By sunset, the tall grasses had given way to green marshlands studded with groves of giant ferns. Ahead lay the scattered remains of Hanan’s colossal statue that had once straddled the banks of the Ageras river. Exhaustion stole any amazement or wonder that Yvenne might have mustered at the sight of the gargantuan head half buried in the earth, its sculpted eyelashes so lifelike that the breeze stirring through them gave the appearance of the god stirring to wakefulness.
It was full dark before Maddek called a halt beside the statue’s head—because they could ride no farther. A flushed and fevered Toric was swaying in his saddle. As Maddek helped Yvenne down, they saw the young warrior slide unbalanced from his mount, caught at the last moment by Banek.
Pushing aside her fatigue, Yvenne told Maddek, “If you tend to my horse, I will tend to Toric.”
She knew not why his jaw tightened and his expression darkened, and she had little care. Nor did she care to hear any answer from him but agreement.
“If someone else looks after him, there will be one less warrior to stand watch tonight, though both revenants and soldiers might be behind us,” she pointed out. “And I am no stranger to caring for someone weakened by poison.”
That dark gaze searched her face for a moment before he gave a short nod. “You may.”
She would have, anyway. Just as she would continue shooting arrows into the eyes of monsters, with or without the approval of her would-be husband.
But although her throat ached when Maddek led away Kelir’s horse without leaving her the warrior’s bow, it was not the moment to wage that battle. The bite on Toric’s leg was inflamed, the edges of the ragged wound swollen. While the others set up camp in the marble shelter formed by the statue’s cheek and nose, she and Banek helped the young warrior to his furs.
His fevered face reddened more when she settled beside him and opened the small pot of salve Banek had given her. “You ought not, my lady. Take your meal and rest.”
“After you have taken yours.” Gently she smeared the medicine over the wound, glad to see that despite the swelling and the heat, no pus seeped out.
Still, it must have been tender. Instead of asking his usual questions, Toric sat with gritted teeth until she finished. As she put the salve aside, his gaze briefly touched her eyes.
“Do you sense him now?”
Her brother. “Not since the eagle fell . . . by your arrow,” she added, her voice warm with praise.
He blushed so fiercely his cheeks looked aflame. His gaze met hers before he averted his eyes again, and his voice was low as he confessed, “I never thought to see such things—wraiths and revenants. Those horrors only belonged to tales. Even the Scourge is nothing now but a pile of black glass and stone.”
“Such creatures were but tales for me, too,” she said softly. And her father and brothers the only monsters.
“They have seen them, in the march across the Lave against Stranik’s Fang.” A lift of his chin indicated Maddek and Kelir, who were returning to the fire with the skinned and gutted makings of dinner. “And old Banek here.”
“So I have,” was the warrior’s reply.
“But I never met any such creatures upon the Lave. There were only animals that might kill us, but that is no different from home—excepting the Farians, who might also kill us. Why do they want to?”
“The savages?”
Toric nodded. “Did your mother watch them?”
“Many of my foremothers did. But I do not think they ever made sense of the Farians’ ways.”
“The Tolehi monks believe that they view us as demons and that is why they are desperate to kill us.” He looked to Banek when the warrior grunted dismissively. “You do not agree?”
“I know not how their savage minds think. But I have faced a demon—and my only thought was of killing it. Not also of raping and eating it.”
Toric grimaced. “Or of wearing human teeth and skin.”
“No?” Banek’s quiet, rusty laugh sounded. “What do we do to drepa but make armor of their skin and wear their claws to boast of our hunts? Why did you take the fur from the long-toothed cat?”
With widening eyes, Toric said in realization, “We are the animals to them.”
The old warrior shrugged. “We cannot know for certain. But many savages I have seen crossing the Lave seem to me like young Parsatheans on their first drepa hunt.”
So that they might prove themselves as warriors. To Yvenne, that seemed as sensible an explanation as any. “And what would you rather face, Toric?” Yvenne asked. “A drepa or a Farian?”
“A drepa. They will only tear you apart and devour you.” Sudden pride swelled in Toric’s voice, but the slurring of his words told her that the fever had him well in hold. “And I have singly killed more drepa than any other in my tribe.”
The lift of his chin directed Yvenne’s gaze to his neck, where a dozen raptor claws decorated a leather lace. She glanced at Kelir with a sly grin.
“You are from the same tribe, Kelir, are you not?” And he only wore three claws.
Kelir made a disgruntled noise, but his amused look told Yvenne that her teasing was well met. “At Toric’s age, I’d already seen two years of fighting against Stranik’s Fang—and there are few drepa south of the Burning Plains. When one is home longer, one can collect more claws.”
Perhaps, but the number of claws Toric wore seemed no less impressive to Yvenne—especially as the young warrior could not be many years past his bearded age. “How long were you with the alliance’s army upon the Lave?”
“Only three seasons.”
So after King Latan was assassinated the previous summer and Maddek was sent to reassume command, Toric must have traveled south with him.
“Three seasons only, yet you must have proved yourself well, because you already serve in the Dragon guard,” she said. “Whoever appointed you to this task believed you would not falter when faced with revenants and wraiths.”
His fever-glazed eyes brightened. “Someone must have told Enox of my bravery atop the Scourge.”
“Oh? What is that story?”
“When the warriors in our tribe reached our hunter’s age, we dared each other to stay a full night atop the ruins of the Scourge. I was the only one who remained until morning. The others were terrified by howls and screams. But I knew it must be the wind.”
Crouching near the fire, Maddek bowed his head, shoulders silently shaking.
Kelir wore a broad grin. “The wind?”
“I recall a similar storm when we made our attempt to prove our bravery.” Ardyl joined them, dumping her furs onto the ground and sinking down, cross-legged. “But it was only a mudbrain who hoped to best Maddek and me.”