinded long enough for her to run.

I cannot control the wind. But my hands are already burned. What do I care if they burn more?

She stopped and tugged at the neckline of her dress.

“Yes,” he said. “If I can have you, I won’t kill you after.”

She knelt and the man dropped his weapon, yanking the belt at his hips. His heavy armor was made of layers, and he was forced to look down to find the buckles. That’s when Petra took her chance. Grasping the closest blanket, she used it to snatch one of the burning logs and flung it at him.

He screamed. He called her vile names and clawed at his eyes. Petra zipped through the opening.

And into the center of a hellish landscape. Only hours prior, it had been rocky land covered in rows of tents and elk. All the tents were burned now, like singed, torn skin with the supporting poles poking upwards—broken bones. Bodies of wounded and dead men covered the ground, patched with expired horses and elk. Before her, the ground was an uncanny moving creature, twitching and groping next to patches of eerie motionlessness.

Blood, flesh, fur, and flame filled her nose; panic took her for its own.

Petra ran. Stumbling over corpses, she moved away from where the fighting seemed to be. Her chest felt frozen and breathing the thick, putrid air made it feel like her lungs would clog. The muscles in her legs spasmed.

Still, she fled. If she could get to the outskirts, she could hide until the fighting stilled and search for Rand. She felt sure he would sense her. The pain of the ensign battled with the fear icing over her and made it hard to see. Hard not to trip and fall on corpses. Or worse, men half alive.

But the blow to the middle of her back was not part of the imprint or her fear. She had been struck and dropped onto all fours—the wind knocked from her body.