“Sasha!” Kjell was on his feet hurling his lance before he could think about missing, before he could even consider the blood that was growing in an ever-widening stain on her pale dress.
The point of his spear sank into the birdman’s throat, reverberating with the force of impact, and Sasha swung her arms and tossed her head, kicking to free herself. The birdman sank, choking on the green-black blood that poured from his mouth, but he refused to release his prize. The other Volgar swarmed around him, talons extended, hearts visibly pounding in their emaciated chests, eager to take her from him. Another lance pierced the captor’s left wing—Jerick’s aim was true—and the mortally wounded birdman, hovering about ten feet above the earth, released Sasha too late to save himself. Sasha didn’t stay down, but shot to her feet, racing toward Kjell, arms pumping, hair streaming, and Kjell brought down two birdmen before he could push her back to the ground with a furious order to “stay the hell down!” His men closed around her again, swords out, faces lifted toward the sky, waiting for the next rush.
There wasn’t one.
Three birdmen lived to fly away, their shredded wings and bony bodies disappearing beyond the cliffs from whence they came.
“God damn you, woman!” Kjell moaned, sinking to his knees beside Sasha. She pushed herself up gingerly, her face tight with pain, one armed wrapped around her middle, her hand pressed to her side, trying to cover the blood that soaked her dress.
“You aren’t wearing your breastplate,” she said softly, her eyes forgiving him even as she scolded. “You didn’t protect your heart, so I had to.”
“The horses are scattered, Captain. But we need to walk. We can’t stay here. The Volgar carcasses will draw other predators,” Gibbous urged. The Jandarian savannah was known for its lions, and though the men had not seen any sign of the packs since crossing from Enoch, they didn’t want to attract their attention. Volgar bled the wrong color and they stank like hyenas, but somehow Kjell thought the lions might not care.
But Sasha’s blood was red, and she was bleeding a great deal. Kjell scooped her into his arms, and his men fell in behind him, loping across the dry grass to the cluster of trees where Kjell had kissed Sasha an eternity before.
“I have to heal her, or the lions will follow her scent, no matter how far we go,” he barked, calling a halt to their progress. He didn’t think about how much blood Sasha had already lost or that his shirt was soaked through where he held her tightly against him. “Stop just beyond the trees. Half of you stay with me, the others fan out. We need to find the horses,” Kjell ordered. He shot out orders—a blade to cut away the back of her dress, a flask to make her drink—and then demanded his men give him enough space and privacy to make her well.
Long grooves scored her back, so deep he could see the white of bone beneath the bubbling blood. He pressed his palms to the wounds and willed them closed. Her blood warmed his hands and stained his fingers, but the wounds did not mend. He turned her on her side, pressing a hand between her breasts and finding her heartbeat. She watched him with calm acceptance and faith-filled eyes, but her face was so pale he couldn’t see the gold in her skin.
“Sasha—sing with me,” he pled, the first waves of doubt making him desperate. Her song was all around him, crystal clear, a chiming he now recognized, a peal of bells that had healed injuries far more grievous than the ones he now struggled to close. Yet he couldn’t close them.
“Come with me and I will try to love you,” she whispered, smiling gently, her eyes growing heavy.
“That’s right,” he nodded. He closed his eyes, letting the pealing pulse beneath his skin, but the gashes down her back mocked him, becoming garish grins that laughed at his failure.
He buried his face in her neck and wrapped her in his arms, magnifying the clangor of her healing song until he shook with it. His head was a gong, his heart the beat that kept it ringing. And ringing. And ringing.
“Kjell,” someone said.
“Captain,” he heard again, and the knell in his skull became an echo. His muscles were locked and he couldn’t open his eyes.
He could feel Jerick above him and sensed that time had passed while he rang the alarm. The sky was dark, and small pit fires ringed the encampment, keeping the creatures at bay. Kjell concentrated on loosening his fingers one at a time, peeling them from Sasha’s skin, releasing her so he could roll away. He fell to his back with a groan, the blood rushing back into his limbs, his body coming awake.
“We need you. There’s something wrong with Peter. He’s throwing up blood,” Jerick said.
“Sasha?” Kjell moaned.
“She sleeps, Captain. You’ve healed her wounds. She’s fine.” Jerick sounded confused, irritated even.
“I need to see them.”
“Who, Captain?”
“Her wounds. I need to see her back,” he hissed, gritting his teeth against the pins and needles in his arms, the burning in his back, and the stabbing in his calves and feet. Jerick turned the sleeping Sasha toward him, coaxing her onto her belly and moving the tattered edges of her dress away from her injuries.
Even in the orange glow of the firelight, Kjell could see that the gashes were closed, but thick, purple lines extended from Sasha’s shoulder blades to her waist. There was no infection, and the pain had seemingly gone. But the marks remained.
He struggled to his knees and Jerick was there, slinging one of his arms over his shoulder to help him stand.
“Are you ill, Captain?” Jerick asked, realization making his voice rise in panic. Kjell could heal his men, but none of his men could heal him.
“Stop talking, Jerick.”
He didn’t allow himself to think at all, to wonder if his Gift was waning. He stumbled through the rows of sleeping soldiers, Jerick supporting him like a drunk being led to the next round of debauchery.
When they reached the ailing soldier, Kjell fell to his knees beside him.
“Get me something to drink, Lieutenant,” Kjell ordered. His throat was so dry he couldn’t swallow and, as usual, he didn’t need an audience. Jerick hesitated but turned to leave.
“We need you, Captain,” he said softly. “Don’t give what you don’t have.”
“What I don’t have is something to drink,” he muttered, and Jerick sighed and left to do his bidding. Kjell flexed his hands and laid them on Peter’s chest. The young man’s song was low and mellow, and Kjell strummed it carefully like a loose lute string.
“There you are, Peter,” he urged. “Make it easy on your Captain, will you? I’m a little spent.”
He thought of the first time he’d seen the boy, light on his feet and impossibly quick with a sword. He’d grown into a powerful man and a trusted soldier of Jeru. The fondness in Kjell’s heart became instant warmth in his hands.
Peter moaned softly, and his breathing began to ease. Kjell tightened the metaphorical string, the tone becoming more strident, and marveled at the impossible ease of the task.
Peter was sitting up asking for water before Jerick even returned.