Roar (Stormheart #1)(47)
She would be furious if she knew, but he didn’t care. It wasn’t just about her. He trusted his gut, and something wasn’t right. And in the wilds, all it took was one mistake to wipe out an entire crew. He had to get his head straight.
They’d left the Ruined Road behind two days prior, opting to follow the river as it curved northeast, but yesterday in the late afternoon the river turned south again, bringing them back to Ruined Road.
As Locke studied the maps, it was glaringly obvious that there were no more safe routes for the next part of the journey. Hunters understood the wildlands and storms better than most. Duke was brilliant, and he could talk for hours about how nature and magic merged to make such beasts. The old hunter hypothesized that storms could form one of two ways: as a result of what he called colliding weather systems that changed the pressure of the air or from colliding natural magics. So like explorers traveling new lands, they kept notes and drew maps for everything they saw and experienced. In the Rock, Duke monitored the levels of magic in the air and kept lists upon lists of readings. They kept a separate map that marked locations of any storms they crossed or damage they saw from presumed storms. Over time, all that information allowed them to mark spots where magic was consistently more prevalent and the types of conditions or geographical features that made storms more likely.
He’d used those maps and figures to create their route so far, but they were approaching a valley called Sorrow’s Maw to the south, where storms formed with frightening regularity. The land there teemed with so much raw magic that it would be a miracle if they did not encounter a storm sometime soon. Normally, they might have spent a few days camped out north of the valley, using the storms that rolled out of the Maw to bulk up their supplies. But it was too risky to camp near a hotbed when they had a newcomer like Roar and a novice like Bait.
For the last three days, he’d made Roar run morning and night, and though he hated to admit it, she was more than capable of surviving that way if necessary. Already she was probably faster than anyone else on the crew save him. And skies knew she was stubborn. He’d pushed and pushed, and never once had she asked for a break or for him to slow down. Not even last night when he’d run her until she doubled over, heaving her supper into the grass. He’d gone too far then—even his own lungs had felt on the verge of collapse—but she’d simply wiped her mouth with the hem of her shirt, then kept going.
He sighed. It was well past time to start training her for real. Clearly, she would not be scared off by a little hard work as he had hoped.
He stowed the maps back in the Rock, and then set off toward Roar’s shoddily constructed tent. The thing stood haphazardly, leaning with the wind, but true to her stubbornness, she had refused to let anyone help her set it up.
He lifted the tent flap carefully, and called into the dark space, “Rise and shine, princess.”
Locke heard the shuffling of blankets, and a grumbled, “I will murder you.”
He fought a smile and crooned, “Come on, princess. Don’t make me drag you out of there. I guarantee I’ll enjoy it entirely too much.”
He narrowly dodged a waterskin she tossed through the open flap of her tent, but he heard her moving around. She was always a little grumpy in the mornings, and it entertained him to no end.
“You know storms wait for no one. They come when you’re sleeping or sore or tired, and those not strong enough to outrun them are those that don’t survive.”
“I’m coming. Calm your skies, hunter.”
He dropped the tent flap and walked several paces away to wait. When she climbed out of the tent, he lost his train of thought completely. Her hair was mussed and wild, and her mouth open in a yawn. She wore a large linen tunic that swallowed her slim form, hanging down to midthigh. Beneath it her legs were bare, the light of the moon casting them in a soft glow. The sight burned into his brain, never to be forgotten.
He really did push her too hard last night. Normally, she was already awake (albeit irritable) by the time he came to collect her.
“I’ll … leave you to get ready. Meet me at the campfire.”
He forced his feet to move away before he did something stupid. He grabbed an apple from his pack and sat down near the fire they had made the night before. A few orange embers still glowed, though they provided little heat. A moment later she came up behind him, catching him off guard. “Remind me again why no one else runs before dawn.”
She was dressed again in her usual attire. Her legs were covered by a pair of slim, brown trousers, and over her large tunic she had fastened on a leather harness that ran below her breasts and strapped over her shoulders. He could see the handles of several knives sticking up against her back. He stood, tossing the core that remained of his apple breakfast into the woods. He offered her one as well, but she shook her head.
“I’ll pass. I’ve decided to wait to eat until after we’re done running.”
He bit his lip to keep from laughing and said, “The others are sleeping because they paid their dues. They’ve all fought storms and survived. They know what it takes. I trust them to take this seriously and prepare themselves in whatever way they see fit. But you—if you’re not ready the first time I put you in front of a twister, that’s on me.”
Her voice shook slightly as she asked, “You’re starting me with a twister?”
Good. It was about time the girl showed a healthy dose of fear.