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The sensation at the edge of his senses was oddly familiar, and it was only after he’d cleaned and dressed his wound that he realised what it was. The manacles. They had been treated with some sort of strange alchemy that suppressed his strength. The site of the cut had the same weight to it, as did his whole arm.
He gave a rough laugh, loud enough to startle the horses. Wren had used arachne venom in her experiments; it was the very same thing. He didn’t know why he found it so funny, but he laughed again, shaking his head in disbelief. He had probably reached a level of delirium.
Over the last few days, Wilder had tried to keep his mind from wandering to what might be happening within the mountain. Tried and failed. When he wasn’t performing a task, his imagination took him on a vivid tour of all the horrors he’d faced himself at the demand of the Furies. He had seen the Great Rites of other Warswords too, in the memory orb. The onlycomfort he had was that Thea had seen them too, and that he had prepared her for every scenario the gods had concocted in the past.
As another night fell around him, Wilder saw to the horses and fetched the whetstone from Thea’s saddlebag before settling into the makeshift shelter he’d built around the fire. There, he removed his weapons from his person and laid them out before him, beginning the methodical task of cleaning and sharpening each one. His blades were in near-perfect condition, but the job gave him something to focus on, something to steady the tremor that had begun in his hands.
As he expertly dragged the whetstone across the steel, he was taken back to teaching Thea how to do exactly that for the first time during their travels to and from Delmira. He had been so fearful of the thing between them back then that he hadn’t taken her hands in his and guided them like he’d wanted to, but he’d guided her hands many times since then. As the flames of the small fire danced and crackled, he lost himself in the quiet scrape of metal on stone for a time, the motions of the task second nature to him after all these years.
Outside the shelter, the wind whispered through the ancient trees while dappled moonlight streamed through the broken canopy, casting an almost ethereal glow on the dark and icy surroundings.
Wilder’s hand stilled on the whetstone, his scalp prickling as he heard a faint rustling nearby. Soundlessly, he gripped both of his Naarvian steel swords and rose to his feet, creeping out of the shelter, willing the snow not to crunch beneath his boots. Abstractly, he wondered if the spy from the arachne skirmish had decided to make a reappearance. He could certainly use the distraction; in fact, he would welcome a swordfight, or even a brawl if it meant getting his mind off the Great Rite, even for a few moments.
Looking to the horses and finding them calm, Wilder scanned the treeline, noting that the weight of his sword tugged insistently at the gash in his arm. He didn’t dare think too hard about it, but he had the sneaking suspicion that the venom was affecting him more than he would have liked.
Twirling his great swords, he stalked the perimeter of the camp, his impatience finally getting the better of him.
‘Show yourself,’ he demanded, his voice hoarse.
Silence followed, stretching out long into the dark night.
But then Wilder’s gaze snapped up – where he heard the distinct beat of wings.
Not membranous as he’d come to recognise them, but feathered. And sure enough, when he scanned the branches above, one sprung up and down beneath the weight of a great hawk.
‘Terrence,’ Wilder murmured. ‘What the fuck are you doing here?’
The bird stared at him with those unforgiving yellow eyes, stretching out his wings before tucking them neatly away with a dignified squawk.
Something else rustled in the bushes and Wilder pivoted, blades still raised, ready to strike.
Snow shifted beneath a considerable weight and Wilder found himself staring at the huge mass that was Dax, his brother’s dog. The mongrel gave a soft bark and ran up to Wilder, nuzzling his legs and licking his hands, which had fallen in relief to his sides.
He eyed both creatures with a huff of amusement. ‘Sent to keep an eye on me, were you?’ he murmured, scratching Dax behind the ears and starting back towards his shelter, feeling the gust of wind by his shoulder as Terrence soared closer to camp.
Feeling light-headed, Wilder settled back in by the fire, and at long last drifted into a fitful sleep.
He dreamt of Thea. Of her bronze hair trailing across his chest as she kissed her way down his torso. Of her stormy eyes as she argued with him, the scent of sea salt and bergamot toying with his senses. He dreamt of her swinging her blade and spilling cursed blood. He dreamt of the hot springs and of burying himself inside her. He dreamt of her whispering his name.
When Wilder woke, there was something wrong.
Dax was nosing his bad arm, which he’d been sleeping on. As he came to, the pain and fever hit. Gods, had there really been that much venom in the wound? He’d thought he might get away with a few days of queasiness, but what he was feeling right now – it went beyond that.
With a pained groan, Wilder hauled himself upright, his head spinning with the sudden movement. Half of all arachne victims died. That was the statistic. He didn’t want to be one of them, but it wasn’t looking good.
Dax sniffed the wound and growled.
‘I know, I know,’ Wilder told him, fighting the wave of nausea that hit him. He shouldn’t have laid down; the horizontal position overnight had given the venom free rein to spread throughout his body. Scanning the place where he’d slept, he only hoped his head had been elevated, lest the poison get to his brain.
Dax’s ears pricked up and Terrence let out a warning call overhead.
Wilder lurched to his feet, staggering to the edge of the forest to peer down the long, winding road to Tver. There was a cloud of dust on the horizon, a telltale sign of a force on the move.
Wilder cursed, unable to make out the banners or colours from a distance. He stumbled back to the horses, where he knew Thea had a spyglass somewhere. He damn near emptied the contents of her entire pack to find it, but once he had it in his grasp he went to the road again, sweat beading at his brow with the effort.
He put the small cylinder to his eye and adjusted the focus, lengthening the contraption to cover the greater distance.
Dax was already growling at his heels, and when Wilder saw the colours and banners, his knees nearly buckled.
