Grudging (11 page)

“Bite.

Sting.”

The horses went mad. All around him they kicked, skin flinching from horsefly attacks. An instant later, they broke and ran. The packhorses pulled free, and Sancha vanished along with them. Valentía screamed and reared. He dashed for the swamp, taking Teresa with him.

The witch's eye gleamed as a gloating smile crossed her features. The tempo of her song changed, growing more vicious, filling with hate.

“Foes.

Deceit.

Surrounded.

Protect.

Defend.

Foes.”

Ramiro's scream turned defiant. The Northerners were here. They'd been tricked. All around, the foes hid in plain sight. Waiting to kill. Waiting to snatch victory. Northerners everywhere. Their weapons ready. He must defend. He must defeat. Protect himself.

A glance down showed he sat on a slim, sandy-­haired boy, no older than himself, but he wore the Northern uniform and held a knife.
Bastards!
They were right in front of him, slipping in unnoticed like snakes! Ramiro snatched at the shoulders and neck under his hands. Heedless of the dagger, he beat the Northern boy against the soggy ground over and over. Desperate to kill in order to protect himself.

His foe went limp, but Ramiro couldn't relax. Vaguely, he was aware of swords swinging, the clash of arms. Where was his sword?

“Foes.

Defend.”

Salvador, Gomez, and Alvito struggled against each other.

Ramiro blinked. No, against the hated Northerners. Swords stabbing. Flesh parting. Blood flowing. The giant Northerner from his nightmares took a blow from a smaller dancing enemy that slashed open his guts, spilling intestines. But the giant fought on, bellowing, his sword penetrating. Their captain took two stabs to the chest even as his own sword took the dancing Northerner.

Ramiro frowned. Something wasn't right. How could the giant be back? He'd killed that opponent yesterday. The Northerners fought each other. No, they fought his friends. They'd slay his brother, himself.

He climbed unsteadily to his feet. His enemy remained still, an unconscious pile on the ground.

Brow twisted, Ramiro's hands lifted to cover his ears. To block out the sound.

“Foes.

Defend.”

No. It wasn't right. There were no foes. No Northerners. They couldn't have gotten so close unnoticed. The body at his feet lay in a puddle of gold hair. A girl, not a soldier.

“Salvador!”

His brother swayed on his feet, one arm dangling uselessly. Bleeding profusely, his brother blinked. Gomez and Alvito were down. Realization bloomed in Salvador's eye. He understood the trick played on them.

Salvador spun and advanced on the witch, closing the space she'd kept between them. Confidence slid from her expression. She turned to flee. His sword flashed once. The witch's song cut off. Her body hit the ground, a savage slice down her spine.

Salvador dropped. Bleeding his life into the morass.

“Salvador!” Ramiro staggered toward his brother, pulling the worthless lumps of wax from his ears.

“Cousin,” came a pleading cry. “Cousin! Help!”

Ramiro whirled. Valentía thrashed in the pool of quicksand, already buried deep. Teresa clung to his back, fighting to calm the horse.

And Ramiro had no idea whom to try to save.

 

CHAPTER 13

“S
an Martin, help me.” Ramiro clutched the medallion at his neck. His breath rushed through a throat grown too tight.
Quicksand.
And his brother—­his friends—­bleeding out into the ground.
Hurry.
Bandages. Tourniquets.

He looked around, but nothing moved. The horses had gone, taking all the supplies.

Even with the needed material, saving them would consign Teresa to the quicksand. Buried alive. His legs refused to move in either direction.
His brother. Teresa.
Saints . . .
what to do first? He was only one person.

“Bromisto!” he called wildly.

Not a sound answered. The boy probably wouldn't stop running until he reached his village. Ramiro couldn't blame him. He wanted to run also. Pretend that none of this horror had occurred. How could they have let this happen?

“Cousin,” Teresa begged.

No movement came from the area where his friends had murdered each other in ignorance. The lifeless body of the witch showed she'd gotten what she deserved.

Saints.
Ramiro kicked savagely at a broken branch, sending it flying.

Then he took a step.

Then another.

Away from his brother.

Tears stung behind his eyes, and he thought his heart would burst.
It's what Salvador would want.

His feet reached the reed-­lined water's edge. Valentía was trapped only three feet from the shore, just out of reach. The horse's eyes rolled with terror, not understanding what was happening to him. The ground sucked at the stallion like a hungry mouth, taking Teresa with it. Foul water of treacherous thickness reached past her waist, lapping at her ribs.

“The reins, cousin,” he called. “Throw me the reins.” The light leather floated on the surface before trailing into the quicksand.

Teresa looked at him with eyes wide and no comprehension.

“The reins,” he ordered again, putting force into his voice. “Hurry.” This time she moved. With effort, she got her arm free of the clinging muck and drew the trailing end of the leather strap to herself. She cast it in his direction, but it coiled in a pile a foot short of him and began to sink.

Ramiro stepped into the lake and immediately the ground gave way, trying to take him down. He retreated, his glance going to his brother and the other two. Was it his imagination, or had Alvito changed position? Painful hope flared.

He stepped to a straggly blueberry bush growing by the water's edge and heaved. Two more yanks, and the entire plant lifted from the wet soil, spilling mud from the roots. With the top half, he raked at the reins, slowly drawing them across the treacherous ground to him.

The reins in hand, he pulled. Perhaps sensing help, the stallion struggled. Valentía thrashed, his head and neck stretching. Muscles cording in his arms, Ramiro exerted a steady force backward on the reins, trying to give Valentía the leverage with which to fight.

The
caballo de guerra
sunk another inch and went still. Brackish water settled higher, eager as a lover, only this lover dealt death. The reins went slack, sending Ramiro stumbling off-­balance. He wasn't strong enough. He yanked again, but Valentía didn't respond. The horse knew it wouldn't work. Ramiro collapsed to his ass on the boggy ground. A mosquito whined in his ear as if laughing at his failure.

“Cousin,” Teresa called. Tears ran down her round cheeks. “It's all right. You did what you could. Do not blame yourself.”

“A rope. If I had some rope, I could anchor back to a tree and have more leverage.”

“There is no rope,” Teresa said reasonably. “Nor any trees close. See to your brother. The others. Just . . . just keep talking to me. I don't want to die alone.”

“No.” Ramiro clambered to his feet and seized the reins anew. “I'm not giving up. You can't either.” He pulled, and once more Valentía thrashed, lifting a little in the water, gaining ground toward shore. Ramiro heaved like a madman, the reins cutting bloody streaks into his hands. He screamed for added strength as the soggy ground gave him no support, sending him sliding toward the quicksand. Before he could lose all ground, he managed to anchor his feet against a skull-­sized rock to stop his slide. A burn settled into his muscles, slowly growing, but Valentía made no more progress. The thick liquid neared Teresa's shoulders. Valentía had his neck stretched to keep nose above water.

Ramiro pushed down on the gibbering panic that threatened to unnerve him only to have the fear grow stronger.
Too long.
It was taking too long. He risked a glance toward Salvador but could see nothing but the covering foliage of the bushes.

It wasn't going to work. He hadn't the strength to pull a horse free. Teresa had given him permission to quit. She kept her face turned from his, making it easier for him. Then he could help Salvador.
No. Think! Find a way.

“Teresa, get the bridle off Valentía. Tie it around yourself.” He might lose the horse, but he
could
at least pull her free.

She flailed at the horse's head, one-­handed, the quicksand reluctant to let any part of her escape. He saw instantly it was a losing battle as she couldn't brace herself higher and reach the leather.

“Both hands! Take off your sling!”

She fumbled at the knot around her neck. So slowly. Too slowly. Ramiro loosened his grip on the taut reins long enough to set two fingers in his mouth and blow a sharp whistle.

“Hurry,” he urged to Teresa, but the woman hadn't undone the sling yet. By the time she worked the knot loose, something pushed Ramiro in the back and a wide nose was thrust under his arm, a broad forehead butting against his shoulder.

“Sancha.” Ramiro's knees almost gave way. She'd heard his whistle. He spun, coaxing her closer and getting the reins over her saddle horn, looping them three times. In no time, he had a rope from his saddle to Valentía and tied off. “Hi-­ya,” he shouted. She took the strain, pulling as if she understood the dire nature of their struggle.

The already-­stretched lifeline of reins and rope grew still tighter. But Salvador's leatherwork would be solid throughout; he would never allow a weak spot in his equipment. It was not the reins that would fail.

“Saints,” Ramiro said through gritted teeth. Sancha struggled forward two paces.

Valentía sensed the new strength and added his efforts to theirs, lashing out with rear legs, drawing ever so much closer to shore. The quicksand shrank back to Teresa's waist. Her thighs. Its lover's touch was weakening . . .

And then Valentía's hooves found purchase. With a great sucking belch, he came free. Teresa slithered off his neck to collapse on the firm ground, sobbing her relief.

Weak-­limbed, Ramiro clung to Sancha with bleeding hands and gasped like a stranded fish. His heart thumped as if he'd run twenty miles. The world spun. He squeezed Sancha and buried his face in her coarse hair until things slowed, then he lurched on drunken feet toward his brother.

Salvador lay where Ramiro had last seen him, next to the witch's twisted and broken body. His hand still clenched his sword. Curled on his side, two spots of gore stained his chest. One rested over the heart where a breastplate would have given protection. Salvador hadn't stirred, but Alvito had crawled to Gomez and pressed cloth to the ghastly wound at the other's midsection.

“No.” Ramiro dropped to his knees next to his brother and fumbled for a pulse. Nothing. He tried again and again, touching neck then wrist.

“He's gone.” Blood ran unheeded from the corner of Alvito's mouth into his immaculate beard.

Ramiro stiffened. Alvito faced a wound to the lungs at the very least. “He's not . . . the saints . . . they wouldn't . . . he's not . . . dead . . .”

Hands touched him as Teresa knelt beside him. Muck dripped from her clothing and skin. She turned Salvador, revealing his wounds to the sunshine. His brother's eyes were glazed and sightless. The expression she sent him showed pity, remorse, as she pressed Salvador's eyes closed. “I'm sorry.”

“No,” he continued to say, but Teresa stood and hurried to Alvito. Her drawn face grew still paler, and one look under the cloth covering Gomez, and she began to retch, gagging into the weeds. His eyes closed tight, Gomez remained mercifully unaware.

“Find my Constanza,” Alvito said, coughing blood. “The medical supplies are on her.”

Ramiro couldn't get his legs to respond because none of this was real; he dreamed. He must be stuck in some horrible, unending nightmare. Teresa wandered uncertainly, peering behind bushes as if the
caballo de guerra
could be playing a child's hiding game with them.

A huff of air hit the back of Ramiro's neck, and Valentía lowered his head to nudge his master. The stallion lipped at Salvador's clothing and stamped a hoof demanding his brother pay attention. Valentía brushed at his brother's hand again before turning limpid eyes in Ramiro's direction as if demanding reassurance.

A crushing weight descended on Ramiro's chest. He couldn't breathe. Salvador would never ignore his horse. Never. And that drove the truth of it home: By the saints, Salvador was dead. Humming rose in his ears, and the world grew dark.

“No. No.
No!
” The word grew into a scream that left the swamp ringing with its echoes. Sobs tore at him. He doubled over, searching for something to strike out at, but found nothing but bare ground. He seized at it, and chunks of mud flew. Valentía shied back from his rage.

If only he'd been faster. Done more. Gone to Salvador first.

“Ramiro! Cousin! I need you!”

He turned his back from Teresa, so she wouldn't see, fighting for control. His hands shook. A man didn't disgrace himself before others. He clutched at his medallion, desperate to pull it together.

Duty.
Duty dragged at him.

Ramiro fought off the darkness and raised his head, swiping at the shaming wetness on his cheeks, pushing all the emotion deep inside. He wanted to scream again, to rage, but he packed it all away, trying to fill the empty ache in his chest that only grew by the moment.

By some miracle, Teresa had found Alvito's mare, but Constanza wouldn't let her approach. Pawing and rearing, she backed from the woman's outstretched hands.

The strength to stand and leave his brother took an eternity. It bruised worse than the thump of a thousand practice swords pounding his body. Cut deeper into his soul than his most heartfelt prayer.

His feet stumbled over ground blurred by eyes that wouldn't obey his order to return to normal. “Something in my eye,” he said, gruffly, dabbing at them.

“Oh, cousin.” Sorrow split her face.

He avoided Teresa's offered hug and moved her aside to catch the reins to Alvito's mare, leading the
caballo de guerra
to her master. Ramiro knew he wouldn't be able to ride him, but every stable boy of the
peloton
had to know how to handle another's warhorse. Only standing beside Alvito did Constanza settle, for the same reason Valentía continued to stand beside Salvador.

“Loyal until death and beyond,” Ramiro whispered.

“Eh, cousin?

Teresa hesitated to touch the mare and unload the supplies they needed, so Ramiro did it for her. Alvito had lapsed into unconsciousness, but his chest rose and fell in ragged, bubbling breaths. “The
caballos de guerra
will accept no touch but their bonded master,” Ramiro said.

“But I rode—­”

“Because Salvador
told
Valentía to allow you.”

Teresa stopped short holding a bandage. “The horse understood him?” She shook herself and knelt by Alvito. “Hold this here. Hi-­ya,” she panted in frustration. “If only I had some knowledge of what I'm doing. I'm not a healer.”

While Teresa peeled away obstructive clothing to inspect another wound in the chest, Ramiro stooped to press a cloth against the oozing gash in Alvito's side, concentrating on his words and actions to block out any other thoughts. “Stop the bleeding. Keep the wounds clean.”

“That's the limit of my information, too,” Teresa confessed. “Maybe I could set a bone. But I don't know how to handle this!”

Ramiro took a deeper examination of his friends. The giant form of Gomez had a shrunken look like a child's bladder balloon that lost air. Alvito had packed the intestines back in the wound, but it needed stitching, and only Alvito had the skill for the task. The saints knew the depth of the internal injuries or how they should be treated. How to clean it? Whether to give substance and water or withhold them? What medicine would help?

Alvito's already-­pale skin had gone ghostly from blood loss though little enough leaked to the outside of his body. The liquid gurgle to his breathing told the story of where it had gone, and Ramiro knew not how to get it out or stop further bleeding.

Teresa used a bandage soaked in alcohol to sponge off Alvito's chest, dribbling the liquid inside the lung wound. With a screech of pain, Alvito jerked from their hands, only to settle again as if he was too weak to evade them. She held out a water bottle, but Alvito batted it away and instead clamped onto Ramiro's arm.

“The witch,” Alvito demanded in a wheeze. Fresh blood ran into his groomed beard.

“Dead.”

“The girl. The nit?” Alvito asked.

“I don't know. Alive, I think.”

“You must get her home. Get her to our ­people.”

Ramiro shook his head. “I must take care of you—­of Gomez—­first.”

Ramiro had to lean close to hear the fading reply. Alvito's eyes met his with force and utter conviction. “Too late. For us. Get nit. Colina Hermosa. Order.”

It was starting to dawn on Ramiro just how terrible a thing duty could be.