Kieli knew he had to strike before the man’s finger tightened on the release. But two strides away from the horseman the boy’s knees weakened. Kieli’s newly acquired sword felt as if it had been fashioned of lead and stone, and his arm refused to obey his command to deliver a killing blow to the invader.
The boy was one stride away when the black-clad man fired the crossbow. Then his knees buckled. The bolt had taken him in the chest, high up in the muscle below his first wound.
The bolt spun him around completely, and his blood splattered both men as it fountained from the wound. The sword flew backward from fingers that could no longer grip. His knees struck the ground and he fell over backward, his eyes losing focus as pain and shock swept over him.
Voices shouted, but the sound was muted, and he could not understand what they were saying. For a brief instant, he saw something: high in the sky above him a silver hawk flew in a circle, and to Kieli it seemed to be looking directly down at him. In his mind he heard the voice once again. Linger, little brother, for your time is not yet. Be my talon and rend our enemies.
His last thought was of the bird.
KENDRICK’S
Kieli’s pain pierced the darkness.
He couldn’t will his eyes open, yet he knew he was alive. He felt hands upon him and as if from a great distance heard a voice mutter, “This one’s still alive.’’
Another voice said, “Let’s get him in the wagon. He’s lost a lot of blood.’’
Part of Kieli’s mind registered he was hearing words in the traders’ language, what was called the Common Tongue, not the language of the Orosini.
He felt another pair of hands upon him. As they began to move him, he groaned and lapsed back into unconsciousness.
Pain coursed though Kieli’s body as he came awake. He forced his eyes open and tried to lift his head. The effort brought forth a wave of agony, and his stomach churned, yet there was nothing in it for him to vomit up. The wracking pain that swept through him made him gasp aloud and moan.
His eyes couldn’t focus, so he could not see the owner of the gentle hands who pushed him back and said, “Lie still, lad. Breathe slowly.’’
Kieli saw shapes before him: heads in shadow, lightening in the sky above them. He blinked and tried to clear his eyes. “Here,” said another voice from above him, and a gourd of water touched his lips.
“Drink slowly,” said the first voice. “You’ve lost a lot of blood. We didn’t think you’d make it.’’
The first swallow of water caused the spasms to return, and he vomited up the tiny bit of water. “Sip, then,” said the voice.
He did as he was instructed, and the mouthful of water stayed down. Suddenly he was thirsty beyond memory. He tried to swallow, but the gourd was removed from his lips. He attempted to lift his hand to grasp it, but his arm would not obey his command.
“Sip, I said,” demanded the voice. The gourd was pressed against his lips again, and he sipped, and the cool water trickled down his throat.
He focused his meager strength on getting the water down and keeping it down. Then he lifted his eyes above the rim of the gourd and attempted to discern the features of his benefactor. All he could see was a vague lump of features topped by a thatch of grey. Then he fell back into darkness.
At some point they stopped for a few days. He recognized a structure around him, a barn or shed, he couldn’t be sure which. And he knew it was raining for a time, because the air was heavy with the scent of wet soil and the mustiness of mold on wood.
After that images came and fled. He was in a wagon, and for a brief time one afternoon he sensed he was in the woodlands, but not those near his home. He didn’t know how he knew—some glimpse of trees that didn’t match the lofty balsams, cedars, and aspens of his own forest. There were oaks, and elms, and trees he didn’t recognize. He lapsed back into his troubled slumber.
He remembered bits of food being pressed to his mouth and how he swallowed them, his throat constricting and his chest burning. He remembered feverish dreams and awoke several times drenched in sweat, his heart pounding. He remembered calling out his father’s name.
One night he dreamed he was warm, at home, in the round house with his mother and the other women. He felt awash with their love. Then he awoke on the hard ground with the smell of wet soil in his nostrils, the smoke from a recently banked campfire cutting through the air, and two men asleep on either side of him, and he fell back, wondering how he had come to this place. Then memory returned to him, and he recalled the attack on his village. Tears came unbidden to his eyes and he wept as he felt all the hope and joy die in his chest.
He could not count the days he traveled. He knew there were two men caring for him, but he could not recall if they had given him their names. He knew they had asked him questions and that he had answered, but he could not recall the subject of those discussions.