Total pages in book: 88
Estimated words: 84840 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 424(@200wpm)___ 339(@250wpm)___ 283(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 84840 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 424(@200wpm)___ 339(@250wpm)___ 283(@300wpm)
Commander Kjartan orders our men to bring the wounded to me, and while the battle continues, behind the shield of Quin’s fighters, I staunch wounds, stitch skin with swift precision, bind broken limbs, and use potions to ease their pain. Some are sent back to camp, while others grab their axes and roar their way back into battle.
In the next lull, I search for him. He’s close. Closer than before. Only a half dozen yards from me.
We’ve lost ground.
Regardless, Quin remains on his steed, swinging his sword, throwing back a handful of Wyrds in one blow—
I gasp as a Wyrd rises from the supposedly vanquished and throws a short spear. Quin sees, but too late to dodge it completely. The spear slices along his upper arm and in his moment of pain, another Wyrd swings his sword.
Quin’s horse rears violently at the attack and Quin is thrown to the ground, his head hitting rock. He doesn’t get up.
Four Wyrds close in, swords gleaming.
I’m yelling and running, my heart in my throat.
Commander Kjartan’s stormblades have been sent further up the cliffs with their bows, Kjartan himself twelve feet above me on the wall. There’s no way they can reach Quin.
I run hard and slide on my knees to Quin’s side as arrows whistle overhead and plunk into Wyrds. The air tastes of salt and iron, dust and bitter blood, and it’s not allowed to be his. With all my strength, I haul Quin by the arms, dragging him away from the battle and into my rocky nook.
Blood streams from a cut at his hairline and I hurriedly staunch the flow, feeling the pulse of it leaking through the too thin fabric. With gritted teeth, I dunk my needle in my shallow bowl of strong spirits, thread it and stitch him up. Each moment of resistance as I pierce through his skin has me murmuring to him. He’ll be fine. It’s a surface wound. It’s just for now.
When he has meditated, I’ll guide him through a vitalian spell to remove any scar. I could heal him constantly from the shadows if only . . .
Magic is better. It just is.
“You need to meditate! You need . . .” My voice breaks and I throw down my needle and check his pulse.
Steadying.
I let out a long breath and grab a tonic to rouse him. It slips over his lips and down his chin, and I force a finger into his mouth and pour more. He gags and swallows, and blinks.
“Close your eyes,” I tell him and dust a powder against infection over his head wound. I carefully blow away any that fell onto his eyelashes. “You’re drained.”
He grimaces as he sits. “You shouldn’t be here.” I tie a hard knot in the bandage on his arm, making him wince, even chuckle. “Just as well you are?”
“Better.”
“Got any pearl heart to keep me going?”
I snatch his face in my hands and kiss him fiercely. “This will have to do.”
He stills and laughs and kisses me again until I’m gasping. There’s a battle raging around us, there’s blood being spilled onto earth, and his warm lips are urgently parting mine.
“Such self-restraint,” he murmurs.
I flick his good arm.
Laughing quietly, Quin pulls back. He whistles, and at the vibration of approaching hooves, he staggers up and throws himself into the saddle. With one last lingering look my way, he charges back into battle.
Commander Kjartan slides down the cliff and back into the nook. His voice is gruff, heavy with responsibility and regret. “If we lose this ground . . .”
His words hang in the air like a death sentence. If we lose this ground, they’ll take Portael. Once they have Portael, it’s a half day’s near-defenceless march to Ragn and its many innocent lives. Lives like those who dropped their ‘blessed’ runes in despair. Lives like my aunt’s, whose belly gently swells with child.
I clench my fists. Stare out towards the horizon. Evening sky is bleeding as red as my stained hands. Where are Nicostratus and his men? I turn my gaze up at the cliffs, at all that hard smooth stone. Could something have stalled him? Is he hurrying determinedly towards us, hoping we’ll hold out?
I push off the dense rock. “Blocking the pass would stall the Wyrds, wouldn’t it?”
Commander Kjartan’s sharp eyes follow my gaze to the cliffs. “If enough rock came down, they’d need at least a day to dig out.”
“Enough time to rest and re-gather.”
“We’ve no way to shift it.”
Quin has a way. After he’s meditated. When he’s full of spiritual power. Although surely Nicostratus will have brought reinforcements by that time . . .
A blood-red sky darkens into a black one.
Fresher stormblades arrive, muttering that there should have been more of them by now.
They charge into the fray, and Quin and his men slump out of it, bloodied and dismayed as they look over the men relieving them. Who will make it back?