Page 26 of Prize of the Warlord
They’re so impossibly quick. Zeha cries out and nearly drops her weapon, but she rallies and keeps slashing.
One of the ice-wyrms dives straight for my chest, latching onto the furs and gnawing straight through them, burrowing as if it wants to screw a path to my heart.
With a shriek I grip the ice-wyrm around the body and yank it free just as its teeth burn into my skin. I fling it wildly away, and it hits two of its companions and knocks them out of midair too.
My eyes focus on the shape riding nearby—the Warlord. He saw what I did, and for the tiniest of suspended moments, I relish the approval in his eyes.
But there’s no time to speak. A swarm of the toothy, pearly eels flutters between us, shimmering, snapping, clouding my view of him. I catch one glimpse of Kaja leaping into the air, snarling and twisting, batting the serpents aside with her paws.
Zeha yells to her mare, begging for more speed. With a panicked whinny the horse complies, charging even faster between the trunks while Zeha whips her sword to my right, then to my left. One of the wyrms skims past the horse’s neck, opening a long cut. I switch the reins to one hand and clamp my palm over the wound, trying to stem the flow of blood. It pulses warm between my fingers.
Tiny teeth rake across my shoulder, and a sharp tail scratches my cheekbone.
And then we’re out of the trees, thundering across open land. As I look back, several of the ice-wyrms fling themselves frantically at us, but most of them fall short, writhing on the pale ground, scuffing up the layer of white salt to reveal scarlet clay.
“The Bloodsalt?” I wonder aloud. “I thought we left it behind.”
“The largest section of the Bloodsalt is near the mountains,” Zeha says, tugging the last ice-wyrm from the horse’s flank and throwing it away. “But there are smaller strips of it throughout these lands. The magical corruption extends far into the North.”
Most of the warriors in our company have gathered up ahead, and a few burst out of the forest behind us, joining the cluster of survivors.
30
With Kaja at his side, the Warlord rides around the group, his eyes flicking from one face to another. I exhale with relief when I see Jili still on horseback with the female warrior.
“One man lost,” the Warlord says.
The others voice a guttural moan in response, a low, blended vocalization of sorrow. My heartbeat is already quick, and the strange, doleful sound nearly sends me into a panic.
The Warlord rides up to Zeha and me, his eyes latching onto the place where my bloody palm still presses the mare’s neck.
“We should have gone around,” Zeha says.
“It would have taken an extra day and a half.”
“And that saved time was worth Belwyn’s life?” she says harshly.
“Yes, because it takes us beyond the reach of her kind.” The Warlord jerks his head at me. “She is secure now. They cannot get to her. We have our leverage.”
“Leverage you have not yet been able to wield.”
“When they cannot find her and rescue her, they will be ready to bargain,” he says.
Zeha shakes her head. “You cannot decide the fate of every clan. When we reach home, you must summon the other warlords to a council. They should have a say in this bargain, too.”
“Why?” he snaps. “All they care about is living as thieves and brigands, wreaking terror and violence. They revel in it. They don’t want change. They’d as soon kill her as hold her for ransom.”
“Some of them think as you do,” Zeha replies. “And if you are going to bargain for a land-price, for a piece of soil south of the mountains, you’ll need allies among the clans, or you won’t be able to hold onto the land you get. Not that her family will yield any property to you—but in case they do, you’ll need a few other warlords on your side.”
I’m stuck between the siblings, unable to escape the conversation, so I try to make myself small. My face, chest, and shoulder burn from the ice-wyrms’ teeth, but I’m more concerned about the horse. Her head hangs low, and her flanks shudder with every breath. She’s practically steaming from the exertion. With every passing second, more of her blood pumps out, despite the fact that I’m pressing so hard on the wound that my arm is shaking.
The Warlord dismounts and approaches, tugging a long scarf from his shoulders and unbuckling one of the belts at his waist. He begins wrapping the scarf and belt around the horse’s neck.
“Your questions about my methods can wait,” he says quietly to Zeha. “We need to get home. If you can call any of your hawks, and you want to summon the other warlords to our village, I will not stop you.”
“You’ll meet with them?” Zeha says.
“Yes. You can move your hand now, mouse.”
