The Hermetica of Elysium (Elysium Texts Series) (7 page)

Another scream, then a thud.

Any moment she might be discovered.
Is it safer here or among
the trees? Are there more wild men in the woods? Do they have families hidden there?
If she caught a horse could she control it? Marcus had told her to stay put and wait. If her men were defeated, what would happen to her then? Her mind sped through the possibilities. None of them good.

She wanted to see. She had to know. Nadira inched her way around her stone. Her legs tangled in her chemise, the gravel bruised her hands. The sound of steel and the thud of clubs and metal surrounded her. Through a slit in the stones she attained a narrow view of the trail.

Five of the outlaws lay still, their animal skins ripped and bloody, arms and legs askew or detached, their blood pooling on the shale, rivulets finding their way down the rain tracks to the streams. Her heart tightened as she recognized John lying beside them on his back, his eyes open, mouth gaping. The other men of her party flailed about with glittering steel. All had been unhorsed. They looked like they were tiring. Nadira counted six brigands still struggling against her four. Around her lay a supply of good-sized stones.

She felt around her feet for a stone without taking her eyes from the battle. She tossed it up and down a few times to get the feel for its heft.
Maybe
. The stones here were irregular and sharp, not rounded like river rock. It was difficult to get a good grip for throwing. She watched as one of the wild men landed a fierce blow with what seemed like the branch of a tree to the back of Marcus’ head. Garreth let out a roar and swung his axe in a wide arc. He avenged his friend with professional accuracy, the axe descending from the sky to cleave the brigand from his shoulder to his hips. The spray from that blow speckled her rock in a grisly pattern. Nadira was too horrified to move. Her hand tightened on her rock.

She watched as Montrose swung his sword backwards to ready it for a vicious slash that would have cleaved his victim had it landed. Instead, from behind him and out of his field of vision a wild man was running at full speed, his axe grasped in both hands high over his head, ready for the down stroke.

Nadira did not stop to think any more, but stood tall, braced herself with one foot against her boulder and let fly. Her stone struck the advancing attacker square between the eyes, interrupting the deadly stroke, but not stopping it. She watched with dismay as the axe came down under Montrose’s arm, slicing him and knocking him to the ground. Worse, the attacker wheeled about and came for her with a roar, the axe rising again, his other hand to the gash in his face.

Nadira backed against her boulder, crouching down, but never taking her eyes from the wild man. She felt the ground blindly for another missile. The brigand grew larger and larger until he filled her field of vision. His black teeth were bared, blood streamed from his nose and from his forehead where her stone had cut him. His hairy arm was now high over his head.

Nadira could not move; her hand clutched a stone too heavy for her to lift. She followed with her eyes the swing of steel up higher and higher. There were no sounds in her ears; no air seemed to flow into her body.

As the axe reached the top of its arc, it seemed to Nadira that a circle of darkness moved in on her from all sides. She heard herself screaming, as though her mouth and throat were a separate and distant part of her body. She told herself to run, puzzled by her inability to move. She could not even blink until a hot splash of blood slapped her face.

The stink and the shock whipped her into motion. Her arms and legs now obeyed her commands. Her hand went to her throat, foolishly feeling for the gaping wound she expected, but her neck was whole. She wavered. At her feet lay the bear-like brigand, or half of him, anyway. Montrose bent over him, gasping. One hand was on his ribs, the other leaning on the pommel of his dark sword. Tentatively Nadira took in a breath.
Yes, I can breathe
. Another breath. She wiped her nose with her sleeve.

“My lord...” Her voice was a mere croak, her hand unbelieving, returned to her throat. His helmet and face were red with gore, his short beard matted with bits of flesh. His eyes shone a wild blue and white from behind a mask of death. Nadira reached out to touch him, hardly believing he was real. White teeth flashed at her from behind the dark mouth.

“You hurt?” He turned his head and spat, then wiped his hand across his nose and mouth, gathering up the residue of a man’s life and flicking it distastefully to the ground. His fingers left pale tracks across his face.

She shook her head, speechless.

He reached for her and she allowed him to take her elbow in his gloved hand and steer her toward the path. The brigands that remained alive had fled. Together with Montrose, Nadira climbed over the broken stone and slid down to the road where the bodies lay in grotesque clumps in an obscene embrace. Montrose grasped a wild man’s corpse by the hair and pulled it off John’s body, kicking it with his boot until it rolled free. Nadira rushed to kneel at John’s side. Alisdair and Garreth towered over her, back to back, swords ready.

“What made them flee?” she whispered.

“All the horses run off.” Alisdair answered as he scanned the tree line.

John was dead. His throat had been slashed along one side; crimson colored his leather shirt. Montrose knelt by his friend. He pulled his gauntlets off one by one and closed John’s eyes, then squeezed his shoulder. Nadira staggered to her feet, tripping on her bloody skirts, and stumbled to the other familiar body in the dirt.

Marcus lay on his back, his eyes closed. His face was so pale that the scar was invisible. Nadira pressed her fingers under his thick beard where jaw met neck. She felt a flutter.
He lives
. Hot tears welled up. She heard Montrose lower himself beside her with a creak of leather and the scrape of steel. The smell of sweat and blood sickened her. She was afraid to look at him. Montrose put his hand on Marcus’ throat too. His other hand smoothed the dark hair back from the wounded man’s brow, leaving a bloody smear on the pale flesh. Montrose turned his head toward her, his blue eyes dark.

“He is still alive,” he said.

“Yes,” she sobbed.

Montrose glanced over the horizon before turning back to Marcus. Nadira felt him squeeze her arm. She rubbed her face with her sleeve and sniffed hard. Marcus had many slight wounds on his body and it was difficult to tell how much of the blood that covered him was his own. His eyes remained closed even when she touched the lids. She laid her palm along his cheek before sliding her hand over his temple and along the crest of his skull to the back of his head.

Montrose watched her carefully. She felt his eyes on her as she found what she feared. A large swelling had already begun. When he saw the look of dismay on her face Montrose put his hand there too. He sighed and sat back on his heels. He did not look at her as he spoke but scanned the distant tree line.

“Garreth!” Montrose called as he rose. “Give me your axe! Now lift him up….carefully, carefully.”

Garreth bent down. She helped Montrose lift Marcus into Garreth’s arms.

“Alisdair …” Montrose scanned the tree line again.

Alisdair craned his neck to examine Marcus, then looked at Nadira. There was no humor in the blue eyes now. His cheek twitched then he waved a bloody glove at the tree line.

“The horses will head downhill and toward water. I say we walk down now.” He waited while Montrose made a final sweep of the mountaintop. Nothing moved.

Montrose nodded, “Let’s go.”

Alisdair led them, his hand on his sword, but Nadira did not feel safe. She followed closely on his heels beside Garreth. She heard Montrose’s boots crunching the stones behind her as she continued to glance around. Should they be attacked now, she knew they would be savaged if not completely overcome. Nadira moved closer to Garreth and put her fingers through his belt so he could pull her along. She needed the support.

They left the trail, making a crossing through the birch and beech. Before they entered the trees, Nadira remembered with a start that the party was one short. She looked over her shoulder at John’s body lying in the road behind them. Montrose caught her gaze. “It can’t be helped,” he said quietly. She saw a glistening red line on his breeches from his hip to his boot. She had not noticed it before,
perhaps because he is doused
in blood
, she thought , but now she remembered the great slashing blow he took from her attacker. Only his own blood was bright, the blood of his enemies was drying dark on his body. She released Garreth and stepped beside him.

“You are wounded too,” she said, trying to see under his arm as they continued down the mountain.

“But I am not dead.”

Nadira looked at his face, puzzled by his response. He shifted the axe head to the other shoulder and turned the blade up so she couldn’t see him. “I will see to it when we camp next,” he said quietly. “You must attend to Marcus.”

She was doubtful that Marcus would live, but she would not speak those words.
He does not think so, either,
but I will not be the first to say it.
Her eyes rested on his leg again. The blood was running into his boot.

The path became difficult as the drop became even steeper. Nadira tried to help brace Garreth over the rough ground as he picked his way down. There was no sign of another attack. They saw nothing move save for the large black birds flying in the opposite direction.

She knew where they were going.

CHAPTER FIVE

N
IGHT
came before they could escape the mountain. They built no fire for fear of the wild men, and ate nothing. Nadira doubted she could have choked anything down even if they had the horses and all their baggage. She lay awake on the hard ground most of the night as the men took turns on watch, all of them desperate for the faint glow in the east. Clouds blanketed the sky from horizon to horizon and delayed the feeble sun. She turned her head to the side. Montrose lay stretched out in the dry leaves, deeply asleep. Alisdair saw her move and stepped over to kneel beside her.

“Ah, lass, look at him.” Alisdair shook his head. “I’ll not wake him just yet. Let’s leave him be,” he whispered. “We don’t need to get movin’ any further without the horses. Garreth’s gone out to find t’ boys and see if the hairy bastards missed one or two.”

Nadira sat up and pulled twigs from her hair. Marcus lay to her left where Garreth had tenderly set him down the night before. He had not moved nor made a sound the entire night. She touched his throat.

Alisdair gestured with his chin. “How does Marc?”

“He is far away.” Nadira whispered, not meeting his eyes. Her heart felt crushed. She had little hope for Marcus. The last time she checked the swelling she felt the bones move under her fingers.

She had not mentioned this to anyone. What good would it do? Alisdair rearranged his legs and rested his arms on his knees. He bowed his head. She cast furtive glances at him. He did not appear to be wounded. As with the other men, he was caked with the effects of battle. His brigandine was dull and brown, bits of leaves and sticks stuck to the metal studs that stippled the leather. Even his bright red hair hung in crusted ropes, most of the braids undone, but glued together nonetheless. Nadira tried not to think about what she could smell all around her, but the pervasive stink of death would not be ignored.

Montrose coughed suddenly and sat straight up, eyes wide, snorting. Alisdair leapt to his feet and stepped over Nadira with his long legs.

“Here, Rob,” he went down on one knee and took Montrose’s shoulders in his hands. “Here. We’re safe.”

The wild eyes focused on his friend, then flashed to the sky, looking for the sun. “Why did you let me sleep so long?”

“Aye, well.” Alisdair shook his shoulder once before releasing him. “Aye, well,” he deflected, “here’s the lass, ready to tend to you.”

“And Marc?”

Alisdair did not reply so quickly to that question. “He’s alive, Rob, survived the night.”

Montrose leaned stiffly to the side and peered into Marcus’ face. To Nadira he said, “And you?”

“I am well, my lord.”

“Let the lass see to you, Rob. You’ve been leakin’ all night.” Alisdair indicated the dark stains in the dry leaves behind him. Montrose lifted his right arm slowly and looked down at his side. The leather brigandine came apart where the axe had struck him. With a resigned sigh, he shrugged his shirt up far enough for Alisdair to grab hold of the edges and pull it all the way over his head. Alisdair tugged the remaining pieces away from Montrose’s tunic where it was bonded to his side with blood.

The three of them examined the wound in silence. Nadira carefully pulled some of the linen shirt away to expose the flesh further, following the wound’s track.

“Musta been an axe, eh?” Alisdair said, extending a finger to nearly touch the long gash.

“He got me when I was on the upstroke.”

“Sloppy of you.”

Montrose snorted, then winced. Nadira fought a wave of despair. She was not skilled enough to care for this wound. The ribs were not cleaved, though the cut was deep enough in the center to notch two of them. Montrose twitched as Nadira pushed the lips of the wound together near the top. “My lord, this will have to be sewn,” she murmured, struggling to make her voice sound confident.