A man dressed in all black grasps an imperial soldier by the neck with both hands. Droplets of blood cry from the soldier’s eyes and seep out of every pore of his exposed skin.
A soldier across the circle releases a bolt from his crossbow, striking the man in black in the spine. He arches in agony and collapses. The imperial soldier he strangled and bled falls with him, both landing in a heap. Another man checks them over.
The rebel and his assailant are dead.
The horde clambers over one another to claim the prize. Ultimately, the party with the soldier who shot the crossbow hoists the rebel and carries him back to camp. The rest of the hunters trickle after them, grumbling over the lost opportunity for coin. Bloodstains cover the fallen soldier’s body. The rain dilutes the scarlet drops to streams of pink running across his skin.
“What did the rebel do to him?” I ask.
Rohan curls into himself, a statue of misery. “Aquifiers can leech the water out of someone’s body little by little. Leeching is wrong. Bhutas should use their powers for good or we’re no better than demons.”
Opal once told me the same about winnowing when she explained a Galer can siphon air from another’s lungs, asphyxiating them to death. Rohan cries silent tears, but I doubt they are for the rebel or the soldier. He must be thinking of the Galer the demon rajah executed—and his sister.
I pat his thin back. “Tonight has been difficult, but I need you to stay tough.”
Rohan wipes his nose and nods glumly. The soldiers’ torches drift farther away, leaving us suspiciously alone. I regret not pausing to bury or pray over the fallen soldier, but time is short.
“We need to return to camp to keep up appearances,” I say. “After everyone turns in for the night, we’ll sneak away and search for Natesa and Yatin.”
Rohan falls in line with me, my feet dragging more with every stride. Two days of little food and even less rest hit me at once. It is all I can do not to keel over.
Halfway to camp, Rohan halts, and a sudden wind extinguishes our torch. The dark wicks away my exhaustion. I back up against a tree, my khanda ready.
Something hefty drops from above. Peering into the dimness, I distinguish Yatin’s shape. A smaller shadow also leaps down.
“Almighty Anu,” I whisper. “You could’ve warned me, Rohan.” He heard our friends and blew out the torch to mask their presence.
“Where’s the excitement in that?” Natesa thumps me on the chest.
Although meant as a playful jibe, the cuff hurts my tired body. “I found your tracks, Yatin.”
“I tried to leave more,” he answers, “but too many soldiers were around. Any trace of Brac or Opal?”
“No, but the demon rajah held a Galer prisoner, so he could have others.” General of the imperial army or not, as the organizer of this mission, I cannot allow my friends to follow me any farther. “I’m going back to camp before everyone turns in for the night. The army is vast and growing. I’ll blend in and search for Brac and Opal on the march to Vanhi. You three return to the wing flyer and meet with the Lestarian Navy.”
“What about General Manas?” Rohan asks.
“Manas is here?” Natesa asks. “And he’s the general?” She and Yatin scoff in reproach. Both are acquainted with Manas’s and my history. “Deven, he’ll kill you if he finds you.”
“He won’t.” Or he’ll be sorry. Regardless of our past friendship, my mercy for Manas is long spent. A gong resounds in the distance. “That’s the call for curfew. I have to go.”
Natesa grabs my arm, holding me in place. “Not without us, you don’t. We took too long to find the army. We’re supposed to meet with the navy day after tomorrow. Even if we run all night, we’ll never make it in time.”
“Then wait here, and I’ll come back for you.”
“No.” Her grip tightens. “When my sister was claimed and taken from the temple, I never saw her again. The next I heard, she’d passed away.” Rohan grimaces, and she tempers her tone. “I didn’t get a chance to go after my sibling like you and Rohan have. Tomorrow morning, all of us will join the army and march to Vanhi.”
Yatin crosses his arms over his chest. “The army will punish a female infiltrator differently than a man.”
“Then I’ll pretend to be a man,” Natesa counters. “I’ll wear a uniform and hide my hair. I won’t get caught.”
Yatin is right to worry. Neither of us would ever mistreat a female prisoner or abuse our rank to coerce a woman, but some soldiers take repulsive liberties. Natesa would be more at risk for certain acts of violence than us men. I can hardly guarantee my safety, let alone hers.
“Udug executed the Galer I mentioned,” I inform her. “For your protection, you should all turn back.”
“You can accept our help or not. Either way, we’re coming with you.” Natesa tromps into the woods.
“Where are you going?” Rohan whispers after her.
“To get the uniform.”
Rohan makes a face. “The dead soldier’s clothes?”
“Are you going to stop her?” I ask Yatin.
He leans against the tree. “There’s no sense in it. Changing Natesa’s mind is impossible.”
Before long, she returns wearing the deceased soldier’s jacket and trousers. Their roominess conceals her womanly shape. She ties her hair up and winds his turban around her head, hiding her long tresses. Although we do not wear turbans when we sleep, Natesa stares at me through the shadows, daring me to forbid her to come along. I have had loyal comrades in the past, men willing to fight for my life, but none of them has ever undressed a dead man and worn his clothes for me.
“Fine,” I say. Off in the distance, camp has gone quiet. We will draw too much attention strolling in after curfew. “We’ll sneak in when they break camp at dawn. Get some rest.”
Through the dark, I hear Natesa’s victorious accord and Yatin’s lamenting exhalation. Rohan says nothing. I accept his silence as a bid of amenability.
The four of us bed down on the forest floor, sticking to the dry patches preserved by the thick branches overhead. Rohan curls up close to Natesa for warmth. She plucks a leaf from his hair and strokes the locks from his eyes. Kali told me Natesa has a dream of opening an inn someday. I can picture her with a place of her own, caring for weary travelers.
Watching her with Rohan drags up a memory. Once when I was ten and Brac was seven, he ran away from the palace nursery. Many hours later, I found him huddled beneath a lemon tree in the stoning courtyard. Bodies of dead bhutas were buried under bloody piles of stones, decaying in the desert sun. He had run off after I had railed at him for ruining my wooden sword. I can still recall the imprints of his small fingers seared in the hilt of my favorite toy.