Alex looked around at the disheveled and sweaty men. “What are your casualties?”
“None,” said Ash, shaking his head in disbelief. “I know we dealt a few, but it’s like they were more interested in moving us than fighting us.”
The runner had said the attackers were Kimisar, but what Ash said made more sense if they were Casmuni, trying to get back to the river or to make way for someone crossing it. Alex shook his head in confusion. What the hell was going on?
“Here they come!”
Men appeared out of the trees, dressed in Demoran-style clothing. They ran at the Norsari formation, and then, seeing the increase in numbers, slowed down and began to back off. Many turned and fled. “After them!” Alex shouted.
The Demorans pursued the attackers through the woods, clashing occasionally, but it was mostly a chase. Alex couldn’t get a solid count on the numbers he was fighting, but the weapons he saw bore no resemblance to the light, curved swords he’d taken from the Casmuni. The Norsari leapfrogged through the trees, passing the torches to keep them in the third ranks so the first two could always see, but their prey kept moving out of the light.
Something was wrong, he could feel it.
Ash’s men were bringing up the rear, and Alex dropped back to talk to them. “Who are they?” he asked Ash.
“I heard Kimisar words being thrown around, but also Demoran.”
“Where the hell did they come from?”
Ash jerked a thumb behind him. “Corporal Wilder’s got a theory.”
“Yes, sir.” A man took a few running steps forward. “I heard a bunch of Kimisar came through Jovan last year, before it was closed up by the army. They raided some and disappeared. I guess with the war on the other side of the mountains, everyone forgot.”
The idea of Kimisar hiding in Demora for months was chilling. Could they have been trying to escape into Casmun last year?
And what the hell was this about? Showing up and pushing methodically to the river only to fall back in the same manner? These men seemed intent only on getting and keeping the Norsari’s attention.
He hadn’t seen a single casualty, nor had he seen the oft-used Kimisar tactic of taking and retreating with hostages.
It was a diversion.
Before Alex could say anything, a bright orange fire suddenly lit up the sky in the direction of the Norsari camp.
The Kimisar were after a hostage.
Nicholas.
50
THE NORSARI WERE gone with a swiftness that left Sage in awe, even after spending weeks with them. Lieutenant Gramwell, whom Alex had ordered to stay behind, dismounted and directed the remaining platoon to take defensive positions. He looked fatigued, and Sage knew many of those who’d marched had just returned from the desert, yet none had hesitated, including Alex.
In addition to Gramwell’s men, a half-dozen soldiers had remained due to some injury. The lieutenant instructed them to clean up the mess left behind in the rush to arms—weapons racks and crates were overturned and a few tents were down. Fires had been scattered, and several soldiers were assigned to make sure all were out or contained. The remaining horses were skittish in their pens, and Gram handed his mount off to a squire and ordered him to saddle a few more horses in case they were needed.
Sage shrugged the quarterstaff off her shoulders and set the now-empty buckets on the ground. “What can I do?” she asked him as she rubbed her neck.
Lieutenant Gramwell looked at her warily, and she didn’t blame him for not quite trusting her now. Finally he said, “There will be wounded. Go ready things in the medical tent.”
Sage wouldn’t have argued if he’d told her to dig a fresh latrine, but this sounded truly helpful. “Right away, sir.”
The deserted army camp was an eerie place. Sage shivered and fingered the knife on her belt as she walked between the rows. She hadn’t realized how much noise and activity still went on even in the quietest hours until there was none. A low fire burned in a pit outside the medical and supply tents, and she paused to find and light a lantern before entering the infirmary.
She hung the light from a hook inside and began opening trunks and laying things out on the tables: bandages, witch hazel, tourniquets, suture needles, thread, splints. She was setting out basins for water when the shadow of someone running past her tent made her look up. Whoever it was stopped near the entrance, but didn’t come in.
“I’m in here,” she called, thinking he must be looking for her.
A hand holding a long dagger pushed through the tent flap, followed by a scruffy, gap-toothed man. Sage knew all the Norsari by sight, and this face was not one of them, yet it was familiar. “Who are you?” she asked, taking a step back.
Somewhere outside there was shouting. The man waved the knife and advanced on her. “You will come with me,” he said in a harsh voice.
In the better light she recognized the style of his cloak and the royal crest on his collar identifying him as a stablehand. That was where she’d seen him.
“I said come!”
Sage seized a porcelain bowl with her right hand and flung it at the man’s wrist, immediately following with one from her left aimed at his head. The dagger went flying from his hand, and the second missile hit his skull with a satisfying thunk. She was already hurling more things at him—scissors, bedpans, wads of dressing—anything she could get her hands on, but she was running out of things to throw.
With a yell, he lunged for her as she kicked a trunk of medicines between them, knocking his feet out from under him. He fell forward, hitting the tent pole. Sage dove under a table just as the structure came down around them. She scrambled for the side of the tent and crawled under the edge. Once outside, she rolled away and into a crouch, one hand on the hilt of her dagger.
The man was thrashing wildly under the canvas, screaming. A moment later Sage realized why—the lantern had also fallen and set the tent on fire. The noise was bound to draw his friends to the area. Snatching an iron skillet from the rack behind her, she sprinted at the flaming lump and slammed it down on what she thought was the man’s head. With a loud crack the lump flattened and was silent.
Sage dropped the pan and drew her dagger as she turned in a quick circle, looking around. The area was deserted. Light and noise were coming from the other side of the camp, and she ran toward it, knife in hand.
51
A SMALL OPEN area was lit by several torches. About thirty men surrounded a dozen Norsari and three squires, holding them at sword and spear point. Half the Demorans were still armed, if only with knives. Lieutenant Gramwell stood among them, blood streaming down the side of his face. Sage hid behind a tent to watch as six more bleeding and limping Norsari were tossed into the cluster of Demorans. They must have been some of those standing guard.
“Where is the last boy?” someone said.
“Lenis and Ullya are looking,” another answered.
“We only need the prince.” A tall, cloaked man pushed through the Kimisar and addressed the Demorans. Sage caught a glimpse of arms tattooed with swirls that looked strangely familiar. “Give him to us.”
In response, the Norsari formed a tight circle around the three squires. “Come and take him,” one said.
Some of the Kimisar looked ready to accept the challenge. Their leader held up a hand. “We will not harm him,” the man said. “You have my word.”