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His momentum knocked her over, the wind rushing out of her lungs as her shoulders hit the ground, the dying soldier falling on top of her. He was flailing and thrashing, the hilt of the knife digging into her stomach, and she couldn’t get out from under him.
Couldn’t breathe as the meaty bulk of his chest pressed down against her face.
The weight abruptly lifted.
Lara gasped, sucking in air, before rolling onto her hands and knees, watching as Aren unnecessarily slid a knife across the dead soldier’s throat. Hands slick with the other man’s blood, Aren grabbed hold of her arms, pulling her close. “Are you all right? Are you hurt?” He was pulling at her clothes, the blood of the dead sailor mercifully concealing that from her victims on the pathway.
“I’m fine,” she gasped, finally able to breathe. “You’re not.” He was bleeding heavily from a gash on his forearm, but she suspected that wasn’t the worst of it.
“It’s nothing. Stay back. Stay out of sight.” He tried to push her behind one of the village homes, but she clung to his shoulders, desperate to keep him out of the fray. If he died,everythingwas for naught.
He hesitated, and she buried her face in his shoulder, certain he’d set her aside and reenter the battle. But he was injured and spent, and it would not end well. Panic rose in her throat, and she whispered the only thing she could think of that would get him to stay: “Please. Don’t leave me.”
His hands were hot against her back, both of them soaked with the blood of their enemies. “Lara . . .” His voice was pained, and she knew he was seeing the bodies of his people. That he was seeing his bodyguards, fighting and faltering against the enemy.
You could fight.
You could fight for him and save these people.
The thought danced across her mind, but she was saved from having to make a decision by the arrival of reinforcements.
Ithicanian soldiers poured into the village, Aren’s bodyguards falling back, encircling him and Lara as the others cut down the Amaridian soldiers, ruthlessly dispatching the injured until the only sound was the moans and cries of the villagers.
Aren didn’t let go of her until it was over.
Smoke burned Lara’s eyes as she looked around. As she saw, for the first time, what war really looked like. Not just dead soldiers, but unarmed civilians lying on the ground. The still forms of children.
Do you think it will be any different when your father comes with his army? Do you think they’ll show any more mercy?
Villagers who had fled began to return to the village, mostly older children clutching babies and the hands of small children. Some of them began to sob as they found the still forms of their parents. But far too many just stood frozen, faces lost and hopeless.
“Still believe those Amaridian sailors deserved mercy?” Aren said softly from behind her.
“No,” she whispered as she strode toward the nearest injured Ithicanian, ripping strips of fabric from her tunic as she dropped to her knees. “I don’t.”
17
Aren
Aren staredinto the basin of water, its contents slowly turning red as he washed away the blood crusting his fingernails. His blood. The blood of his enemies.
The blood of his people.
The water trembled and he jerked his hands out of the basin, wiping them dry on a piece of toweling that had been left for him. Every inch of him ached, especially his ribs where that big bastard had caught him with the chain. Nana had informed him nothing was broken, but his side was already a livid bruise, and experience told him that tomorrow would be worse. Yet he’d take the pain a thousand times over if it meant arriving at Serrith sooner. Twenty minutes earlier. Ten. Five. Even a heartbeat sooner might have allowed him to save at least one of the villagers who’d been killed today.
“The call to assemble the council in Eranahl has been sent and replies received. Everyone will be there by nightfall.”
He turned to find Jor standing behind him, the bandage wrapped around his head concealing the deep gash he’d taken in the fighting. A gash that Lara, of all people, had stitched up. Of their own accord, Aren’s eyes drifted to where his wife knelt among the wounded, silently taking direction from Nana and her students. Her honey-colored hair was crusted dark with blood, as were her clothes, but rather than detracting from her beauty, it only made her seem fierce. Like a warrior. Half a day ago, the notion would’ve been laughable.
But not anymore.
Jor tracked his gaze, giving a deep sigh when he saw whom Aren was staring at. “She’s in possession of a problematic amount of information.”
“There was no helping it.”
“Doesn’t mean it isn’t a problem.”
“She saved my life.”
