TheRedKing (21 page)

“Yes and we’ve been keeping his fever under control. His
wounds are still infected, however.”

“May I see them?” Delia asked, already lifting the sheet
from Areus’s leg. His thigh was bandaged well. “When was the bandage changed?”

“This morning, but I’ll be changing it again soon.”

“I’ll assist you, if that’s acceptable.” Delia wanted to see
for herself the extent of Areus’s injuries.

“Of course.”

“Delia, you should probably get some rest,” Cosma suggested.
“We traveled quickly to get here and you shouldn’t overexert yourself in your
present condition.”

“Are you unwell?” Crag asked Delia.

“No. I’m with child,” she said. Then realized Areus didn’t know.
He was still sleeping and hadn’t heard, not that she was sure he’d comprehend
it if she told him. The fever had obviously muddled his mind.

“Then you should rest,” Crag stated. “I’ll keep watch over
him.”

“No, I prefer to stay.” Delia had only just arrived. She had
no intention of leaving Areus until he was out of danger.

“I understand.” Crag dragged a chair to Areus’s bedside and Delia
sat.

“Do you have any idea what happened to him?” Cosma asked. “I
mean, clearly he was wounded in battle, but—”

“Who was he fighting?” Crag asked. “He has spoken several
times since he arrived yesterday, though he has been in and out of delirium. He
said he was fighting Hypatios, the Zaltanian prince.”

Cosma’s face, already pale, went even whiter. “Did he kill
him?”

“Apparently they both fell into the river while fighting. Hypatios
was wounded, but I’m not sure how badly. I hope the bastard is dead. This world
would be better without him, that’s for sure.”

Cosma lowered her gaze, her expression strained.

Though Delia understood Cosma’s anguish, she couldn’t help
agreeing with Sir Crag. For what he had done to her husband and for the sake of
the free kingdoms of the north, she wished Hypatios dead as well.

* * * * *

Waves crashed over Hypatios, slamming him into rocks and
branches. The violent motions snapped the arrow protruding from his shoulder,
but he was too busy trying to snatch a breath when he could to notice.

It seemed like forever that he fought to stay alive in the
rushing water. Finally it calmed. Overcome by exhaustion and blood loss, he
tried floating on his back for a time.

The stream had carried him into a deep part of the forest
where the trees grew thick, branches covered with reeds and moss overhanging
the murky water.

Almost unconscious, he blinked, trying to clear his blurry
vision. He noticed movement along the shore and a long, dark green body slid
into the water.

A riverbeast.

These creatures were found exclusively in the forests of the
Western Continent. The length of a horse, but low to the ground and covered in
scales, they had a pointed snout and double rows of serrated teeth. Their filmy
eyes saw better in water than on land. Usually they dwelled in the south, but a
few tougher breeds existed in the north, though in cold weather such as this,
they rarely left their underground dens.

The riverbeast floated nearer, staring at Hypatios.

Fresh meat.

“Take me to shore.”

He sensed the riverbeast’s surprise.

The meat speaks?

Luckily for Hypatios, most riverbeasts were stupid—vicious
and expert killers by instinct alone, but easily frightened by his ability to
communicate with them.

“Take me to shore,” Hypatios said, forcing himself to meet
the riverbeast’s gaze.

You’d be better down below. Rolling. Drowning. Tender
meat in my belly.

“Eat me and I’ll be with you forever. You’ll have a man in
your mind until your dying breath.”

The riverbeast opened its horrible jaws and closed them with
surprising gentleness around Hypatios’s arm. Still, the motion jarred the arrow
wound and Hypatios bellowed.

Half dead already and man-meat tastes so good.

“I’ll haunt you forever, beast.”

The riverbeast hesitated for a moment, then dragged Hypatios
to shore.

Hypatios gritted his teeth to keep from crying out again as the
riverbeast pulled him onto the muddy ground. Not that it mattered. There was no
one around to hear him.

The riverbeast once again disappeared into the water and Hypatios
lay with his cheek pressed to the mud. His shoulder was on fire, as were his
arms, slashed from blocking Areus’s daggers. The rest of his body ached
mercilessly.

The weather had grown quite cold and he shivered violently,
further aggravating his injured shoulder.

Groaning, he pushed himself to his hands and knees.

Booted feet appeared in front of him. His vision still
bleary, Hypatios lifted his face. A tall, thin man with sharp features,
piercing blue eyes and white-blond hair stared down at him with malice. He wore
the robes of an ancient Zaltanian warrior. Hypatios knew this spirit. It had
visited him for many years, offering advice and guiding his training. The
teachers King Hippolytos had sent were skilled, but he had learned even more
from this warrior and not just about battle. He had told Hypatios methods of
healing—strange and forbidden—that had saved his soldiers’ lives as well as his
own. Hypatios usually trusted his knowledge, but often rebelled against his
malicious ways.

“Pathetic.” The white warrior scowled. “With all your power
and you failed to kill your enemy.”

Areus still lived.

“Yes, he lives,” said the warrior. “But he hovers on the
edge. If you had been stronger—”

“Return to the realm of the dead,” Hypatios rasped. He
didn’t have strength to waste arguing with this spirit.

“Return? You’re almost here yourself.”

Other warriors, most with bleeding wounds and missing limbs,
surrounded Hypatios. “He’s an insult to Zaltanian warriors.”

“This is how the great Hypatios will end his life? Facedown
in the mud instead of on the field of battle.”

Snarling, his heart beating erratically, he crawled through
them, ignoring their taunts.

“Hypatios. Seek the truth.”

He paused, breathing ragged, and glanced around for the
ghost who said those words. In the distance, beyond the warriors, he saw the
ghost of the old seer—the woman who had cared for him during the first three
years of his life.

The pale blond warrior turned to her and roared, “Be gone, woman!
He’s weak and pathetic enough. The last thing he needs is a woman’s touch. His
mother was bad enou—” The ancient warrior paused and curled his lip, closing
his eyes for a moment and cursing.

His mother? Hypatios wanted to question this further. How
had his mother affected him? She’d died giving birth to him. She’d died
because
of him. Even as an infant, his violence, his powers, had been strong enough to
kill.

At the moment, he hadn’t the strength to question these spirits—not
that he could trust them anyway. Sometimes the spirits spoke the truth, but
mostly they lied. They manipulated. They tortured.

A young deer stepped toward the water and the spirits slowly
disappeared.

A man. Peril. Peril!

Another deer approached—an older doe.

A wounded man. He’s no danger. His heartbeat is strange,
like our cousins’ when struck by arrows. Soon he’ll be gone.

Animals had almost always driven off the spirits of the
dead, or perhaps it was because Hypatios could only communicate with one or the
other at a given moment— living animals or ghosts.

From the time he and Beauty had met, she had helped keep him
sane, acting as a shield between him and the spirit realm. In his youth he had
depended on her almost entirely. As he grew older, he had learned to focus his
mind and was even able to filter out and drive off the ghosts at times. He had
learned to survive, balanced precariously between two very different realms.

He wished for Beauty now, wished for the comforting
sensation of her coiled around him.

Had that bastard Areus hurt her during their battle? Hypatios
thought he had prevented the Lortian king’s blade from cutting her, but he
wasn’t sure. He could scarcely remember all the details of their fight, only
that Areus was a powerful opponent—more powerful than Hypatios had expected.
The warrior king definitely lived up to his reputation.

Thinking about Areus renewed Hypatios’s strength, if just a
bit. If Hypatios died, Areus won.

He crawled a short distance, shaking violently from
weakness, pain and cold, then everything went black.

* * * * *

Mira huddled deeper into her cloak, shivering as the winter
wind cut through her. The cloak was of the finest quality—warm yet elegant. Or
it least it had been elegant at one time. Now it was well-worn from overuse,
the hemline tattered. She had another cloak in better condition, but tried not
to use it often.

At one time, clothes had never been a worry for her, nor had
food or warmth. Other people had seen to most of her physical needs, yet she
didn’t miss her old home. She didn’t miss the restrictions. The fear. The
realization that she would be eventually be traded like a well-bred horse.

Her life now wasn’t easy, but at least it was her own.

She lived in the woods, a couple of miles from the nearest
village. About a year ago, she and Jase had found the abandoned cottage and
fixed it up. He had patched the roof and repaired the doors and windows. She
had scrubbed the inside and somehow made it resemble a home.

Peasant life had been difficult at first, yet some of the
villagers had befriended her and Jase. She had learned survival skills, how to
garden and cook. The old healer in the village had taken a liking to her and
taught her many things about herbs, roots and plants that grew in the forest
and fields.

Now Jase was gone. Mira couldn’t return to her family even
if she wanted to, and she didn’t. She would be quite content to spend the rest
of her life in this cottage, lonely as it was at times. It seemed everyone wanted
something from her and gave little or nothing in return. Except here. The
villagers depended on one another and they had accepted her as one of their
own.

Lately her biggest concern was the war between Zaltana and
Lortia. From village gossip, she heard that a battle was already being fought
just a few miles from here. Whatever happened, she prayed that their little village
would be left in peace.

Kings always wanted more land. Men with power always wanted
more. Who suffered because of it? The common folk.

She trudged to the well outside her house for more water so
she could start stew simmering for the day. A cry of pain down by the creek
made her jump in surprise. Had one of the villagers ventured into the woods and
been injured?

A riverbeast sometimes waded in the creek. Had it attacked
someone?

Mira hurried in the direction of the cry. Just over the hill
that led down to the creek, she saw a black-haired man lying in the mud. Two
deer—a fawn and a doe—that stood nearby raced off upon seeing her.

Approaching the man cautiously, Mira noted he wore leather
uniform trousers, like the Zaltanian soldiers who had once passed through the
village. An arrow protruded from his shoulder and blood seeped from his slashed
forearms. His face, at least the part that wasn’t pressed to the muddy ground,
was cut and bruised.

Squatting beside him, she reached out tentatively and
touched her fingertips to his neck. His pulse was faint but rapid.

With the loss of blood, his drenched clothes and the
freezing weather, he was almost blue with cold. How had he gotten here? Had he
actually washed downriver all the way from the battle on the border of Lortia?

What should she do? He looked on the verge of death, yet she
couldn’t leave him here to die alone in the cold.

She grasped his feet and pulled. After a few moments of
dragging, she paused at the foot of the hill. Panting, she shook her head.
Could she manage to drag him all the way back to her cottage?

Though slim, he was quite tall and his muscles chiseled and
hard. He was heavier than she’d thought, before she started moving him.

Gripping his feet again, she grunted and pulled.

He groaned and she released him.

“Thank goodness,” she panted, kneeling beside him. “Sir, can
you walk?”

He moaned softly and his eyes opened partway. It took him a
moment to focus on her. Finally he raised himself on trembling arms. The other
side of his face was badly scarred and surprised her, but she was quickly
distracted by his gaze. He had the most beautiful eyes she’d ever seen—huge and
green with lashes thick enough to be the envy of any woman.

“Who are you?” he asked, his voice hoarse. “Where am I?”

“This forest is on the outskirts of Barnshill Village on the
northern border of Zaltana. My name is Mira. Can you walk?”

He didn’t speak, but rose slowly. He was trembling badly and
Mira instinctively moved closer to steady him.

“I’m fine.” He took a couple of steps and stumbled. If Mira
hadn’t wrapped her arms around his waist, he’d have fallen.

He leaned so heavily on her that she thought they might both
hit the ground.

“Sir, I can help you, but we need to be careful or we’ll
both go down,” she said. “My cottage is just over the hill. It’s not very far.”

He didn’t reply, probably because it took most of his energy
to remain upright.

They moved slowly, though by the time they reached the top
of the hill, both were breathing heavily.

“Do you need to rest a moment?” she asked.

“If I sit I probably won’t get up again,” he admitted.

“Then just a little farther.”

A short time later, they made it to the cottage. He dropped
into a chair by the fire while Delia examined his wounds.

“You’re a Zaltanian soldier, aren’t you? You were in the
battle against Lortia?”