Blood Witch (5 page)

It seemed Gael had
already done the same work. He had ducked and run toward the archer
platform that defended the east wall, where at least a dozen
archers were already pulling new notches from their quivers. So.
Those motley dressed men were not Yuri's after all. But whose?

Alaysha scanned
the area. Besides the wounded worming their ways to cover, or
people who'd succumbed to their shots, or dogs and chickens and the
occasional pig who'd been shot, the only target was Gael. And he
was flat out in the open – running, true, but flat open. He made a
pleasantly easy target.

Before she could
consider what she was doing, she pulled herself to her feet. She
could draw some of the fire, but it wouldn't be enough. She knew
they'd already set their sights on Gael. She'd have to remove him
as a target just as they released, and by the look of it, that time
was a few heartbeats away.

She breathed
deeply and cupped her hand against her belly to offer it some
support as she darted forward. His strides were long; she knew they
were taking his measure even as he ran. She shouted at him, hoping
to distract him for a second. Her side vision told her some of the
archers had shifted their aim to her. It was now or never. She
darted like a hare trying to outsmart a hound, still moving
forward. He paused, taking the measure of the men he would be
facing, their placements, their heights, and Alaysha could see the
moment his gaze fell on the first of the men he'd have to kill.
He'd never make it, but at least it gave Alaysha the time she
needed to catch him. She launched herself forward and thudded into
his chest.

He fell, pulling
her down with him, and she used the force of it to roll, pulling
him with her, yanking him atop her, then to their sides.

A dozen arrows
struck the earth where they'd landed. She let go a pained
grunt.

"Get up," he told
her then was on his feet, using the short moments of reload to aim
for the stairs.

Alaysha knew the
archer's arrows were useless by now, that they would be pulling out
whatever blades they secreted into their boots or breeches. She did
as she was bid and got, swaggering, to her feet.

Watching Gael
would have been a thing of beauty but for the sight of blood and
hollow thunk of iron on bone as his sword leapt to service. He
swept across the platform with seeming ease, swinging and
connecting skulls, legs, arms, chests. When the quarters were too
close for his sword to be of use, he twisted necks and pummelled
with his fists and elbows.

When those at the
back knew they'd lost and were losing their comrades, they scuttled
for the other stairs.

She wasn't sure
what she could do in her condition to help, and with no ready
weapon to hand, but she stepped in front of the stairs anyway,
thinking she could at least slow their escape.

The first of them launched a punch that was both
awkward and poorly aimed. Luckily it also threw him off balance and
she used his momentum to trip him over her leg and bring her elbow
down on his neck. She had no hope against the flood of arms and
chests that came after that. She did her best to avoid what blades
she saw and concentrated on defense rather than attack, thinking
that she only had to survive the remaining assailants and allow
Gael to do his work. She knew at least three had got passed her by
the time she heard the sickening cracks of metal against skull more
clearly.

Eyes glazed in front of her of the men Gael was
even now killing. He'd made his way nearly all the way through the
archers. When she caught sight of his face, it was bright as a
newly forged blade. His eyes were almost mad in their delight; the
short rash of beard he'd left unshaved, filled with dirt and blood,
no longer looked blond but was the color of old rust. One cheekbone
swelled beneath his glower. Bodies littered the stairs and on the
platform; those who still lived had already made a hasty retreat
past Alaysha.

All but one.

He was a young man, Alaysha could tell; his
beard held the soft fuzz of new manhood. Gael towered over him,
sword hanging, dripping at his side. His chest heaved with extended
and expended effort. Alaysha thought Gael would kill the boy--she
wasn't sure he could rise from the battle fog quickly enough to see
how useful a captive would be. Someone had sent them, obviously.
Yuri would want to know who.

Even as she was about to shout at him to spare
the boy's life, an arrow bloomed in the youth's throat. His
collapse against Gael made the warning unnecessary.

At sight of the shaft still quivering from the
strike in the boy's neck, Gael's head swung toward her like a bull
scoping out a new charge. His eyes rested on her, quickly running
down her body, lingering on her stomach, and then darting to
someplace behind her.

Someone was in back of her. A dozen strides away
or more. She turned. Gave quick scan of the yard, ready to fight or
flee.

And rested on Yenic.

Chapter 3

Alaysha thought she would collapse at sight of him,
so great was the relief, the fury, and the outright pleasure that
flooded her. Her first thought was to thank The Deities for his
safe return. Her second was a much stronger impulse, one that
wanted to demand that those same deities strike him down where he
stood.

She knew Gael felt the same when he blustered by
her.

"Don't," she said, knowing even as she did so
that he was far past hearing.

Yenic's expression of victory died on his face
as Gael squared off in front of him.

"You stupid boy. We could have questioned him."
Gael clenched his fists at his sides and Alaysha could tell from
the tightness of his back and shoulders that he was working at
keeping calm. She shifted sideways, hoping to see Aedus behind
Yenic somewhere, but realized that she felt a long trickle of wet
running down her hip and that the effort of movement made her feel
as though she had ice in her veins.

Her hands went immediately to her belly, fingers
searching for the wound, hoping against every hope that she'd not
torn the threadings. No such good fortune would be hers this day.
While the raucous sounds of the two men arguing became more of a
cloudy din in her ears, she had to fight the renewed blackness that
wanted control over her sight. She'd done too much, of course. In
the face of fire, however, any less would have meant death.

She didn't want to, but she had to let her legs
go. It was that or pass out from the effort of standing. She opted
to let her knees take her weight, and for her palms on the earth to
keep her face from striking dirt. She could catch her breath if she
let her head hang.

The sound of Yenic's startled shout wasn't
enough to tear her gaze away from the ant that was industriously
making its way home with what appeared to be a gob of flesh.

She felt hands on her shoulders. "Alaysha," she
heard. "Alaysha. You're bleeding."

She peered up at Yenic's face. His eyes, still
the color of honey, still sparking somewhere in the depths like a
lazy fire. How she loved looking into those eyes.

"You're back," she said, but she didn't hear
relief in her voice, only pain and anger. She felt sure he'd think
it the pain of her wound.

He must have seen the shifting thoughts travel
her face; his own took on an expression of confusion and hurt.

"What's wrong?" he
asked.

Gael's scornful
voice sounded over Alaysha's back saving her from blurting out that
she was hurt, that he hurt her.

"What's wrong?"
Gael bellowed. "She's hurt, you fool."

It wasn't what
Yenic meant and Alaysha knew it. She also knew Gael wouldn't
understand. She saw him twist to look past Alaysha's shoulder into
what was a very red, very condescending face.

She tried to push
herself to her haunches with the aim of standing.

"Let me help,"
Yenic said. His palm on her back felt hot, too hot for mere body
temperature but then he was always so, she remembered.

Dirt got scuffed
into her eye and she yelped. Gael's boots, toeing Yenic to the
ground and shuffling closer to Alaysha. She felt herself being
lifted, those meaty hands beneath her knees and shoulders, her body
pressed against his. She caught him looking down at her even as he
spoke to Yenic.

"You go to Yuri.
Tell him you killed his only means of finding out who ordered this
attack. I'll see to the witch." His tone sounded harsh, even to
Alaysha's ears but she'd rarely felt safer. She wished it could be
Yenic who held her, but she knew he belonged to his mother – the
witch she had yet to meet, who knew the secrets of controlling the
power. She tried to stifle any sense of relief she felt when Yenic
started to argue, but then it didn't matter because Gael was
striding effortlessly away from the curtain and past the well. He
smelled of sweat and blood and she could feel his heart beating
against her ribcage with such mad frenzy she understood just how
natural his ability for war was. How much his body needed it.

The only thing
that moved as frantically was her own stomach, twisting on
itself.

"I don't feel so
well," she admitted.

He made an odd
sound. "You've torn the threads. Saxa had thought you well healed.
You must not be good stock. Good stock heals better than that."

"I tore them
saving you."

"You tore them
getting in my way."

She was incensed.
"If I hadn't knocked you down, you'd have been shot." She glared at
him, but all she could see were his nostrils. Both flared
angrily.

"You threw
yourself at me. I had to roll over so you wouldn't get shot."

"I remember it
differently."

"Remember it as
you will."

She could feel
herself slipping. "You're dropping me," she said, but barely heard
her own complaint; she thought the clouds must have drifted over
the sun, blocking out the light, then a tiny piercing glare crept
back into her vision. Gael was looking down at her.

"I won't drop you
no matter how slippery you get."

It was such an odd
thing to say, she couldn't help trying a weak smile.

"Don't leave,
Witch. Stay with me."

She had nowhere to
go, did she? But the way he called her witch this time sounded
different, almost worried. She had to work to keep her eyes open
now that the pain was coming back. Strange, she hadn't felt it
during battle, but then she'd heard plenty of stories of warriors
hacking mercilessly at the enemy even as their own bellies were
torn open. The battle beast, some called it, the drive within to
survive even as death was creeping upon your limbs, to take life as
though it could return yours to you. She realized then why Gael's
tone had sounded so worried. And why Yenic, Deities take him for
his lies, had looked so concerned.

"Am I dying?" she
asked, afraid and at the same time hopeful that Yenic's concern
might really have meant her father had been wrong about his intent,
that he really did care about her.

"No, dear
girl."

Dear girl? Saxa's
voice. Must be. And indeed, it was feminine, she realized as the
voice came again. She must have passed out.

"Just suffering
the wound spirit. Your body is complaining about its injury."

She felt herself
being lowered again onto the bed and realized as Gael eased away
that his tunic was bright red where she'd rested against it. So he
was right. She wasn't a good healer. She felt such shame she wanted
everyone to go away and leave her be.

"Get the shaman,
Gael." Saxa pulled at Alaysha's feet and raised them onto a bunch
of furs and pillows. "Stay with me, Alaysha. Are you cold?"

Alaysha could
barely nod, but Saxa caught it and threw the fur over her. It
didn't matter. It held no warmth and the shivering threatened to
make her teeth click together.

All that healing,
all that work, all that killing and fighting, and for it to come to
this: such pain and nausea and cold from a few torn stitches.
Deities, the cold. She couldn't stop shivering to save her soul.
What if this time death stole her? She wouldn't see Aedus again. Or
Barruch. She'd never know who her people truly were or why her
father had wanted them all dead. Worse still, she'd not get to feel
Yenic's hand on hers again, hear his voice in her ear, his lips on
hers…

Fear crept in
before she could think of anything else but dying, and just as
quickly, she could taste the salt in Saxa's tears.

The power had come
again and this time, she wasn't sure she could stop it.

Chapter 4

It was the tears that reminded her. She knew the
water she tasted was from Saxa's tears barely shed before they were
psyched from her. Sweet deities, not Saxa. Alaysha thought of her
dream and focused as quickly as she could on the one's her nohma
had collected those years ago. "There's magic in tears, Saxa had
said, and nohma had believed it true. Why else would she have used
them to bond her to Yenic.

That was the
memory she'd struggled to remember since she'd awoken. Tears. It
was no coincidence, not in this moment, to remember it. And whether
it was the unknown deities she'd heard her nohma pray to all those
years that gave her back the memory, or her nohma herself, didn't
matter.

She let herself
taste them, yes, but she worked very hard to send the fluid back
from where it came. Saxa wept from fear. Alaysha psyched from fear.
There had to be balance there somewhere. Yenic had told her it was
about balance. If he could be believed, then to combat the power of
hatred, you used the power of love. To psych fluid from the living,
you had to want death.

From clouded eyes,
she watched a mist collect and hover in the room. It seemed to take
long moments, but Alaysha knew from experience that she was going
under like a woman sinking into a bath of warmth, that the power
was tricking her in terms of time. She knew that within three or
five breaths it would be over.