The Triumphant (The Valiant #3)(49)

She wasn’t wrong.

I saw the horse first, tethered to a tree at the edge of the necropolis. But I heard the whine of the arrow coming from above me. And the only thing that saved me in that moment was Charon. His shoulder hit me just beneath my rib cage, knocking me from my feet and the breath from my lungs. I landed on a bare patch of earth with the bulk of his frame pinning me to the ground. Another whine and a second arrow punched into the dirt beside my head. I heaved Charon off me, and we both scrambled for cover behind a low stone wall.

“What are you doing out here?” I whispered frantically.

“Same thing you are,” he grunted at me through clenched teeth.

I peered at him through the deep shadows cast by the moon and saw that his face was rigid with pain. He had one hand pressed to his flank—blood seeping between his fingers where the first arrow had found its mark. Another missile sang through the air, and I ducked belatedly.

“Do you have anything I could—”

“Here.”

Charon had a throwing knife, drawn from a sheath in his boot, and I had anger and fear-fueled aim. He handed me the blade. I waited for the gleam of moonlight on the pale wood of a drawn bow, and I threw. I was rewarded with a grunt of pain, the clatter of an arrow shot far wide, and—after a long moment of silence—the scrabble of feet on gravel. Then hoofbeats receding into the distance. I sank back down to the ground and expelled a shaky breath. Then I turned to Charon, who still lay sprawled awkwardly. The arrow had pierced his side, mid-back, and come out the front, lodging in his flesh. The iron head stuck obscenely out from beneath his ribs, and the black-feathered fletching quivered with each breath he took.

I swallowed the panic welling up my throat and said, “I’ll get Neferet—”

“No.” His hand, clamped hard on my wrist, had lost none of its strength. His fingers were like iron bands. “Just . . . snap the shaft and pull the damned thing out. It’s only a flesh wound.”

I gaped at him. “Flesh wound or no, you’ll still need cleaning and dressing, and I’m not the one to do it.”

“Then find Quintus,” he said, wincing. “He’ll have a field kit in his legion pack, and he’ll know how to dress a wound.” Then he looked at me, his dark eyes serious. “Fallon . . . there is only a thin, fragile shell of confidence holding our company together. Weakness—any weakness—can crack that shell. You need every one of those girls to have the confidence and the commitment that we can do this thing. Or they’ll start to fall away. You’ll lose them. You don’t want that.”

I understood his logic—I’d once kept a wound hidden from Cai and the others for similar reasons—and so I couldn’t really argue that particular point. Still, I shook my head. “I don’t want to lose them to arrow fire, either,” I said. “Them or—oddly enough—you.”

“You’re not about to get rid of me that easily,” he said with a grin. “And if it was any more than one lone assailant, we wouldn’t be having this conversation. Places like this are havens for bandits and outlaws. Whoever that was likely thought we were no more than defenseless travelers and decided to take advantage of an opportunity. When they realized that we were no easy prey—nice throw, by the way—well, you heard the hoofbeats. They’re probably long gone by now. And I doubt they’ll be coming back anytime soon.”

I grudgingly left him there alone for the brief while it took me to track down Quint and tell him what had happened. I pointed out where Charon was and went to go find Cai. Regardless of what I’d promised Charon, I wasn’t keeping this a secret from Cai. I would never again keep anything secret from him. It was a promise we’d made each other. Cai found me first, leaping soundlessly down from atop a stone crypt shrouded in wild grapevines. He landed in front of me in a crouch with his sword drawn.

“Fallon?” He stepped toward me, a frown of concern on his face. “What is it? What’s happened?”

“We’ve had company,” I said. “Charon’s hurt. Quint’s gone to help him, but I think you should come too.”

Cai followed as I crouched low and made my way back through the necropolis.

“Where’s Acheron?” I asked as we took cover behind a stand of cypress, scanning the terrain for any movement before a last dash across a stretch of open ground.

“He’s positioned himself farther down the hill, toward the town,” Cai said. “Making sure we don’t get any late-night visitors come to pay ancestral respects.”

“Good.” I nodded. “One surprise tonight was too many.”

Quint had his kit out and had already sawed through the arrow shaft with a small, serrated blade by the time we got there. By the light of the moon, I could see a sheen of sweat on Charon’s brow, but he lay there, propped on one elbow, as if he reclined on a dining couch in the triclinium of a rich Roman villa. He even managed a sardonic smile.

“Quint?” I asked.

“It’s field medicine I know,” he answered. “That’s all.”

“It’s enough,” Charon said. “Stop furrowing your brow—all of you—you’re going to give me a headache.”

“Do you want something to bite down on?” Quint asked.

“Are you offering a finger?” Charon snapped, getting impatient with the feathered end of the shaft still protruding from his flank. “Pull the damned thing out.”