* * *
The Rahtan were dead, but our group had sustained more injuries.
When we got back to the others, Tavish had a gash on his forehead that he waved away as unimportant, wrapping his head with a strip of cloth to keep the blood out of his eyes. Jeb was lying on the ground, his face wet and waxy. My heart clutched, but Kaden assured me it wasn’t fatal. When Jeb’s horse was struck by the blow of a sword, he’d been thrown and his shoulder was dislocated. Jeb shuddered as they cut away his shirt so they could see his injury.
“That was my favorite shirt, you savages,” he said, trying to smile, but his breaths were strained and only agony registered on his face.
I dropped to his side, brushing back his hair. “I’ll buy you a dozen more,” I said.
“Cruvas linen,” he specified. “It’s the finest.”
“Cruvas it is.”
He grimaced and looked at Rafe. “Get on with it.”
We all stared at his shoulder. It was more than just a dislocation. Something had ripped inside. The skin swelled purple and blue, and the previous injury that Tavish had stitched was bleeding again.
Tavish nodded at Orrin and Kaden. They held him down while Rafe rotated Jeb’s arm off to the side, upward slightly, then pulled. Jeb’s scream was full and guttural, echoing through the valley. My stomach turned. Afterward his eyes remained closed, and I thought he had passed out, but when his breath returned, he looked up at me and said, “You didn’t hear that.”
I wiped his brow. “I heard nothing but savages ripping off a perfectly fine shirt.”
We made a sling for his shoulder from a dead Rahtan’s bedroll, and Jeb was helped onto one of the Vendan horses, his own now dead in the road and stripped of its belongings. We were on our way again, all of us spattered in blood, Griz favoring his wounded side again, making me fear he had pulled his stitches loose. The dead Rahtan lay scattered, a gruesome scene of butchered men, some of them stripped of their needed linens. As we took the supplies we needed from their dead bodies, I felt like a scavenger—the kind Gaudrel and Morrighan had feared. I prayed there were no more Rahtan lying in wait in another ruin. It seemed we would never be out of this hell.
I cry out and fall to my knees,
unable to go on,
weeping for the dead,
weeping for the cruelties,
and a whisper calls to me from far away,
You are strong,
Stronger than your pain,
Stronger than your grief,
Stronger than them.
And I force myself to my feet again.
—The Lost Words of Morrighan
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
RAFE
I couldn’t banish the sight of the barbarian yanking Lia’s head back by her hair, his sword rising, and in the flash of that moment, I saw the bounty hunter in Terravin again, his knife held to her neck, but this time I knew she was going to die. I was too far away. Terror had gripped me. I would never make it in time.
But then, somehow I did. Somehow I was there. My reach longer, my advance faster than it had ever been before. She rode with me now, settled in my saddle against me. When I told the others that she would ride with me, I didn’t explain why. No one asked. The extra horses were tethered behind us.
We’d only been back on the trail for an hour when we saw dust in the distance, and then a squad. They spread out. They had spotted us too. Devil’s hell. How much more could we take on? There were at least thirty of them, and we were stuck on a wide open plain, the ruins far behind us.
I raised my hand, and our convoy stopped. I heard the rumble of murmurs behind me.
Blessed gods.