Ivory and Bone(70)

I’ll get Chev out of here. I’ll get him into the healers’ hands, and then I’ll be by your side, fighting.

“Can you stand?” My eyes sweep over your brother’s face. He rests on the wet ground, leaning back on his elbows, his eyes closed. “Chev?”

I lunge forward, repeating your brother’s name, but he gives no response.

This is it, I think. He’s slipped away. The worst has happened.

But I’m wrong. The worst hasn’t happened. Not yet.

A noise from behind me—a rustling of branches, a foot catching on a stone or root, a missed step.

I turn and look up into the face of the bowlegged boy who threw the spear that hit Chev. He is so young—he cannot be older than Kesh. A trickle of blood runs from a gash above his right eye. One of your clanspeople guarding the trail must have wounded him as he fought his way past.

Orn . . . Dora’s son.

This is my last thought—Dora’s son—when a heavy club swings down and hits me square in the temple, sending me sprawling into the mud.





TWENTY-EIGHT


The blow knocks me onto my stomach, the sudden, icy black taste of mud in my mouth. I orient myself quickly—to my right lies Chev, his eyes wide, his face the pale gray of mist—to my left lies the hasty, random pile of stones you and I gathered. I stretch out my left arm and my fingers coil around the perfect one—a heavy rock three times the size of my fist. I grasp it awkwardly, its sharp edges digging into my palm, as I thrust myself onto my back.

I fling the stone at Orn with all my strength.

The move exhausts me—I’m throwing from my weaker side and my grip, desperate and uncertain, slips on the icy rock. The wind goes out of me as the stone lands hard against his cheek, tearing open a gash, stark and bright, just below his left eye. Startled, he raises both hands to his face, as if to assess what just happened, his features frozen in shock, and as he does he drops both his club and an ax he held in his other hand. He’d been ready to throw the ax, his attention trained on Chev.

A moment, and his horror transforms to rage. This rage lights in his eyes like a living thing, its attention shifted from Chev to me.

He staggers forward, blocking me from the pile of stones. Chev separates me from your dropped spear. With no weapons of my own, I grab Orn’s ax from the spot where it fell near my feet. It’s heavy, and sleet already coats the handle. I struggle to grasp it, never taking my eyes off this boy—this virtual stranger—through the ice-encrusted hair that hangs in my face.

Gripping the ax between my muddy hands, I gather my strength and straighten to my feet, but he is ready. He throws all his weight against me, arms extended, hitting me with so much force I cannot hold on to the ax. It flies out of my hand as both our bodies hurdle backward toward the ground.

We land hard against an outcropping of rocks that forms the edge of the cliff. Pain sears through me as my head collides with stone.

His weight pins me down. He claws at my neck, but his hands are wet and slick with mud. His fingers slide across the skin of my throat.

I kick him off and crawl away, creeping backward like a spider, never taking my eyes off the boy’s face. Even through the haze of pain, cold, ice, and wind, I see his eyes—the eyes of a boy. I reach behind me, feeling for the point where the ground falls away, as he rushes toward me, his hands extended.

He reaches me, presses a knee into my chest, grabs my shoulders, and pulls me up before slamming me back down. My head snaps back, shattering the film of ice that coats the surface of the rocks. A large splinter breaks free and cuts my cheek. My fingers scramble, clutching at the broken ice. Just as he throws his body forward one more time, I swing my hand up and stab him hard in the neck with the shard in my fist.

His eyes widen as blood bursts from his throat. He slows, shifts his balance, giving me just enough time to roll away.

He stumbles forward. Unable to catch himself, he falls against the ice-covered ledge. He flails, claws, and grasps, but he cannot find a handhold. I reach for him, lunge for his waist . . . his leg . . . his boot, but he is moving too fast, his weight finding no resistance on the ice-slick ground.

A blood-red streak paints the edge of the cliff, disappearing beyond the ledge.

He has fallen.

The sudden quiet stuns me. All at once I notice a whisper—sleet rapping against every surface—the only sound that stirs the air. Even the wind has stopped. I listen hard, focus my ears, and below me I pick out the sound of waves. Did the bowlegged boy land in water or on rocks? I can’t force myself to look over the ledge to see if he survived. Exhaustion holds me in place. I lie on my back, letting ice collect in my hair, afraid to move, afraid to know if your brother is dead or alive.

But this is not the time to rest, I tell myself. Rest will come, but not now.

I sit up. Your brother still slumps on his side, exactly as he was. With the wind blowing in from the sea, I call his name with all the strength I can summon.

His only answer is a low and ragged cough, but he’s alive.

The relief I feel is replaced quickly by dread. I’m running out of time. I need to get him to the healers.

I need to find you.

I’ll send help. Those were your words as you jumped up with your brother’s knife in hand and disappeared down the trail. But help hasn’t come. What kind of fighting is happening on the ground beneath this cliff? And where are you now? If you’re hurt, how will I ever forgive myself for not running after you?