His blind eye saved him again.
The boy had grabbed a knife from somewhere in the room and lifted it up to plunge it down into his back. Exeres twisted to one side and felt the blade rush by his ear. It shredded the fabric of the pavilion.
“Alth…” The boy started to say but Exeres slammed his elbow into the lad’s ribs, hard enough to stutter him. He gripped the wrist that held the knife and yanked it down, tearing the curtain further. The boy hunched over in pain and thrashed out, trying to cut Exeres with the knife.
Gripping the wrist, Exeres pried the dagger out and tossed it away, then scooped up the boy in his arms and dragged him out the tear in the tent wall. Sweat streaked down his face, stinging his eyes. Fear nipped at his heels and he knew she was almost there, almost to the pavilion. If she saw him, they would both…
He struck the thrashing young man in a sensitive spot above his armpit, along the inside of his arm, to paralyze him. Hoisting the young man up on his shoulder, Exeres jogged away from the pavilion.
A rushing wind keened in the night, howling from the plains like a thousand storms. It welled up, blasting Exeres full in the face. He wondered if he should drop the boy, the boy who had tried to kill him. But he knew that the lad was acting under Miestri’s influence. If he could get him far enough away from her, he might be able to break her grip. How could he leave anyone to the fate he had so desperately fought to sever?
He broke into a run, feeling the weight of the young man like a sack of stones. It slowed him terribly, but what choice was there? Each step took him away from her clutches. Each step brought him closer to freedom. The keening wind carried the tingling of children’s laughter—a twisted, sick chiming sound that sent shivers down to his boots.
The boy moaned.
Further! Faster!
The nightmare faded behind them.
The hazards of running, encumbered, and half-blind in the dark, began to outpace the danger Miestri posed. No smell of the taint. No hint of pursuit. Perhaps Mage’s struggle against her had increased to loan him more time. Crickets chirped in the darkness, seemingly unaware of the raging torrent of winds and magic near the woods. The long-grass whisked against his boots. He went a mile and finally collapsed near a gurgling creek.
He had never felt so tired. For several moments, he panted, lying face down near the banks of the creek. The water’s murmur soothed him. Had they escaped? Truly? Part of him did not believe it. Part of him thought if he looked back, he would see the pavilion within easy sight.
The young man hugged his knees, his eyes wide.
Exeres’ tongue was swollen in his mouth. He dragged himself up a little and closer to the water. “I’m sorry I had to hurt you, lad. Are you…are you with me?”
The boy’s head tilted and his dark eyes focused on Exeres. “She wanted me to stop you.”
“I know. She’s very angry with me. Do you still…do you feel her?”
The boy shook his head. “She…um…she let go.”
Exeres sighed and reached over to tousle the boy’s hair. He looked about twelve. “What’s your name? I’m not very good with names. You might have to tell me twice.”
“Kinross. What’s yours?”
“Exeres.” He gulped down some more air and the pain in his side eased a little. “She let me go too. Here…let’s get a drink. I could drink down the ocean, I’m so thirsty.”
The boy grabbed Exeres’ hand as he reached to cup some water.
He shook his head. “She’s poisoned it, Exeres. I heard her this morning. She told the Kiran…the Kiran Thall…she told them to poison it. She said the knights…” he stopped, swallowing, “...will drink from the creeks in the morning. They’ll all die. They’re all going to die.”
Exeres looked at him, his stomach clenching with dread, his throat sore with thirst. He gripped the boy’s shoulder. “Can you run?”
Chapter XX
A breeze muttered against the tent flap.
Commander Folkes swirled the last hunk of crispdough in the gravy and ate it. He washed it down with chilled ale and then stood. His adjutant, Meloc, approached with the scarred, but polished, breastplate. It was etched with the sigils of a Knight of the Blade, the vine and ivy trim with a rising sun and spangled stars in the center—an opponent Folkes had killed and buried years before. Meloc strapped the buckles, fastening it to his chest. Next came a set of bracers. The left bracer had an oval shield fused to it, a technique invented by the Shae during the Purge Wars. The right bracer bore the thin silver glint of the Kiran Thall.
“Bring my sword, Meloc,” Folkes said, his voice still low from the early hour. He coughed into his hand and took another swallow of ale. “Some storm last night, wasn’t it? Never thought it would snuff out the stars like that.”