Power (Soul Savers) (43 page)

To her right, one soldier’s chest
barely lifted and fell and she quickly knelt by his side. His head and unlined
face were covered with dark hair and beard, both streaked with crimson, which
pooled under his temple. His eyes remained closed. When she lifted his hand by
the wrist, he didn’t stir. His heartbeat came slow and faint under her fingers
and her shoulders sagged with grief. He’d be dead in a matter of minutes, too
far gone for her to heal. With tears stinging her brown eyes, she stood and
continued searching.

She wound her way across the
battlefield, her heart sinking further with each body she passed. Occasionally
she stopped to feel for a heartbeat or breath on her hand, but found none.
Then, as she stepped over one dead man, another moved. Just barely—just a
twitch of his finger. Cassandra hurried to his side.
Please, God, let there be at least someone I can help.

He was young, barely more than a
boy, with black hair and darkly tanned skin, as if he worked in the fields.
When Cassandra’s eyes traveled over his body, her stomach clenched. The lower
half twisted at such unnatural angles, it sickened even her, who’d seen the
worst of injuries. She pulled a berry from the pouch hanging at her hip,
squished it and slipped it into the young man’s mouth. It would help alleviate
the pain until death took over.

With a heart that felt like a
boulder in her chest, she reached the other side and turned to look out at the
field. She swallowed the sob in her throat and scrubbed at her wet cheeks.
She’d seen similar scenes over the years, but she never became used to all the
carnage. She blew out a sigh heavy with grief and turned to head back to where
she currently called home. As she stepped past the last body, only steps from
entering the woods, a hand grabbed her ankle.

“Oh!” she cried out and fell to
her knees next to a soldier covered in mud and blood.
I almost missed him!
He looked at her with half-closed eyes the
color of green olives. He stirred, as if to sit up, but she held him down.
“Don’t move. Let me see how badly you’re hurt first.”

“It’s just my leg,” he said, his
voice rough. He pushed himself up onto an elbow, despite her protests. “And my
throat. I’m so thirsty.”

She pulled a skin of water out of
her pouch and handed it to him.

“What is your name?” she asked as
she began assessing his condition.

Sweat mixed with dirt smudged his
face, but it looked otherwise unscathed, except for a small scratch on his lip
and a scrape across his chin. She pushed his dark brown hair back and found a
lump on his head. She removed the protective forearm braces and found bruises
covering his arms, but no open wounds. His legs had been protected with braces
from ankle to knee. Gingerly, she pulled his chiton up just enough to reveal a
deep gash in his lower thigh.

After draining the water skin
dry, he finally answered. “Niko.”

“You’re very lucky, Niko,” she
said, pulling out another skin of water to clean the wound. Then she retrieved
a bundle of cut plants from her bag and spread them on her lap. She selected
the ones she needed and tore the leaves, then pressed them into the wound. The
soldier sucked his breath through clenched teeth. “You seem to be the only man
alive here and with barely any injuries, at that.”

“Luck has nothing to do with it,”
he said. “It’s all about skill. And I am quite skilled.”

She looked up at his face and her
herbs seemed to be already working because he managed a confident grin, causing
a patch of dried mud to crack around his eye. With a spare piece of cloth
soaked with water, she began cleaning his face, trying to ignore how his eyes
never left hers. Each swipe of the cloth revealed more of his true appearance
and by the time she reached his full lips and square chin, her hand trembled
and heat crept into her face. Hiding under the grime was the most handsome man
she’d ever seen.

Her eyes dropped, skimming over
his strong, warrior’s build and she blushed even harder. She was used to
looking at soldiers’ bodies, assessing them for injuries, touching and prodding
them. But now, for the first time, she saw more than a subject to heal. She saw
someone who made her heart race and her stomach do odd little flips. And now
she felt shy looking at him at all.

“Your hair,” he said, lifting his
hand. She flinched and her fingers flew to the braids on the sides of her head.
His hand fell. “It’s just … I’ve never seen such a beautiful color. Like a
chestnut.”

She swallowed, her throat
suddenly dry. Then she hurriedly began gathering her supplies, unable to remain
under his gaze any longer.
What’s
happening to me?

“I’d better be going,” she
mumbled.

“Please, don’t,” Niko said, but
then he sighed. “Forgive me. You probably have a husband to return to.”

She didn’t look up at him. She
couldn’t stand for her stomach to flip anymore, an absurd reaction she didn’t
understand. And she couldn’t deny his words, although she didn’t have a
husband. She’d always admired the love her father and mother had shared, but
never thought it possible for herself. According to her brother, most girls
were married off by their fathers to men they’d never met. Father had no reason
or desire to do that to her, though. He believed she would find the right man
for herself when the time was right, just as Mother had found him. But she’d
never even met a man properly—only those injured and dying on the
battlefield, not exactly the appropriate time and place for romantic thoughts.
So how could she possibly be having them now?

Niko’s assumption made sense,
though. She appeared to be the age of a young wife who should be bearing
children, but she was actually much, much older. Her explanation for not being
married yet would make no sense to this stranger.

“Those herbs will heal the cut,”
she said, evading his comment. “You’ll be fine by morning.”

He sat up all the way and she
sucked in a breath.
Maybe not.
A
bloodstain blossomed down the side of his torn tunic. He’d been lying on it, so
she hadn’t seen it before.

“You’re bleeding,” she said.

He looked down and frowned. “I
don’t feel anything.”

He gripped his chiton at the neck
and tore it in half, letting the pieces drape over the belt at his waist. She
inhaled sharply again. Not at the injury—a superficial scratch—but
at his muscular chest and torso. Trying to ignore the pounding of her heart and
the quivering in her belly, she cleaned the wound and smeared an herbal paste
over it, his eyes on her again the entire time. A pleasant tingling ran through
her fingertips and up her arm when she touched him, and when he sighed, not a
sound of pain but of pleasure, she wondered if he felt it, too. By the time she
finished, her hand trembled once again. Overwhelmed with these inexplicable
feelings—
why him?
—she
sprang to her feet to leave.

The sound of movement froze her
in place. The sun had nearly set and she could barely see the shadows of two
men as they approached the far side of the battlefield.

“Could be the Romans,” Niko
whispered. He staggered to his feet and, in no condition to fight again, limped
several paces into the dark woods, gesturing at Cassandra to follow.

They peered around a boulder and
watched the men, who apparently hadn’t noticed them, as they slowly picked
their way through the dead bodies, just as Cassandra had done. Not healers
looking for signs of life, though, nor Roman soldiers. They must have been
savages here to pillage the bodies.

They stopped at the man with the
dark hair and beard who had barely been breathing. They crouched next to him
and exchanged words too low for her to hear. Then one bent closer, held his
hand over the dying man’s mouth and seemed to whisper into his ear. The soldier’s
arms flailed and his body bucked, as if in pain.

Cassandra gasped. Niko clamped
his hand over her mouth.

“They’re giving him a quicker
death,” he whispered in her ear. “Putting him out of his misery.”

Before long, the soldier fell
limp against the other man, who wiped the inside of his forearm across his
mouth, then held it to the dead man’s lips. Cassandra peered at Niko, whose
brows knitted together, looking just as perplexed as she felt. After several
moments, the two men stood and found the only other person who’d shown any
signs of life—the youth with the twisted body. This time the second man
stooped down and pressed his mouth against the boy’s ear. Or was it his throat?
Cassandra couldn’t discern in the darkness. The youth reacted the same way as
the first. They repeated their unusual ritual, then the two men left the way
they’d come, leaving any loot behind.

“I’ve never seen—”
Cassandra started to say, but couldn’t put words to what they’d just witnessed.
It was too strange.

“Perhaps it’s a local tradition
to send the dead down the River Styx,” Niko said. “I’ve never seen it before.
But, I’ve never been left at the field for dead, either.”

She looked up at him. “How could
your comrades leave you anyway? They couldn’t have thought you dead.”

He shrugged. “I think I was
unconscious, so perhaps they thought I was. I remember a blow to my head … and
then you standing next to me. But my men will be back, very soon I’m sure. I’ll
be fine until then. As much as I’d rather you not, you should probably go home,
before darkness falls completely.”

Cassandra pursed her lips
together, internally debating whether to leave him or not, then finally nodded.
After giving Niko her last skins of water and receiving more assurances from
him that he’d be fine, she hurried through the woods and across the fields in
the twilight. She thought Father would be worried, but he was already asleep by
the time she walked through the door of their hut. They had lived like nomads
her entire life, always in the wilderness, sometimes in caves, sometimes in
huts built by Father. He was a strong, vibrant man and usually didn’t turn in
so early.
He must have had a long day.
He’s just tired.
She refused to think it could be anything else.

She tended the fire to keep them
warm for the night and ate the last of the morning’s bread with the berries
she’d collected before she’d come upon the battlefield. She hoped Jordan, her
brother, would return with supplies soon—they had enough grain and oil
for only another day or two. She lay down in her bed of furs and stared at the
fire without seeing it. Niko’s face filled her vision.

She worried about him in the
woods by himself, injured. She told herself it was a minor injury and he was a
soldier, that he could take care of himself.
His men will find him. He’s fine. Stop thinking about him.
She
finally dozed off but slept fitfully. Dreams of wild animals and Roman soldiers
attacking Niko haunted her sleep. She awoke before dawn and knew, before she
even opened her eyes, she would go back to check on him.

Father still snored and she took
advantage of the opportunity to sneak out and back to the battlefield. She
followed the light of the full moon that still hung high in the sky, skirting
the woods this time. The darkness within them frightened her. Animals would be
on the hunt and from the sounds, not all were small creatures. The cracks of
large branches breaking made her believe something in there was big enough to
eat her. But she refused to turn back. Her concern for Niko outweighed her
fear.

When she approached the tree
she’d left him under, though, her heart sank. He was nowhere around. She took a
few timid steps farther into the woods, peering into the darker areas where he
might have found better shelter, but no sign of him existed at all. Not even
blood or any indication of a struggle.

She blew out an exasperated
breath. After hours of nightmares and little sleep, she’d worried for nothing.
His comrades must have returned and taken him back to their camp. Relief that
he was safe finally washed through her, followed by a twinge of disappointment.
She’d been hoping, more than she’d realized, she’d see him again.

She looked out at the
battlefield, expecting to find fewer bodies. If they’d come for Niko, surely
they’d taken their dead, as well. But the shadows of the bodies in the pre-dawn
darkness seemed to show the same scene she’d left last evening.
Then they’ll be returning soon.
Which
meant she needed to leave.

As she turned, someone in the
middle of the battlefield suddenly sat up. A surprised gasp escaped her throat
and the man turned his head toward her, the moon’s light illuminating his face.
Her eyes widened. She recognized him: the dark bearded man the other two had
mercifully killed.

As he stood up, so did another.
The boy. The one whose legs and back had been so twisted and broken, he
couldn’t possibly be alive. But there he stood.

Both soldiers sniffed the air in
her direction and let out a feral growl. Then they started toward her, their
legs and bodies jerking clumsily, as if re-learning how to walk.

Cassandra’s throat worked hard to
swallow the lump in it. “Can I … can I help you?”

They continued lurching toward
her. As they came closer and she could see their faces more clearly, her heart
raced even harder. Instead of brown or green or any normal eye color, theirs
were red. And
glowing
.

“Thirsty,” the boy said, his
voice too old and broken for such a young face.

“Need … blood,” the man croaked.
His hand clutched at his throat while the other reached out, as if to grasp her
shoulder though they were still several paces away.

Hunger flared in both of their
eyes and their upper lips lifted, revealing teeth that looked more like an
animal’s than a human’s.

Cassandra cried out. Then she
spun around and ran.

Their halting footsteps pounded
behind her. She imagined feeling their ragged breaths on her neck, though she
had too much of a lead to truly feel it. But her peplos slowed her down, the
ankle-length tunic twisting around her legs. She glanced over her shoulder
once. The soldiers were gaining on her, their awkwardness seeming to fall away
with each step they took.