Fearless (Nameless #3)(60)
Zo walked with tender, slow steps along the trail through the southern canyon and out of the valley. Her muscles ached and head pounded, and an invisible gash on her side flamed hot with pain whenever she twisted. She’d stitched a man in that exact spot yesterday. Millie had warned her not to bless the wounds, but with some of the more dire cases, she’d given a little of herself in a blessing anyway.
When she examined the spot that morning, the skin where she’d purged the man’s infection and coaxed the skin to heal was red and irritated. A thin, angry line had formed. Was it possible that she’d taken the man’s infection into her own body?
A shiver rolled over her skin as she pushed away the thought. There had to be some way around this. In the meantime, she’d have Millie or Tess look at her when she got back to camp.
She fingered the knife sheathed at her side. Though she preferred not to wear the ugly weapon, the Ram attack at the north canyon yesterday had put her on edge. Somehow the Ram mess unit, trapped on both sides in the slot canyon, had managed to kill not just Sani but fifteen others before the Allies could stop them. Sixteen dead. Many others wounded. And this wasn’t even a fair fight out in the open. If so few men could do that kind of damage while cornered, she shivered to think of what an actual confrontation with the Ram might look like. Living in the Allied Camp with all their numbers made one forget just how deadly an enemy the Ram were.
Laden had teams scouting for miles in every direction, looking for any sign of the Ram. Early reports proved that no one was anywhere near the camp, but the Raven teams he’d sent to scout the lands nearer Ram’s Gate wouldn’t return for another day or two at best.
The southern entrance to the valley was all but forgotten. The only area south of here belonged to the Wolves who were friendly to their cause. Still, Zo clutched the knife at her side.
After three painful hours of hiking, Zo hadn’t seen a single person on the trail. Not even the person she had hoped to find.
Poor Raca.
The feisty Raven princess already carried so many burdens without the added blow of losing her brother. Zo caught herself rubbing the space around her heart—massaging the ache that collected there when she thought of losing someone so close to her again. If it had been Tess, Zo couldn’t imagine carrying on.
There wasn’t much Zo could do in this battle other than try and save lives and offer a bit of compassion. And she intended to do just that, despite the grief she’d get for leaving camp without telling anyone.
The canyon opened up to a vast bench overlooking green rolling fields littered with pockets of dark trees. A blue stream cut through the valley and wispy, white clouds moved across the enormous blue sky. The view demanded appreciation. Zo settled against the trunk of a tree at the edge of the bench and leaned back, letting the view block out memories of empty eye sockets, torn flesh, and splattered blood.
She took a deep breath, inhaling the smell of cedar and clean air.
An arrow cut through the sky to her right and embedded into the branch of a tree not ten feet away.
“Leave me!” Raca’s strong voice penetrated the foliage surrounding Zo. Though the girl was still not visible from Zo’s current position, she could tell the arrow came from just below the bench.
Zo opened her mouth to apologize—she’d been warned Raca didn’t want company—but stopped short when someone else beat her to it.
“You shouldn’t be alone.” A male voice. Less familiar, but so distinct it really could only belong to one person.
Zo winced at the pain in her side as she shifted onto her stomach and peered over the ledge. Two figures, opposites in every way, stood fifteen feet away from each other. If Zo didn’t know them both better, she might have thought they’d met here to settle some old feud. Raca seemed perfectly ready to rip the bear’s head off.
“I’m so tired of people telling me that I shouldn’t be alone. That I’m not capable of taking care of myself. My brother is dead!” Her voice caught, thick with emotion. “Let me mourn him in my own way.”
Murtog took a tentative step toward Raca. He wore his long dreads of hair unbound so they fell around his shoulders. His sleeveless tunic left his tattooed, muscular arms bare. Across from him, Raca clutched her bow at her side, her other hand balled into a fist, and her chest pumped as though the lid stoppering her control was ready to blow.
“I know a thing or two about loss,” said Murtog. “I know what it’s like to want to retreat into your pain and let it swallow you up. There is a time to be alone,” he took another step toward her, “and there is a time to be comforted.”
Then, in a smaller, gentler voice, he said, “Please. Let me comfort you.” His hands shook at his sides. How someone could manage to look so small and vulnerable in such a large body was beyond Zo. Though his voice communicated one thing, his demeanor said something entirely different. Let us comfort each other.
Raca dropped her bow into the high green grass and pushed the pads of her hands into her eyes, as though literally forcing back her tears. Murtog closed the distance between them with a few careful steps. “Why do you fight the pain, Raca? You must let it out. Give it a voice or it can never leave you.”
In barely a whisper, “I don’t know how.”
More steps. Murtog stopped so close if he reached out, he could easily touch her. “I can help you.”