Redwing Read online

  “Rowan?” He must be dreaming. There was no way this could be real, and yet the voice continued.

  “Thank the gods. Where are you?”

  Where are you? he wanted to say, but instead whispered, “I’m tied to the front of the cart.”

  A body slid around the edge of the cart, and a moment later a hand found him. Rowan stood before him, a dark silhouette that gripped his shoulders hard with both hands.

  “Are you all right?” Rowan’s hands patted him down, searching for ropes, and sawed through his hand bindings. Then he set to cutting the heavy cord around his waist.

  Too late, Samik realized what would happen. “Rowan, wait. My feet first—”

  The last fiber gave way, but Samik’s bound feet, numb from hours of standing, could not bear his weight. He heaved his upper body forward, trying to realign his weight, and his left calf cramped in a bolt of pain.

  If he had just bent his knees and slid straight down the side of the wagon, it might still have been all right. But trying to stand had thrown him off-balance, and he fell sideways, into Rowan. Rowan, startled and trying to catch something he could hardly see, staggered back and into the donkey’s harness.

  The donkey’s irritated bray was a death knell clamoring in their heads. Rowan fumbled at Samik’s ankles, trying desperately to free him, but they both knew their chance was gone.

  “God’s bleeding eyes!” The guard’s bellow was practically in their ears. The boys held their breaths as he hitched up over the side of the cart and peered at the donkey. He was a gray shape, not black, Samik noticed. The sun was rising. It seemed impossible he would not see them huddled practically at the donkey’s feet. The guard put his head down as if ready to fall back asleep, and then, with a muttered curse, clambered out the back of the wagon. Rowan sawed frantically, sheared through the last loop, and the boys scrambled behind the wagon just as the guard’s alarm cut through the dawn.

  “We’ll have to run for it,” Rowan whispered.

  Samik didn’t think he could run, not fast enough, but he nodded grimly and they headed into the bush. They heard the shouts from the beach below, heard the scrape of a sword being pulled from its scabbard, and then Samik’s guard was after them, blundering through the brush and swinging his blade before him like a scythe.

  “Hurry,” Rowan panted. “We have to get farther in, where it’s darker.” Samik could see his outline clearly now. Here by the ocean, the world would not creep slowly into daylight the way it did inland. No, soon the sun would leap over the rim of the world and blast its light across the water. He tried to make his trembling legs move faster, ignoring brambles and whipping branches, just trying to stay on his feet.

  There was a roar behind him, and then Rowan cried out. A thud and another cry.

  “Gotcha, you little gobshite!”

  “Rowan!”

  If he hadn’t yelled out, maybe, just maybe, Voka wouldn’t have realized he’d caught the wrong kid for a few moments longer. Maybe that would have been enough for Samik to somehow hide and then find a way to free Rowan. But he didn’t really believe that. Their escape had been doomed from the minute Samik’s leg betrayed him with that brutal cramp.

  As it was, he yelled out just as the other two men raced up from the beach, and was pounced on almost as soon as he opened his mouth.

  And now his situation was worse than before. He looked over at Rowan, clutched in the bald man’s grip, and it was his dream come to life. He realized he had done exactly what he had tried not to do—dragged Rowan into danger. He was not foolish enough to hope that Jago would risk letting his friend go free. He only hoped the warlord would grant Rowan a kinder death than Samik’s.

  TWENTY-TWO

  The sun rose in a glorious crimson ball, streaking the eastern sky with luminous trails of pink.

  Rowan could hardly bear to look at it, or at Samik. They were both bruised and dirty, and Rowan was cut and bleeding across his back where the bald man had clipped him with his sword. But Samik looked so much worse than beat up. His face was the color of putty, as if his natural golden color had leached away in the night. And his eyes—his eyes were staring and wild, the eyes of someone who might start screaming and never stop.

  They stood on the beach, bound hand and foot and ringed by Jago’s men, and waited for the little dinghy that had been lowered from the ship to reach the shore.

  “I’m sorry, Samik,” Rowan muttered, and for a moment the old, haughty Aydin returned, and Rowan was glad to feel the prickle of irritation at his reply.

  “What are you sorry about?” Like it was the stupidest thing he’d ever heard.

  “I got it all wrong. I didn’t have a proper plan. I…I just didn’t know what to do.”

  But Samik was shaking his head. “No, Rowan. It is I who am sorry. I should never have got you involved in my troubles.”

  One of the thugs barked at them.

  “He says quiet,” Samik whispered. “Jago arrives.”

  JAGO LEANED HEAVILY on his attendant as he climbed out of the boat. He stumped up the beach and stood so close to the two boys that they could have reached out and touched his big belly. He gloated over his catch in silence for some time. His face, Samik saw, now pulled down at the corner of his mouth and eye on the right side. It made him look not weaker, but crazier.

  “So,” he said at last, his lips pulling up into a cruel, one-sided leer. “Two for the price of one. Arkan will be well fed.”

  Arkan. The bloodiest of Tarzine gods, the only one who accepted human sacrifice. God of revenge and deadly fire. Nobody worshipped Arkan anymore—or so he had thought. Though Samik doubted Jago truly worshipped any god; Arkan was more likely just an amusing excuse for a hideously cruel death.

  Samik had already noticed the wide base of the fire that had been laid. It was as big as a bed, and that’s exactly what it would be. Jago was going to burn them alive.

  “Fetch the oil,” said Jago. “There’s plenty of room for one more. Why, they’re so skinny they hardly make one man between them. And we’ll need another pole for this one.” He flicked a finger at Rowan.

  The men looked dubiously at each other. “There’s an extra oar,” one ventured.

  “Idiot! Does the boy look waist-high to you? Get on a horse, get into the tree zone and cut me a proper pole!”

  The man was gone before Jago had closed his mouth.

  With that short reprieve, Samik found his voice. From the time he had laid eyes on Jago, he had been like a ground squirrel mesmerized by the weaving asp. Now he realized there was one thing he could do.

  “My lord, let my friend go, I beg you!”

  Jago’s big head swiveled slowly back to Samik. His eyes narrowed in displeasure.

  “Did you have permission to speak?”

  “Your pardon, my lord. But please, he is just a chance acquaintance. He has done nothing against your lordship. And he is just a Backender—no threat to a great warlord.”

  It hadn’t worked. He could tell by the fury on Jago’s face. The warlord’s reply was the bellow of an angry bull.

  “He has done nothing? The little prick tried to rob me of my prize and the justice I have sought these long months! How dare you call that nothing!”

  Samik’s head suddenly snapped to the left. He felt the stinging pain next, and only as his vision cleared did he see Ragnar inspecting a finger and then wiping its long, bloody nail on his backside. The man had struck him with such speed and precision that he hadn’t seen it coming or going. He felt a hot trickle down his cheek and realized he’d been scored by the long fingernail.

  That seemed to renew Jago’s good spirits. He was eerily calm now as he meted out their sentence.

  “No, my young friend, you will both go to Arkan. He will have you just the way he likes his offerings—screaming and very, very well cooked.”

  He offered Samik a lopsided parody of a tender smile and said, “It’s lucky we caught you when we did. Another couple of weeks, and I would have had to give
up and take your family instead.”

  Jago looked around irritably. “Get me some bloody shade. Am I to roast alongside these criminals?” And he stumped back to take up position beside the fire pit, where a second attendant had already set up a large, cushioned chair.

  “Samik, what’d he say? What’s happening?” Rowan’s voice broke hoarsely as he tried to speak and then came out in a breathless squeak. Samik closed his eyes, trying to find the strength to answer. His own voice was just as strained as Rowan’s, but he got the words out.

  “They’re going to tie us on poles and throw us on that fire. I’m so sorry, Rowan; I tried to get him to let you go, but he wouldn’t.”

  The tears came as he choked out his next thought: “I just pray they kill us first.”

  ROWAN’S MIND REFUSED to let him understand what was about to happen. It simply veered away and went blank, and because of that, he submitted with apparent calm while they lashed him—legs, chest and hips—to a pole that thrust up far above his head, and watched blankly while they soaked the huge construction of logs and driftwood with oil.

  But when the flames licked up hungrily, sending clouds of greasy black smoke that smelled like a kitchen accident into the air, he thought of lambs on a spit, thought, That’s what we’ll smell like, and then reality was upon him, as merciless as fire itself. The terror that he felt was a poison flooding his entire body, and when it rose up into his throat with a taste of rusty metal and a flood of spit, he retched violently and then brought up what little was left in his stomach. It dribbled over his lip and shirt, with no way to wipe it, and he didn’t care. Each convulsive retch brought with it a terrible, keening wail so that he was barfing and sobbing and panting at once, and he heard Samik beside him gabbling a mix of high, panicky cries and entreaty.

  Do not fear the fire.

  “Ettie?” He cried her name out loud without a second thought. Ettie had been silent for so long, through the entire rescue and capture, and now…“Ettie, how can I not fear it? How can I?”

  Do not fear the fire.

  “What is she saying?” yelled Samik.

  “She says not to fear the fire. I don’t know why.” Rowan could still hardly breathe, gasping out the words, but Samik immediately quieted.

  “You should trust her.”

  The flames leaped up, and Jago waited until the oil had burned off and the structure was a waist-high, hungry bed of fire. Then he made a lazy motion with one hand.

  “Put them in.”

  The men tipped the boys backward so they could slide the poles down through the ropes to make handles at either end and hoist them up. Then they froze in shock as a huge gray shape streaked silently down the slope, hurtled past them and leaped at Jago’s throat.

  “K’waaf!” The words burst out of Samik’s throat in a ragged, sobbing cheer. Brave heart, and true.

  Jago went down with a shriek, chair and all, struggling ineffectually to fend off the great dog. K’waaf sank his teeth deep and shook his huge head back and forth, tearing out Jago’s life. His growls filled Samik’s head, even after the men dropped him facedown on the ground and raced to defend their boss.

  And then he heard the piercing yelps of an injured dog, and even as he cried out, “No! K’waaf, oh, no!” the great dog fell silent.

  He could not bear to look, but he had to. He turned his head and saw the men sheathing their swords and clustering around Jago. K’waaf lay still, his fur soaked in blood, more staining the sand beneath him. He looked at Samik and thumped his tail once, feebly. Then his eyes closed.

  Samik turned his face into the sand and wept for the friend who had given his life to protect them. K’waaf had killed Jago, he was all but certain. But there were still five men who would take their revenge, and a shipful more. Too much for one dog, however great of heart.

  Then Rowan spoke to him, and his voice was so out of place on that hellish beach that it pulled Samik out of his grief. Rowan’s voice was full of wonder.

  “Samik, look!”

  TWENTY-THREE

  Rowan didn’t notice her at first, his attention fixed on Wolf. Neither did Jago’s men. But then one of them faltered, staring at the fire. Soon they were all aghast, staring with the same wide eyes and open mouths.

  From the pyre’s depth, a great light was growing—not the dancing orange tongues of the fire, but white and steady and incredibly bright, like the very heart of the sun. Rising in that white light, a form was taking shape.

  And now, oh now, he could see her. The round blue eyes, the honey-blond braids. The sweet, plain, winsome face. She gazed at him, and smiled—smiled! And as the flames licked around her, she grew first more vivid, and then larger, until she loomed over Jago’s men like a round-eyed, braided djinn, dangerous and powerful beyond all imagination.

  Any who still held swords let them fall from nerveless hands. Some knelt with their heads to the sand.

  Ettie’s smile vanished. Her mouth opened and red flame shot out. The blue eyes became burning coals. Flames licked down her braids and eyebrows and streamed from her fingers. The amethyst around her neck glowed red. She drew herself up and then rushed at the warlord’s men.

  They scattered before her like chickens before a fox. Falling over themselves, and each other, to get to the boat, they shoved and fought like players in a comic pantomime to get it launched and everyone in.

  Then they were gone, and Ettie was once more a normal-sized girl with plump cheeks and a sweet smile, shimmering deep within the light.

  She smiled tenderly at Rowan once more—his vision blurred from the tears that swam in his eyes, and he blinked furiously to bring her back into focus. I see you, Ettie! Finally, I see you.

  One last thing.

  She drifted over to Wolf where he lay bleeding. His tail twitched as she approached, but wagging it was beyond him now. And she laid herself over him like a blanket, and while Rowan watched in wonder, the white light grew brighter and bigger, until he could no longer see her form, and Wolf appeared to be bathed in a cloud of brilliant light.

  Then she rose. She was faint now, her blue eyes still blue but her features growing mistier by the second. She was going for good, Rowan knew. He would not look on her face or hear her voice again.

  Her hand drifted to the amethyst over her heart. And then she raised her hand and opened and closed her fist at him, a gesture that both broke his heart and filled it with love. It was how Ettie had waved “bye-bye” when she was just a baby, opening and closing her hand instead of waving her arm. Rowan had thought it so cute and funny that, when she grew out of it, he taught her to keep doing it as their own special wave. If Ettie had lived, he thought, they would still be waving to each other that way in their old age.

  Stay! he wanted to plead. But he knew he mustn’t. He didn’t want her to become one of the unhappy, lost souls that Samik had described. It was time for her to go.

  Rowan couldn’t raise his bound arms, but he opened and closed his hand all the same. He knew she could see it.

  “Bye-bye, Ettie,” he whispered. She was fading, disappearing into the light. That golden light floated over and enveloped him, filling him with the most wondrous feeling of peace and comfort, and then it winked out, and she was gone.

  There was no blinking back the tears now; they filled his eyes and spilled down his cheeks, and he didn’t even try to hold them back.

  WRAPPED UP IN HIS OWN complicated, painful mixture of grief, gratitude and even joy, Rowan did not hear Samik’s giddy laughter. But he could not ignore the rough tongue slobbering over the back of his neck, or the powerful blast of dog breath that came with it. It was Wolf—bloody, limping, but not dead, not even close to dead. Thank you, Ettie. Rowan flung his arms around the dog’s neck and buried his face in his rough fur, and that was when he realized his hands were free. In fact, all of him was free—his ropes lay unknotted on the ground, beside the hateful pole.

  He looked then to Samik, who was sitting up, rubbing his wrists.

 
“Samik—did you see?”

  Samik nodded solemnly, speechless for once. And then Rowan was crying again, sure that Samik would have something caustic to say about it, but unable to hold it back. But Samik didn’t say a word. He scooted over beside Rowan and wrapped his arms around him and held him tight until his breath began to steady. Then he spoke very quietly in his ear: “Your sister is a beautiful soul. She will be happy now. And you must find a way to be happy, too, for her sake. It is what she wants for you.”

  Rowan nodded into Samik’s shoulder. Then he sat up, scrubbed at his eyes and sighed.

  He sniffed. “You smell bad.”

  “Yes,” Samik agreed cheerfully. “As do you.”

  “I puked on my shirt. What did you do?”

  “Crapped myself.” Samik carefully pulled off his boot, reached into the hidden pocket and pulled out a small knife. He wiped it carefully on a leaf, and then flashed Rowan one of his trademark grins. “All the way down to my boots.”

  BOTH BOYS FELT DREAMY and reluctant to move. Rowan just wanted to hold that moment when he floated in Ettie’s light as long as he possibly could. But they both knew they couldn’t stay.

  It was Samik who broached it. “Rowan, we have to get out of here. I doubt the ones who captured us will ever set foot on this beach again. But the others, the ones who didn’t see—they might come for Jago’s body.” He gestured toward the dead warlord, and Rowan unwillingly flicked his eyes the same way. He had managed to forget about Jago, but now the savaged carcass crowded out his lovely memory of Ettie. The warlord’s neck was crusted and black where K’waaf had torn it open, the sand beneath him stained.

  “And they’d better not find us here,” Samik concluded. He pulled himself stiffly to his feet and brushed off the sand.

  Rowan nodded and slowly rose. Gods, he was exhausted. Now he felt how long he’d been up, how long since he’d eaten, the toll that fear and fatigue and overwhelming love had taken on him. He walked like an old man, trudging his slow way through the sand to the higher, firmer ground where he had first found Samik.