"They led him behind these tents," the warlord's man said. "But it seems quiet now."
They've taken him.
If someone had suggested before the battle began that a prince could be kidnapped in front of his own men, she'd have laughed. Surely someone would see. Surely she would see. But each warrior was locked in his own fight for survival and could ill afford a moment's distraction.
The warlord's man led her to the largest tent. All was quiet and still behind it.
"Blast it," the young warrior said. "We're too late. Can your wildcat follow a trail?"
"He's no hound, but he--"
She caught a blur on the battlefield. A plait of long, black hair whipping as a warrior spun.
"Tyrus," she breathed.
If it had been difficult to pick out men on the field from afar, it was even harder now that she was right beside it. They truly were a seething mass of flashing swords and whirling bodies. But she knew that hair--and the dragon helmet atop it. He was in the thick of the fight, with Jorojumo at his side. Tyrus said something, grinning, and the warlord replied with a smile.
"He's there," Moria said. "The prince is there."
The young warrior exhaled. "Thank the ancestors. Lord Jorojumo must have helped him drive off his attackers. Let us get you to safety, my lady. This is no place for you."
While she followed him around the large tent, she kept glancing back at Tyrus, assuring herself he was fine. He had blood on one arm and cuts in his breastplate, but none seemed to have penetrated.
The battle had slowed enough that the remaining bandits seemed in no hurry to take on both the young prince and the warlord at once. The two had a moment to catch their breath on the sidelines. Then Lord Jorojumo pointed at someone in the fray. Tyrus started forward, attention fixed on his target. Behind him, the warlord raised his sword.
Why? There is no one close enough to strike except--
Daigo let out a snarl and ran. Moria stood frozen, certain she was mistaken, that the warlord was only hefting his blade.
Lord Jorojumo swung. At Tyrus. At his back.
"Tyrus!" Moria screamed, lunging forward as Daigo flew from the long grass beside him and--
Something hit Moria's head. Pain flashed. Then darkness.
TWENTY-TWO
Moria awoke to darkness. Complete black, as if she hadn't opened her eyes. It was bitterly cold, too, like stumbling from the house on a winter's night, forgetting to pull on her cloak, that first step a shock that sent sleep scattering. She leaped up, only to fall face-first to the dirt as something around her leg stopped her short.
I'm bound. I'm in the dark, and I'm bound. Why--?
She remembered and lunged again with Tyrus's name on her lips. Then she realized she was alone. Completely alone, that chill coming not only from the air, but from deep inside her.
"Daigo?"
She scrambled onto all fours and frantically patted the ground.
"Daigo!"
Even as she felt about wildly, she knew in her gut he wasn't there.
"Is anyone . . . ?" She choked on the word, on her panic, and had to restart. "Is anyone here?"
Her voice echoed in the silence. She squeezed her eyes shut and remembered the warlord swinging his sword at Tyrus, Daigo leaping in, and the last thing she saw . . .
That was the last thing she saw. Not a moment more. She lay there, straining and searching her memory, as if by concentrating harder she could catch a glimpse of what happened next. When her memory failed, her imagination filled in the hole, sending images of the sword cutting through Tyrus or deflecting at the last moment to cut down Daigo instead. Of the warlord's men turning on them both, Daigo and Tyrus dead on a blood-soaked field and--
Bile filled her mouth, and she spat. The movement made her head pound as if it were about to crack open, and she fell to the dirt floor, heaving breath.