Guarded (7 page)

Ah, but only three, because Volos’s sword slashed a tall man’s face. The man shrieked inhumanly as his eye burst, and he fell back, pressing his hands to the gushing wound. He tripped over the Jugan with the belly wound and tumbled to the floor. Maybe not dead, but no longer of consequence.

The remaining three were more cautious. One of them kicked his fallen companions to the side, and then all three advanced on Volos at once, tips of their blades held forward. Volos backed up until he was pressed against the table. He wished he could take a moment to free Berhanu, but any attempt to do so would mean death for them both. He wanted to say something to Berhanu, but words failed him. He settled for a single grunted Wedey word: “Soon.”

“Who are you?” demanded one of the Juganin, a muscular man with a deep scar on his face. He spoke in heavily accented Wedey.

Volos answered in Kozari. “I am the prince’s bodyguard.” And before the final syllable had quite left his lips, he lunged forward.

Some of Volos’s fellow soldiers were known for their style and grace with a sword, the speed with which they could make metal sing. Not Volos. He was all about power. Raw strength. In the heat of battle, when enemies had pressed against him, striking his body innumerable times, he had forged ahead. Among the Kozari, Volos meant dragon, and more than one person had commented on the aptness of the name.

Volos roared like a dragon as he fought. He kept his body between the Juganin and Berhanu, using the advantage of his long blade and long reach as much as he could. He felt the sting of his opponents’ blades and smelled his own blood. But none of the Juganin could get close enough to inflict a mortal wound; from a distance, their sword thrusts lacked the force to kill him.

Deep in his head, Volos was thankful for his sparring partner Seble, who had taught him how to counter quickness. When one of the Juganin swept his sword at Volos, Volos stepped forward rather than away, using the man’s own momentum to help impale him on the tip of Volos’s weapon. That left Volos momentarily undefended as he tried to yank his sword free, and the two remaining Juganin were on him at once, slashing fiercely. One blade bit into his side and the other hit his shoulder. But Volos spun, ducked, and hacked at the nearest legs. His hands slick with blood, he lost his grip on the hilt and dropped the sword. One of the men managed to kick it out of reach. But Volos still had his knife, which he drew from the sheath belted to his chest. He collapsed to his knees and hamstrung one of the Juganin, then stabbed him in the throat when he fell. The last man’s sword cut deeply into Volos’s back. But Volos simply rolled, grabbed him around the legs, and pulled him down to the floor. After that, it was a simple thing to thrust the knife into his heart.

Nobody was attacking Volos any longer— but some of his enemies still lived. With a cry more beastlike than human, he killed them all. One of them was a man he dimly recognized as one of Berhanu’s rapists, and even as the man gasped his last breaths, Volos stabbed the point of the Jugan’s spear into the man’s groin.

It took some time for Volos to come back to himself. When his sensibility returned, he found himself on his knees, surrounded by corpses. He had to use a table leg to pull himself upright, and it took nearly all his remaining strength to cut Berhanu’s ropes. Berhanu collapsed to the floor, and Volos fell next to him.

No. It was stupid to have accomplished this much and yet die anyway on this bloody stone floor.

“Can you walk?” Volos asked.

But Berhanu had curled into a tight ball and didn’t answer him.

If anyone had asked Volos to carry Berhanu up the stairs, he would have said it was impossible. Volos could barely stand upright on his own. And yet somehow he hoisted the prince over his shoulder and got them both up to the ground floor, out the door, and into the muddy side yard. Where, by some small mercy of the gods, the Juganin’s handcart was waiting.

Volos dropped Berhanu into the cart with a thud and didn’t have enough breath to apologize. He realized blearily that the prince was naked and brutalized and that he was a fucking mess himself. His sword and knife were still in the cellar. His cloak was at the bottom of the stairs. And no way in the third hell was he going to be able to retrieve them.

There comes a point when a man’s body is stretched to its absolute limits, when he has done all that the restrictions of muscle, bone, and sinew permit, when he hasn’t the strength left to work his heart and lungs. And then there is the point slightly
past
that, when he discovers he can do more than he dreamed. When all that’s left of himself is desperation and tenacity. That was Volos’s reality as he stood outside the farmhouse.

He pushed the goddamn cart all the way back to the village.

He made it as far as the inn. He even managed to pound once or twice on the closed door. And then he fell on the cobbles in a senseless heap.

****

Chapter Six

“Well. This is more excitement than I thought I’d ever see.”

Volos opened heavy eyelids to find Mato kneeling beside him, hair in more disarray than ever, eyes sparkling. It took a moment for Volos to recognize where they were: on the ground floor of Mato’s grandparents’ house. Volos lay on a pallet on the floor while Mato smeared a stinging medicinal onto his wounds.

“Berhanu!” cried Volos and tried to sit up.

It was a testament to Volos’s weakness that Mato held him in place with a single hand to his chest. “He’s here,” Mato said softly, jerking his head to the side.

A few paces away, Mato’s mother attended a figure who lay sprawled on his back. A lantern lit the two of them oddly, putting Volos in mind of a witch preparing a sacrifice. But when she glanced at Volos, her expression was grave but kind. “He’s very weak but he’ll live,” she said.

A little of the tension in Volos’s chest loosened.

“Volos?” Mato said. “The men who did this to you…”

“Dead.”

Mato nodded. “Good.” He smeared more of the acrid green poultice on Volos’s shoulder. It hurt, but Volos remained still. “You have a lot of scars,” observed Mato.

“I told you. I was a soldier.”

“This man you came to rescue… he has a Wedey name.”

“That’s because he’s from Wedeyta.”

Mato moved back a bit and looked solemnly into Volos’s face. “He’s a Wedey who was captured by the Juganin. Does… does he mean us harm, Volos? Do
you
mean us harm?”

Gods, Volos was so tired, and he hurt, and although he should have been rejoicing over Berhanu’s freedom, he only wanted to sleep. “No. You have my word. He came here in search of peace.”

“And you?”

Volos couldn’t exactly say the same, not when the blood of eight slain men still stained his skin. “I came here to save him. That’s all.”

After a pause, Mato nodded. “Well, you have. Although it looks as though you nearly got yourself killed in the process.” He scrunched up his mouth and then patted Volos’s uninjured shoulder. “Roll on your side, please. Your back needs tending to.”

Volos did as he was told. That left him facing Mato’s mother and Berhanu. With her lips pressed together in a grim line, she was smearing some sort of ointment in the crack of Berhanu’s ass. Perhaps mercifully, the prince appeared to be unconscious. Volos didn’t want to look, yet couldn’t seem to avert his gaze. The wounds on his own back burned fiercely, and a part of him was glad for it— penance for not being faster, stronger, more clever. Penance for killing. Penance for living when others died.

Sometime later, Mato covered Volos with a light blanket. “I’m sorry we had to put you here. Mama and I couldn’t carry either of you up the stairs to the bed.”

“This is fine. This is… Thank you. For caring for us. If you hadn’t…”

Mato smiled at him. “You should sleep. Your Wedey friend will need help soon, and Mother and I need to get to the inn.”

“Gods, Mato, I’m sorry. You must be exhausted.”

“It’s no matter. Rest. I’ll bring you food and drink soon.”

Mato rose to his feet and gathered up the remains of the supplies he’d used to doctor Volos. His mother did the same after laying a blanket over Berhanu. She was unusually silent for a Kozari, but Volos detected no hatred in her expression. Just a sort of weariness that suggested she’d done this sort of thing before.

“How long until he’s able to travel, do you think?” Volos asked.

She glanced at her patient. “A few days, if you go slowly.”

“You don’t have to go,” Mato said. “Stay here awhile.”

Oddly, Volos wished he could do just that— spend a few weeks in the sleepy village, pretending he was a man with no cares. But he shook his head. “He has to get to Felekna.”

“The capital.”

“Yes.” Volos didn’t explain. “Besides, if more Juganin come…”

Mato exchanged quick glances with his mother before turning to Volos. “Where did… where was he being held?”

“A big farmhouse near the woods. One with lots of outbuildings.”

“I know the place. Few people pass that way and the house has been empty for years. Since the war. I think your secrets will stay safe for a while.”

Volos nodded gratefully. Mato and his mother left, but they kept a lantern burning on the floor not far from Berhanu. Volos lay and watched the prince slumber until sleep came washing over him as well.

****

The day crawled by in a haze of sleep and ache, and sometimes Mato stopped in to bring fresh water or a little food or to check on his patients’ wounds. Berhanu had remained unconscious the entire time. But now that night had fallen and the lanterns were lit, Volos sat on his pallet with a clay goblet of water in his hands and Berhanu lay awake, staring at him.

“He sent
you
.” Berhanu’s voice sounded raw and painful. This was the first time he had ever addressed Volos directly, but the bitterness of his words hurt worse than any of the Juganin’s swords.

“Yes, Your Highness.”

Berhanu hissed at him. “Don’t call me that!” He shifted a bit under the blanket, perhaps attempting to sit up, but then moaned and went still. He looked terribly frail, as if he might fall apart at any minute, but his glare was strong. “Why only you? Did you convince him you were capable of taking on countless enemies by yourself?”

“No.” Volos decided not to inform Berhanu that Volos himself had been fairly convinced his rescue effort would fail. “He said it’s a sensitive situation. The queen wouldn’t permit a… larger effort.”

Berhanu seemed to consider this for a while. “But she did allow… you. Which means she didn’t command those bastards to… to capture me.” His voice wavered a little on the last words.

“Your fath— The king told me these Juganin were rogues acting without her consent.”

With a deep, shuddering breath, Berhanu seemed to shed some of his pain. “Then she may still listen to me? There’s still hope?”

“I think so.”

Berhanu pulled the blanket away, and this time his intention to sit up was very clear. “We have to go.”

Moving more quickly than was prudent given the state of his body, Volos slammed down his cup and scurried to Berhanu’s pallet. He set a restraining hand on Berhanu’s shoulder. “Not yet!”

“I’m not a fucking weakling!” said Berhanu, snarling and showing his teeth like an angry dog.

Suddenly furious, Volos snarled right back. “You’re injured! It’s a long walk to Felekna and I’m in no condition to fucking carry you there.” He realized, somewhat belatedly, that yelling at a prince was a bad idea and bullying a man who’d recently been tortured was cruel. He modulated his tone to more reasonable levels. “A few more days won’t matter. Heal a bit first, then we can go.”

“We?”

Volos bit back more anger. “I’m sure as all hells not letting you go alone.”

Berhanu narrowed his eyes and turned his head away. Staring angrily at the wall, he said, “It was stupid of you to come here alone.”

“It was my duty,” Volos responded quietly.

“Your duty almost killed you.”

It was ridiculous. As angry and hurt as Volos felt, he had to fight desperately to stop himself from reaching out to untangle Berhanu’s hair with his fingers. From stroking his overly gaunt cheeks. From holding him tightly to assure them both that they were alive and safe. Abruptly aware that he was naked— that they both were— Volos hurried back to his pallet, where he pulled the blanket over his lap and picked up his cup of water. He stared into the clay vessel as if it were fascinating.

Berhanu said nothing more. Perhaps he had fallen asleep.

****

The next day, Mato brought clothing for them. Both sets of trousers were patched and the shirts were very plain, but everything was clean and fit them well. Volos had to help Berhanu get dressed, which angered Berhanu and made Volos blush and stutter like a schoolboy.

Mato wordlessly handed over Volos’s sword and knife, as well as the cloak he’d abandoned in the stairway.

Volos took the items and just stood there, chewing his lip. “Mato, you don’t—”

“I’m an innkeeper. If I’m fortunate, I’ll never have to be a soldier. But that doesn’t mean I can’t be a little brave, now and then. And it certainly doesn’t mean I can’t do what’s right.” He sighed. “There were eight of them, Volos. You took on eight Juganin by yourself.”

“Only because they were drugged.”

“But you’d have gone in there anyway, even if they weren’t. Even if there were eighty of them.”

Volos only shrugged.

“What are you saying?” Berhanu demanded in Wedey. He was sitting on his pallet. “Who is that Kozari?”

Volos scowled. “His name is Mato, and neither of us would be alive if it weren’t for him. Hate me if you must, but try to at least be civil to him.”

A strange look crossed Berhanu’s face, one Volos couldn’t read. Then he looked away.

When Volos turned back to Mato, the innkeeper had a thoughtful expression. “You speak Wedey well, don’t you?”

“At least as well as Kozari.”

“But what are you— Wedey or Kozari?”

“Depends who you ask,” Volos answered with a sigh.

“I’m asking you.”

“I… I don’t know.” He looked at Mato sadly. “When I was a soldier, I wore a Wedey uniform. I’m sorry.”