35. Chapter 35 #2
Warrick put his hands on his hips. “The warriors of Doran have come this far and will spill as much of Viltov’s blood as they are able.
But even with all the cavalry and foot soldiers in the world, you won’t breach the walls if you cannot get close to them.
Viltov’s trebuchets and ballistae will make victory impossible. ”
I breathed in deeply in frustration, and the smoke hanging in the air burned my lungs. My gaze drifted over to the still-smoldering funeral pyres. Memories surfaced of creatures called by charred flesh, and the way I had sat on the back of a tricrith and forced it to kill its own mate.
The desert was angrier than ever, and for once, I wished her to be madder still, for her fury and mine were directed at the same goal.
“I have breached the walls before. Leave the trebuchets to Keera and me,” I declared. “Take the rest of the day to make whatever preparations you need, and set your affairs in order. At dawn, we ride.”
With mutters and shouts, the group began to disband.
Hot on the heels of the last fight, there would be much preparation for another battle.
Swords needed to be sharpened and armor repaired.
Even those with more minor wounds would be finding ways to join the fight—for if we were not victorious, it would be the last battle for all the clans of the desert.
Keera’s fingers brushed my own, and I looked down at her again. “What will you ride into battle?”
My stomach squeezed violently, and the mournful chattering in my head grew from a quietly distracting backdrop into an incessant buzz at the reminder of my own loss.
“I do not know,” I admitted. “Alza—I need to check on her.”
My very bones were heavy with the knowledge that she would not bear me into this last battle.
It had been clear to me when I left her sleeping fitfully under the horse master’s care the night before.
But somehow I felt that I had to see her again before I considered an alternative—like I needed to tell her I would never choose another to replace her—that I had trusted her to bring me to the end of the world and back, even more than I had trusted myself.
“I’ll come with,” Keera offered, pulling me out of my reverie. “I’m sure Daiti will have been giving the horse master trouble anyway.”
Together we trudged through the camp, that had somehow become a hive of activity once again.
The news of another battle had spread quickly from the large, assembled crowd to those who had not been present, and the sounds of grinding stones and whickering horses began.
Still, they mixed with groans of the injured and sobs of the grieving.
The aftermath of one battle mixed with the prelude to another in a way that made my head spin, but such was the way of war.
We made it to the pen where Alza had been kept, and the shivering tangle of magic at the nape of my neck loosened slightly at just the sight of her.
While normally she dozed with her front legs folded and her nose tucked to the side, now she laid flat on her side, telling me instantly that she was in pain—the echoes of her sensation coming through the unconscious bond between a mount and her rider.
But her side rose and fell in deep, even breaths, and the sensation in my mind was a dull insistent throb, and not the sharp stab of a fresh or festering injury.
As I climbed over the fence with Keera beside me, Daiti blew out a breath in greeting.
He stood right beside Alza, as if guarding her while she slept.
“Not such a big bad warhorse after all, are you?” Keera praised as she stroked his forelock, giving me a moment to kneel beside Alza.
While I was moderately sure Daiti would not kick me for coming close to his self-appointed charge—I had thought we had become friends after all—but one could never be sure with the golden stallion.
I laid my hand on Alza’s neck, and her skin jumped at the contact before she settled again, realizing it was just me.
I shushed gently, offering her as much comfort as I could.
As I did, the horse master emerged from the adjacent paddock and drifted over.
He stopped behind me, bracing his hands on his hips.
“She’s rested well, no signs of fever or festering,” he told me. “But she has barely stood. With the muscles damaged as deeply as they were, it will take her time to bear her weight again. And it will be months before she can bear the load of a rider—if ever again.”
A lump formed in my throat, and I forced myself to swallow despite the feeling of shards of glass. “She will be cared for, whether she can bear my weight or not.”
Of course, I had to survive the coming battle to care for her.
I pushed to my feet and dusted my hands on my pants, even though I wanted to continue stroking my fingers through Alza’s mane—I could have stayed there for the rest of the day. But she needed rest, and I needed a mount.
“Are there any horses to spare?” I asked, nearly choking the words out.
The horse master nodded solemnly. “Too many. There are many riderless mounts after yesterday’s battle that might serve you well. Come look.”
I trailed him over to a larger enclosure. Keera joined us after giving Daiti one last pat on the nose.
“These are all the beasts in my care, most turned over to me after losing their riders in yesterday’s battle. Perhaps one of them will catch your eye,” the horse master encouraged before drifting off and letting me peruse the herd at my will.
Many let their heads hang dejectedly: They knew what had been lost. The bond sacred to the Ballan Desert—to our goddess—had been severed with the loss of their rider.
“Do you know what you might want?” Keera asked, looking out over the paddock.
Alza.
I didn’t say that, instead just shaking my head. “Alza was a young, wild horse when I chose her. Or rather, she chose me. And the mare I rode before her had been bred by my father, a child of his favorite stallion.”
I wondered which of the horses before me would catch my father’s eye. Thinking of him running his hands over their flanks and shushing at them gently as he checked their eyes hurt far less than remembering his voice cracking as he told me not to make him look like a fool with his last breath.