Somehow, I doubt it.
It is not quite twilight when we draw to an abrupt halt at the edge of the forest, where the trees yield to a wide dirt roadway. I wonder if we’re making camp early, but Scythe does not dismount—nor does he explain our sudden stop after the bruising pace he’s maintained all day.
I shift as best I can, lifting my head to get a better look, and in a fever-dazed voice mumble an incoherent, “Hnumph?”
Scythe whips around in his saddle. “Quiet.”
The order is delivered in a menacing whisper that makes my throat close up. I have no doubt that if I do not comply, he’ll have no qualms about knocking me unconscious. The reason for his severity soon becomes clear. Not thirty seconds later, my ears pick up the sound of voices on the wind. Another thirty, and the road before us is filled with a company of men marching in neat rows, shields held aloft, swords sheathed across their backs. Twenty-five, maybe more. Their uniforms are not green, like those of Captain Burrows and his unit, but bloodred. Their pennants bear the sigil of two interlocking torcs, scarlet stitches waving in the breeze.
They do not see us, concealed as we are by the camouflage of leaves and branches. Clearly, that is Scythe’s intention. For whatever reason, he does not want to make our presence known.
Perhaps…
A faint spark of hope flares within my breast but quickly sputters out. The fact that they are Scythe’s enemy does not make them friend to me. There is no guarantee they will not drive a sword through my heart the moment I call out to them for aid. And there is nothing to assure me Scythe cannot slaughter a full score of men as easily as he slew a dozen last night.
I watch the soldiers file past, my heart sinking as they disappear around a bend. We wait until their boots become a distant rumble, then fade altogether. When the world is quiet—only the sounds of Scythe’s steady breaths, the occasional twitching of the stallion’s tail, the low wail of the wind in the trees—and he is certain the soldiers are long gone, he spurs us across the road, out of the forest, and into the tall grass on the other side.
We have reached the plains.
On the flat-stretched fields, without the need to dodge tree roots and fallen debris, our pace increases from a canter to nearlya gallop. Each clap of the stallion’s hooves reverberates in my aching skull. Though he gives no verbal indication of it, I sense a new tension in my captor, an urgency that was not there this morning.
If my head were clearer, I might remember where I’ve seen that company sigil—those red interlocking torcs on black fabric. I might realize just how closely pursuit nips at our heels. But I do not. My thoughts are fuzzy edged. I am looking at the world through a bank of fog, my body on one side, my mind on the other. I cannot connect the two through the haze.
The plainlands seem to go on forever, an endless expanse of unsown pastures. Like the rest of the Midlands, this particular stretch is war ravaged. A veritable wasteland after two centuries of bloodshed. Fields where crops once grew are now mass graves, the men who once tended them long buried beneath barren soil.
We see no more soldiers. We see no one at all. Most travelers stick to the road, I suppose—taking advantage of a wayside inn at nightfall, sipping ale by a hearth with a warm bowl of stew, swapping out their tired mounts for fresh ones. With Scythe’s horse, there is no need for such measures. The great beast who carries us never seems to tire, no matter how many leagues he runs, no matter the terrain. In my delirium, I wonder if he might be descended from the great Paexyri steeds. Legend says they could run flat out for days, ferrying faery riders from one side of Anwyvn to the other without so much as a water break. Some believe they had great wings, for their speed was something closer to flight.
Such thoughts are absurd indeed, even to my feverish mind. If the Paexyri actually existed, they had all been slain along with their riders during the Cull. That bloody uprising spared none of elemental origin, from the all-powerful emperor down to the faintest fyrewisps. They, like all other maegical creatures, were eradicated with the same brutal efficiency the mortal men nowwield against one another in their endless wars. Shortsighted paper kings, usurping and undermining, slaughtering and savaging, until there is hardly any land left fit to rule. Until they’ve reduced everything to ash, stripped away any beauty Anwyvn once possessed.
The only creatures we encounter on our way are undoubtedly ordinary—shaggy-haired cows and unshorn sheep, grazing in the sun—though even those become few and far between as the terrain changes from flat fields to rolling hills and finally to a sharp incline. Rock and stone soon replace grass and sod. As we climb, I suck sharp slivers of air into my lungs, unsure if my breathlessness is due to the progressing illness or our ever-increasing elevation.
My fever worsens as the sun sinks in the sky. By the time we stop for the night, I’m drifting in and out of awareness. I cannot recall sliding down from the horse and yet here I am, on my feet, the ground roiling beneath me. Or is that my legs, finally giving out? I can’t quite tell.
A steely grip catches me as the world tips sideways. Scythe’s stern face swims before my eyes. He’s glaring again.
“Gods, you’re burning up.”
Am I floating?
Is he carrying me?
Will he ever stop frowning?
A delirious giggle presses against the inside of my lips, poised to escape. I cling desperately to consciousness, but it grows more difficult with each passing moment. Darkness is closing in again—blacker than the night sky overhead, pulling me into its clutches.
“Stubborn fool,” Scythe hisses lowly, laying me down on a bed of stone. It feels blessedly cool against my skin. “You’re no good to me dead.”
Someone is giggling. It might be me.
“Hey.” His hand slaps my cheek. “Stay with me.Stay with me.”
I blink hard, trying to keep him in focus. Perhaps it is the fever muddling my mind, but I’d swear I see something in his narrowed eyes that was not there before—a flash of worry, gone so fast it’s easy to convince myself it was no more than a delusion conjured up by febrile fog.
Those black eyes are the last thing I see as the clammy grip of illness closes its hand around my neck and squeezes until the light of the world peters out.
Chapter
Four