The Outcast (Summoner #4)(52)

“What … how?” Alice said, her brows furrowing in disbelief.

“I don’t know. I don’t even know if it’s true. It’s only what he told me.”

“Look, I don’t know about you, but this can all wait for another time.” Rotter sighed. “It’s irrelevant. What matters now is that we get ourselves out of this mess.”

Edmund nodded.

“I agree with Arcturus’s assessment. Nothing has changed. We get to the front lines, only instead of waiting for rescue we meet up with a band of soldiers like yours, Rotter. Then head for Corcillum.”

“What if the soldiers are rebels, like the king’s guards that captured Athena?” Alice asked. “What if they’re working for General Barcroft too?”

“Who is that anyway?” Arcturus asked. The guards who had captured Athena had mentioned that name.

“He’s the general that commands the southwestern portion of the front lines,” Rotter answered. “He’s my boss, technically, about a dozen ranks above me anyway. A good man, so I’m told. Petitions the king to get us the supplies we need to keep on fighting.”

“Well, he’s a traitor, if those guards are working for him,” Edmund said. “Maybe he got sick of asking, thought he could do a better job.”

“Can you blame him?” Rotter said, lifting a flap of rusted chain mail. “This could have been my grandfather’s.”

“That’s dangerous talk,” Edmund warned.

“After all I’ve done for you…,” Rotter began angrily.

“That’s enough!” Arcturus said, holding up his hand. “It’s been a long night, we’re all tired, and we all know we’re on the same side. Let’s just get some rest and make it to the front lines. We can decide if we can trust the soldiers then.”





CHAPTER

29

SLEEP DID NOT COME easily that night. Hunched in the darkness, with nary a wyrdlight to illuminate their makeshift shelter within the bushes, Arcturus could hardly see his own hand in front of his face.

And the noises. Arcturus had never thought the jungle could be so loud. Grunts, howls and screeches filled the air around them, accompanied by the incessant chirr of crickets and the whine of mosquitoes. It was all he could do not to despair, and nobody begrudged him when he summoned Sacharissa later that night, pressing himself against the curve of her back to take comfort from her warmth, and feel the slow rise and fall of her chest.

It was only when morning came that Arcturus allowed himself to end his attempts to sleep—all he had managed was a cycle of jerking awake in fear, only to sink back into the darkness and let exhaustion drag him over the edge of slumber once more.

Yet, as the first tendrils of light filtered through the trees, and the birds began their morning calls, the world lost its hard edge. He could see pink flowers opening to catch the morning glory, and the sweet scent filtered through the trees, lingering in his consciousness as Sacharissa breathed in the myriad of smells that greeted the sun. Tropical birds flitted in the branches above, their feathers fanned out in a blaze of yellows, reds and blues.

As the night terrors faded from memory, Arcturus felt a sudden tightness of his bladder, and the dryness of his throat raged more keenly than ever. Their paltry meal of dank fruit had assuaged it the night before, but now he found himself sitting up and seeking a nearby tree.

The others were still sleeping, and Arcturus could not help but smile at the sight of them. Alice and Edmund were curled in each other’s arms, while Elaine had surreptitiously taken hold of Sacharissa’s tail, curling herself around it like it was a cuddly toy. Even Rotter seemed oblivious to the world, spread-eagled like a bearskin with his mouth wide open enough to catch flies.

Not wishing to disturb them, Arcturus ordered Sacharissa to stay put with a thought and ducked out of their leafy den, careful not to make too much noise.

Embarrassment at being caught took him farther into the jungle, along with the desire to find something to eat. Hunger gnawed at his belly—the thought of the trampled guava they had eaten the previous night seemed like the sweetest ambrosia now.

Once he had put some distance between him and their camp, Arcturus ducked under a sheet of hanging moss and found a nearby tree.

As he sighed with relief, he heard something. At first, he thought it a birdcall, but then it came again, louder this time. A scream. Coming from ahead of him.

Arcturus buttoned his trousers and pulled the crossbow around from the sling across his back, swiftly loading it and leveling it at the thickets ahead of him.

It came again, and now he recognized it was a woman’s voice, wailing in agony. Could it be Josephine? Panic thundered through Arcturus’s heart. There was no time to get the others.

Indecision froze him still, and now he could sense Sacharissa, rising from her sleep to wake the others.

Then Arcturus was running, tearing through the undergrowth in a mad dash, disregarding the thorns and branches that tore at his skin.

It was a root that saved him. Tripping him before he reached the screams. Before he reached the orcs. He tumbled as it caught on his toes, ripping through the snarled branches and vines that blocked his path and rolling to a dead stop a few feet away from the clearing where the screams came from.

The wind was knocked from his chest, gusting out of his mouth and leaving him gasping like a beached fish. Perhaps if he had groaned, they would have heard him. But as it was, he could only pant noiselessly as he stared through the screen of leaves at the scene in the glade beyond.