Remnants: Season of Fire (15 page)

They seemed to sense our fear and grew louder. I could hear dead branches cracking beneath their feet, so close that I worried they could reach out and strike Ronan dead behind me. In my peripheral vision I saw that they attempted to flank us. “Faster!” I urged our guide.

He didn’t look back, and I could tell he was running as fast as he could. I fought the urge to pass him up, to save ourselves, even if we couldn’t save him, but I knew I couldn’t do it.
But were we all to be —

The forest broke in a burst of open space and sky and I only barely swallowed a scream. Our guide was running across an old rope bridge, the planks few and far between.

“Go, Dri, go!” Ronan roared when I hesitated, my eyes wide, my heart in a panicked pace at the view of the drop to the bottom of the canyon, the rushing river a couple hundred feet below us.

“I-I can’t!” I said, my feet as rooted to the ground as the trees around me.

“You must! I can’t carry you across that! Our combined weight will —”

Killian and Tressa tore across the bridge, leaving only Niero panting beside us. We could all hear the shouts and
sounds of our enemies in pursuit. Perilously close now. But I couldn’t take my eyes off the planks beneath Tressa and Killian’s feet, cracking, falling away in places. The ropes swinging precariously . . .

“Go! Leave me here!”

Niero grabbed hold of my arm. “Andriana! Dig deep! This fear . . . it isn’t something the Maker has given you. It is the enemy’s tool!”

“Stop!” Ronan cried, pulling away his hand. “Let me talk her through!”

Niero let out an exasperated breath and turned to the woods. “Get her across,” he grunted toward Ronan, and then with weapons in both hands, ran
toward
our enemy, disappearing among the trees.

“Niero!” I cried in terror.

Ronan let out a frustrated growl, picked me up with such force it took the wind from my lungs, and set off running across the bridge. I closed my eyes and wept, feeling the uncertain sway of the ropes, hearing the cracking of ancient, sundried planks giving way beneath our combined weight . . . and cursing my weakness. My fear that endangered us all. That had sent Niero to . . . his death?

I lifted my face, aware that the Sheolites and Pacifican soldiers had emerged. A good fifteen were on the ropes behind us, picking their way across the battered bridge, with five more on the bank at the end, clearly waiting to see if their companions made it first.

There was no sign of Niero.

The nearest was soon only a few leaps behind us, his teeth bared in fierce determination. We were moving faster now, the ropes growing tauter and not giving so much sway.
Nearing the end? The thought of it made me almost delirious with hope. And then I felt the surety of rock and soil as I was unceremoniously tossed to the ground. Ronan turned to meet our pursuer, drawing his sword in one fluid movement.

Guilt flooded me. The Sheolite lashed out savagely and very nearly struck Ronan. He lashed again and Ronan leaped backward. The man reached firm ground and formed a barrier to allow the next to draw closer. Killian was there fighting beside Ronan, and I sensed Tressa behind me. My eyes trailed along the rope bridge and I knew what I had to do.

I reached for my sword, and rammed it down on the nearest rope, right behind the second man after he charged toward Killian. More of our enemy were getting closer, emboldened by the sight of the far bank. My sword slammed against the old rope, about the width of my forearm, and a third of the brown strands sprung apart.

I wasn’t so lucky with my second strike. Ronan, tumbling with the first man, on top of him for a moment, choking him, then under him, distracted me from a good aim. But I knew if I didn’t stem this flow of our enemies, we’d all be captured within minutes. The third man, nearing us on the bridge, grit his teeth as he saw me raise my sword again, and managed to block my strike as I brought it down. Then he was up and over the last few steps of the bridge, coming after me with a ferocity I hadn’t seen since I battled Sethos himself.

The thought of our adversary made me thank the Maker that the sorcerer was absent. We were weary and too few to take on his power as well. Ronan was on his feet again, but still battling his opponent.

The Sheolite rammed at me with his sword and I parried,
the clang of our swords sending a teeth-jarring reverberation through me. And then again.

I jutted my sword toward him, intending on stabbing him, but he dodged my move, grabbed hold of my arm, and smashed it down on his knee.

I cried out and the sword dropped. My arm wasn’t broken, but it had been close, and I held it against my torso, backing away.

He smiled, and I saw gaps between his teeth. “It is fortunate for you that we are to bring back alive as many Remnants as possible. You fight for no reason. Surrender, show your mark, and you shall be saved.” He advanced on me, whipping his sword back and forth. Behind him, I saw our Aravander guide desperately bring my sword down on the rope where I had managed to partially cut it, just as the next group of Sheolites neared the end. If nothing else, if I could continue to distract this one, the boy would have a chance . . .

My attacker tossed his sword aside and tackled me, apparently honest in his intent to return with me alive. I hit the ground and felt the wind knocked from me under his weight, but forced myself to twist and elbow him in the face, as our trainer had taught us. I gasped for breath, willing air back into my lungs and glimpsed Ronan driving back the next of the Sheolites as the guide hacked at the rope again and again. Trapped by those before them, the Sheolites could only watch in horror as the rope sprung loose, one strand at a time, gravity now taking its course.

Two more managed to make it to the end before the rope, with a great
thrum
, broke apart. The men still on the bridge cried out, grasping for a hold, or pressed toward either end in a last, mad gambit to reach safety. The majority sank out of sight or screamed as they fell down the canyon. I winced and
squeezed my eyes tightly, sickened by the sounds of terror. Even if they were my enemies, I thought it the worst possible way to die.

Falling . . .

My attacker leaped to his feet, enraged by the sight of his comrades dying, and whipped around toward me, clearly holding me responsible for his friends’ deaths. I managed to stand again, but viewed my trembling legs and hands with consternation as if they belonged to another. I was absorbing all their fear, feeling it with them. Despite the Sheolite closing in on me, I shut my eyes tightly, seeking to grab hold of truth, of the memory of some feeling that would bolster me and give me courage in the midst of this cacophony of panic and despair and furry.

Love
, I thought, remembering what it was to be in Ronan’s arms. To look around at my brothers and sisters, all in one circle. Mom and Dad, holding me close.

Faith
, I thought, remembering what it was like to see each of the Remnant’s gifts unveiled.

Hope
, I thought, remembering the Maker’s promises, and finishing the circle of protection in my mind.

I concentrated on all three of these, remembering my father quoting the ancient sacred words. “But the greatest of these is love.”
Love, love, love
, I repeated silently, looking toward my attacker. I scrambled to hold on to some part of the feeling while I looked at him — even the scarcest measure — casting it toward him as he reached me, his fingers encircling my neck. But when he touched me, his fingers sprang backward, as if burned.

His brown eyes narrowed in confusion. “H-how?
What
?” He reached for me again, but once more, he couldn’t hold on
to me. His face softened, as if he wanted to hug me instead, as if we were friends, but I scrambled away. He took his head in his hands, as if intent on squeezing out the madness.

A scream brought my head up and around.
Tressa
.

The guide gestured toward me. “Come! We must be away!”

But Tressa cried out Killian’s name, her tone desperate.

They were both in trouble. If Killian was down . . .

While I hated fighting and struggled to bring myself to bear arms, Tressa outright refused.

We heard a desperate, guttural roar from Killian then. That was it. I set out running, passing Ronan, who had wounded one Pacifican soldier — now writhing on the ground — and struggled to keep another pinned to a tree. “Stay here, Dri!” he grit out, sweat pouring from his brow.

But I ignored him.

I broke free of the woods and was back in the clearing beside the bridge before I recognized the chill in my armband. I stopped short, realizing my folly of running toward the fight without my knight. Our enemy was here — Sheolites. Not just those who had managed to cross the bridge. Somehow, some way they’d gotten around. Maybe even before I cut the bridge down. Maybe even before we’d reached this side.

Killian was down and yet struggling to rise, blood flowing up and around his fingers, covering a horrible abdominal wound. “Killian!” I knelt beside him and cradled his torso in my arms, urging him to settle back.

His emotions flooded me.

First panic. Heart-stopping, breath-stealing.

Then the desperation — to get to Tressa? — chilled me more than the Sheolites’ presence.

Then such sheer pain, making me suck in my breath.

And yet still, Tressa’s knight tried to rise, looking to the far side of the clearing. “There,” he gasped, and I followed his gaze.

I just caught a glimpse of the swirling red robes of two Sheolite scouts and Tressa’s boots dragging between them as they disappeared through the trees. “I know,” I whispered in his ear, “I know. We’ll get her. It’s all right, Killian. Right now, you just have to focus on staying still.”

I put my hand atop his on his belly, and swallowed back a wave of bile when I felt the sickening, loose sensation, in a place that should be sheer muscle, strength.

Maker
.

My breathing became shallow, panicked. We needed Tressa back. We needed her if we were to save Killian.

Ronan burst into the clearing, then. His chest heaved and sweat dripped down his cheeks, creating rivulets through the blood spatters. “Are you all right?” he asked me.

“I’m fine! They have Tressa! Two Sheolites!” I nodded toward where they’d disappeared. “Go!” I added, when he hesitated.

He swiftly looked about, and touched his arm cuff.

“It’s just those scouts we sense!” I insisted.

Scowling and slowly shaking his head, Ronan stubbornly remained.

“Ronan. If you don’t go after her, we’ll—” I began.

“Lose us both,” Killian grit out, grimacing.

It was an impossible decision for my knight. I knew that. But there was only one thing I wanted — Tressa back — and if he hesitated any longer . . .

He let out a sound of exasperation and shook a hand toward us. “Stay right here.”

Killian let out a wry laugh. “Hard for me to go very far.”

“Dri?” Ronan insisted.

“Yes!
Yes!
Go!”

He turned on his heel and ran, sword in hand.

I patted Killian’s shoulder. “I think it’s best if we get you flat. I’ll help you put some pressure on that wound.”

He agreed, and as gently as I could, I moved out from behind him and helped him settle back, his dreadlocks snaking out among the pine needles. Ten paces away was a dead Pacifican soldier. I could see another’s boots around the corner of a boulder. Every enemy was dead, the Sheolites gone with Tressa, right? Why, then, did the chill remain in my cuff?

“Dri,” Killian said, his forehead a mass of wrinkles from the pain. He gestured toward my cuff, warning me.

“Shh, I know.” I set his fingers on top of his wound, which was still bleeding profusely. I strained to listen for some hint of an enemy’s approach, but heard nothing. “It’s just the lingering stink of their presence,” I whispered, shrugging out of my coat and pulling off my sweater, then my T-shirt, leaving only my camisole and bra.

“Dri, please,” he said, “I’m taken.”

“Shut up,” I said, shaking my head and using my knife to begin tearing a strip off my T-shirt, creating a long bandage as I tore around the bodice. His uncommon wisecrack made me long for Vidar and Bellona, who were now on the far side of the canyon. How I wished they — and Niero, and the rest of the Ailith — were with us. Once again, I paused, the hairs of my neck pricking up. I listened but heard nothing, so I resumed my work.

When I’d ripped all the way to the neck of the T-shirt, I cut it off, then folded the remains into a thick square about
the size of Killian’s wound. I thought about gathering some sort of poultice from the woods, but gave it up in favor of just staunching the blood flow. Already, there was a small pool by his waist and his skin was growing ghastly pale. “Here,” I said, gently pulling his long fingers away from the wound. I tried to bring either side of his skin together — ignoring his gasp — and quickly placed my square atop it. I frowned as it almost immediately soaked through. But it was the best I could do.

I’d planned to wrap the long bandage around his torso, securing the square, but I saw the folly of that. Moving him to a sitting position would just increase the blood flow. I looked up toward where Ronan had disappeared after Tressa, willing them to return on the run.

I felt my lips part in horrified surprise.

Because there, not ten paces from us, was Sethos.

And on either side of him, a Sheolite.

RONAN

I ran through the trees, ignoring the bushy needles and branches scratching and tearing at my sleeves. I swore under my breath, feeling as if I’d been ripped in two — wanting to run back to Dri, and yet aware that if I didn’t take this path and free Tressa, we’d lose two Ailith this day.

How far could they have gotten, dragging her? I could see signs of her struggle, deep trenches from where her boots had connected with the loose soil of the forest or piles of pine needles, deeper pits where she’d clearly wrenched away and then been pulled to her feet again.
Good girl,
I thought.
Fight them. With everything in you, Remnant.