Warrior of the Wild(19)

My hand grips the cool metal just beneath my ax blades as I pull it from my back.

A horizontal swing takes off the head of the nearest ziken. It lands on the rocks below, but none of the other creatures take any notice. They’re too excited by the meat before them.

So I wreak havoc.

I put the faces of those whom I despise most across them. This one’s Torrin. That one’s Havard. Father, Mother, the council. Mother again. And again. And again. Her face is everywhere. That satisfied smirk, showing the pleasure she feels knowing she will never have to look upon my face again.

My chest heaves from the want of air. More of it. Faster. My thoughts are spinning.

Now that I’ve dispatched over half their numbers, a few of the ziken finally look up from the body before them. Oh goddess, I think it’s human. I’m certain it’s dead, but the muscles still twitch from all the fresh venom trapped within.

My foot steps on something that is distinctly not a rock, and I risk a glance down. It’s another battle-ax.

With my free hand, I lift the weapon from the ground. It feels heavier in my less dominant hand, but still right. An ax always feels good within my grasp.

Two ziken leap at me, red blood dripping from their maws. I bring both axes down, embedding the blades into their skulls. I pull the right ax out and use it to decapitate the other beast. Then I bring both axes down on the other one’s head.

More ziken follow. I spin and twist, duck, thrust. My boots make a squeaking noise as they skim across a blood-soaked stone.

I cross my arms and launch outward with my double axes, severing two heads simultaneously with the movement.

That’s all of them.

I drop the metal from my hands, the weight of the axes suddenly too much to bear. Sinking to my knees, I take in the flailing body before me.

It’s a boy.

He looks my age, maybe a little older.

He lies on his stomach, the back of his shirt ripped open to expose skin covered in bites. Blood drips steadily down his sides to the ground. Were he still alive, he would be in unbearable pain, especially with the way his body contracts where all those wounds are. Ziken venom truly is a nightmare.

His hair is a deep brown with lighter streaks glinting in the sunlight as his head twitches. His eyes are closed, and the cheek I can see is covered in scratches, likely from flailing against the rocks beneath him.

His eyelids slam open, and I leap backward with an “Ah!”

I try to reassure myself it’s just the venom controlling the body, when he lets out a groan.

Blue eyes flick to me, and that’s when I finally move.

I vault to the ground, place the stranger’s head on my lap so it can’t sustain any further damage, and wait with him for the venom to cease its course.

His arms flail uncontrollably. A fist flies at my thigh, but I don’t move. It’s not his fault.

I don’t know what I’m doing. A group of boys is what landed me out in the wild in the first place. They can’t be trusted. I blame Irrenia for my urge to help him. It’s what she would do. I can only imagine her disappointment in me if I left him to die in the wild when I could have helped.

It must be at least another five minutes before his muscles calm. I brush a spot of dirt near his eye away.

“Are you all right?” I ask.

A pause. “No.”

Obviously. Stupid question.

“Hold on,” I say. As gently as I can, I lower his head to the ground. In the next moment, I dig into my pack for Irrenia’s salve. When the canister is in my hand, I say, “I’m going to rub this on your back.”

I pop off the lid and dip my fingers into the brown liquid.

“What is it? It reeks,” he says.

“It should help.”

“Should?”

“I haven’t actually used it before.”

He thinks a moment. “Do it.”

I start with the biggest of the bites, one near the center of his back, where a good chunk of flesh is missing.

As soon as my fingers touch the wound, he lets out a growl.

“Sorry!” But I don’t let up. I rub the ointment in faster. How much does it need? The stranger tries to throw me off, but I hold him down with my knees against his lower back, where the bites are fewer, and begin to rub more of Irrenia’s gift into the next wound.

Only a few seconds pass before he relaxes underneath me. I watch in wonder as his skin begins to reknit together, even re-form in places. It pains me to see that half the ointment is already gone, but I can’t bring myself to stop helping someone in need. It’s what Irrenia would do.

“What is your name?” he asks.

“You first,” I say as I continue rubbing the foul-smelling cure into his skin.

“Soren.”

“I’m Rasmira.”

“Thank you for saving me.”

“You should be thanking my sister. She’s the one who made this miraculous ointment.”

He lets out a labored breath as my fingers brush against another wound. “But she’s not the one who fought off a dozen beasts that tried to devour me.”

I raise a brow.

“I saw most of your fight before I passed out,” Soren explains. “You’re incredible with an ax.”

The praise makes me uncomfortable, so instead of thanking him, I say, “You must be terrible with one.”