Emergence (Book 2) (17 page)

Garek nodded. "Aye. She's a feisty one for a lady."

"She's going to get herself killed." He turned, and a sharp pain ripped up his left arm as though someone had reached under his skin and tried to tear the bone out through his fingertips. He bit back a scream and dropped to one knee. Ciara's pendant burned against his skin. In the periphery of his vision, Bolin saw the beast whirl away from Nialyne.

"Bolin." Garek's voice held warning.

Bolin staggered to his feet and shoved Garek to the side. "Get out of here." His voice rasped. He clenched his jaw against the pain and tried to clear his head.

A shame if my pretty kills you.
A breath tickled his ear.
I'd so like that treat for myself.

Bolin darted in and drew those fire-rimmed eyes back to him. Double sets of
sword-like claws swooped towards him. Three of them fell to the ground in a spray of blood, and a howl shook the trees. Garek brought his gore covered sword up for another swing, but the beast arched backwards with a scream. Thorny vines of magic twisted around and through the sinewy body, threading back on themselves, attempting to rip it apart from the inside out. Bolin felt a sudden, albeit short-lived, wave of empathy for the beast. He knew that feeling all too well.

He caught Nialyne's eye where she stood, hands guiding her magic in a gentle rhythm as the creature pulled and clawed at each tendril in an effort to rid itself of them. She raised a brow at him and slanted her head, a clear indication she expected his assistance. Bolin choked down a breath, past the agony that now spread across his chest. He fought for focus, reaching out for the magic of the Greensward that spun so effortlessly from Nialyne. The Galysian elder's magic flowed through Bolin like a strong, summer breeze--a breeze he turned into a raging wind
and sent slamming into the creature.

With a screech the likes of which he prayed to never hear again, the beast disintegrated into a shower of green sparks.

Bolin grabbed for a desperate breath and lurched forward onto his knees, head bowed.

Pity. He was one of my favorites.

He shuddered at the brush of lips across his cheek.

Don't worry, I have others.

Nialyne reached him first. Hunkering down in front of him she cupped his face in her hands and raised it to peer into his eyes. His breath popped out of him in short bursts as the pain subsided. Nialyne's brow furrowed, the corners of her mouth pulling downward.

"The Dominion priestess, I take it?"

Bolin could only nod. Above the pounding of his pulse he heard Garek issuing orders to find horses that had panicked during the fight. He wet his lips. "Help me up."

Nialyne stood and took him by the elbow. Then Garek had the other, and between them they got him on his feet.
Bolin let them support him until his head stopped spinning, before he slowly extracted himself from their care. Garek held out a flask, and he took it. The sharp bite of heather wine sent a shudder through him, and he downed another swallow before handing it back.

He cleared his throat. "Sully?"

"Possibly a cracked rib or two, but he's had worse," Garek replied. "You?"

The sharp clash of steel on steel halted Bolin's response.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

"They're after the horses!"

And on the heels of that shout, a frantic whinny and a man swearing. Bolin put Nialyne behind him and drew his sword as Garek lumbered toward the melee. Sully had already dispatched the unlucky sot who had gone for the cart horses, and now stood side-by-side with Salek to give Duff cover as he held as many of the horses as he could.

As soon as they formed rank
s, the attack ended. The brush of Nialyne's magic drifted around Bolin, stretching out into the woods around them.

"They're gone," she said. She laid a hand on Bolin's arm. "Ciara."

Damn the unholies!
Bolin whirled and sprinted back down the road. "Garek, with me."

Garek looked over his shoulder at Sully. "Get whatever horses we have left and start shifting everything from the cart."

The Lieutenant waved him off. "Got it. Go."

Bolin took the short route, clambering over the fallen tree. The rain had started again, this time a steady, gentle downpour that lacked the storm's former fury. His boots sloshed in the mud as he landed, and he dropped into a crouch, eyes scanning for signs of movement. Something shifted in his periphery, and he swung his head that way. A horse stood a short way off the far side of the road, reins tangled in a thorny bush. Bolin signaled Garek, and they moved in cautiously from opposite angles. Only when they were sure no marauders laid in wait did they approach the horse.

"Berk's," Garek said, leading the animal up onto the road. "Crossbow's still on the saddle. Means the lad wasn't too worried about attack when he dismounted."

"Unless he didn't mean to dismount," Bolin said.

"I've never known that to happen," Garek said. "Sits a horse as well as you, I'd wager."

Bolin went to where the cart had veered around the tree. An arm's reach in the other direction and the whole thing would have tumbled down the sheer embankment. They needed light or risked the same
fate for themselves. Bolin called up a witch light and set the glowing orb bobbing ahead of them as he and Garek made their way down the slick bank. There would be no tracks to follow, not any more.

Garek pushed past him, the witch light showing a form slumped against a tree. Bolin brightened the illumination as Garek knelt beside the man. The Commander lowered his head. "It's not him."

That provided little relief. Bolin ran a hand through his sodden hair. For an Imperial soldier, a quick end would be a far better option than being taken alive by marauders. They were experts at making a game of death, betting on how long they could keep their victim alive and conscious. If they had Berk, they'd make extra sport out of him for killing one of their own.

He dropped his hand to Garek's shoulder. "We know where they were camped."

"And we know they'll have split up and moved by now."

Garek lurched to his feet. He started casting about, scouring the ground. He stooped to retrieve something, turning back to Bolin, his face a grim mask. A dagger, undoubtedly Berk's, rested in his palm. The blade had been bloodied, and a strip of dark blue fabric edged in silver tied around the hilt.

"I'll not leave him to them."

"They have Ciara as well," Bolin said.

"And by comparison, her treatment will be gentle." Garek's voice sounded strangled.

As much as Bolin wanted, he couldn't argue Garek's point. Marauders took women as warrio
r concubines. They would bid on Ciara, probably wager her against Berk's survival. Eventually, one would claim her. Or attempt to. Bolin had seen firsthand what would happen to any man who tried to force himself on her. If they learned she had healing skills, her treatment would be considerably better. Goddess only knew what Ciara would do to them if provoked. Nialyne's wards had no hope of holding Andrakaos if Ciara's fear and anger got the better of her. In some regards, her laying waste to a campful of marauder scum would be a blessing. The possibility of Ciara surviving such an event, of being able to hold onto that wild power once released, however, were slim. And then they would all have a much larger threat to face.

"We're wasting time." Garek tucked the dagger through his belt. He stopped at Bolin's shoulder, his hand still resting on the weapon. "This is for the heart of their leader."

Sully looked up from checking a girth as Bolin and Garek led Berk's horse around the tree. When his gaze landed on the crossbow slung over the empty saddle his eyes closed, and his fingers tightened around the leather strap.

"We'll bring him home," Garek said, his hand gripping Sully's arm. "One way or the other. He comes home. How many horses did we lose?"

"Three."

"Let's get whatever supplies we can divided between the rest. Whatever can be carried."

Bolin went straight to Nialyne. "They have Ciara and Berk. Your wards won't hold if they push her."

"Then let's p
ray to the Goddess they don't."

***

Wet horse.

The smell assaulted Ciara's senses as she dragged herself out of the fog in her head. She blinked her eyes open and tried to make sense out of what she saw. Her hair hung above her head in a muddy, snarled mess, and her cheek smarted, rubbed raw against a dirty grey hide. Her entire world had turned upside down. She struggled to right herself, kicking her feet and squirming against the saddle she'd been draped across. Fingers wrapped around her leg, digging into her thigh, and a voice said something low and gruff. Ciara stilled. She didn't need to know the language to understand the intent.

She worked her tongue, trying to find room for it in a mouth stuffed with cloth, and gagged against the sour taste. The horse broke into a trot, and Ciara groaned. Each jarring bounce of the choppy stride drove bits of the saddle into bits of her body. She struggled to get her numb fingers behind the girth for some stability, and then they were cantering. A spasm twisted her back muscles, her legs and arms flopping against the horse as though she were nothing more than a rag doll.

Oh, Goddess's blood.
The ground rushed by beneath her, and Ciara squeezed her eyes shut against the sudden head spin. The fuzz refused to leave her brain. Whatever they had used to knock her out made thinking an impossible task. She tried to brace herself against the movement of the horse, a scream of frustration and anger growing in her throat.

About the time she felt she couldn't take it any longer, the rider shifted his weight
back and the horse slowed to a walk. Voices surrounded them, the sounds of other horses jostling about, people moving. A woman's voice rose above the rest. The words were meaningless to Ciara, but they carried the tone of an order.

Fingers tangled in her hair and jerked Ciara up and back. She had no time to get her feet under her as the rider tossed her unceremoniously to the wet ground. Then someone had her by the arms wrenching her up.

"Get your hands off her."

Ciara twisted
, relief flooding her as she caught a glimpse of Berk. A shove moved her forward. Her feet caught as something tightened around her ankles. She realized too late she had been hobbled, and thrust her bound hands out in front of her to break her fall. But fingers locked around her biceps, keeping her upright, and propelled her into a circle of rough-looking men and women. All of them armed. Not a friendly face among them.

Berk stood between two men, hobbled as well, his hands tied behind him. His shoulders were back, every line of his body taut, his gaze leveled on a woman who stood apart from the others. She wore leather armor, tooled with an angular, intertwined design. Though it glistened from a recent oiling, it had definitely seen better days. Her hands rested on her waist, and she held herself with an unmistakable air of authority. Eyes the color of a deep summer sky flicked Ciara's way. The woman said something in her tongue, and one of the men next to Ciara yanked the gag from her mouth.

"I am Linea, and this is my camp," the woman said, her voice thickly accented. "It is by my good graces you both still live." Her gaze narrowed on Berk. "Especially you."

"What do yo--" Ciara yelped, her head snapping to the side and tears springing to her eyes with the force of a
backhanded blow across her face.

"Bastard." Berk lunged forward, shoulder lowered into the guts of the man who had hit her. Another guard stepped in
, and brought his knee up hard into Berk's stomach. He doubled over with a pained grunt.

"Stop it!" Ciara yelled.

The woman laughed. She grabbed a fistful of Berk's hair and twisted his head back. "I like good sport." She gestured, and two men hauled him upright.

Berk swayed. Dried blood caked the side of his face and neck.

Linea turned back to Ciara. "You have magic."

Ciara swallowed. "I'm a healer." Something told her it would be best to keep it simple.

The gaze sharpened. "A healer? In the company of an Imperial soldier? That must make you important."

"I'm just a healer," Ciara replied.

The woman made a noise. "There's no such thing as
just
a healer. Not where I come from. So how does
just
a healer acquire her very own, personal, Imperial dog, hmm?"

She stepped forward and slid her hand across Berk's chest and the crest emblazoned on the deep blue fabric. He jerked at the touch and Linea laughed. "I'll guess you're lovers."

Ciara's cheeks heated. "No."

The woman held up a hand for silence. She
circled Berk, her hands gliding over his body. "No shame in it. He's a fine man, even if he does reek of Imperial dung. Pleasing to the eyes. Firm to the touch."

Linea reached around to grab Berk between the legs. He flinched and snapped his head back. Linea swore. She slammed her foot into the back of his leg, and Berk
fell to his knees. Linea cranked his head back a second time, digging her fingers into his exposed throat. Blood trailed from a gash on her lip as she put her mouth next to his ear and whispered something. She released him with a shove, and strolled back around to face them both.

Her tongue slid from between her teeth to clean the blood from her lip. "Get him up."

Two of her men hauled Berk roughly to his feet.

"I'm going to enjoy hearing you squeal," Linea said
to him. "The last bit of Imperial dung we came across didn't last nearly long enough."

Linea waved at the crowd and they parted. Berk took a step forward, a look of horror crossing his face before he schooled his expression into something eerily devoid of emotion. An iron cage about the size of a pony cart sat half Ciara's height off the ground, balanced on huge boulders. Below it smoldered
the remains of a fire. Ciara gasped. Inside, curled in on itself, laid something that looked as though it had once been a man.

Ciara
glanced at Berk. His chest rose and fell in quick, shallow breaths, and Ciara prayed the look in his eyes would never be directed at her.

Linea lifted her hand toward his face, and Berk pulled violently away from the touch. He would have killed her given half the chance, Ciara could feel it. His whole body shook with rage. Without thinking she shoved her way between him and Linea. "Leave him alone."

The woman stepped back, laughing. "Perhaps not lovers yet, but you wish to be."

"What do you want from us?" Ciara asked. Berk made a noise behind her
, and tried to push Ciara aside but she stood firm.

"You've got spit, I like that." She squeezed Ciara's face. "My brother is ill. You will tend to him. And you better be more than
just
a healer, because if he dies, so do you. As for your dog..." Her gaze slid hungrily over Ciara's shoulder. "I'll let you know if he's as good a lover as he looks."

She shoved Ciara into the waiting arms of one of the men. Ciara tried to pull away from him, but he hoisted her off the ground and slung over his shoulder like a sack. She kicked her feet, crying out at a stinging slap across the backside. Berk lunged forward
with a roar of anger, and then Ciara lost sight of him as the crowd closed in.