Caller of Light (15 page)

He raised his mighty claymore and planned his attack. Adrenaline coursed through his veins, strengthening tired muscles. He would strike hard and fast. He jogged toward the man who had just killed a young soldier named Jonas. Jonas would be the last of his men to die at the hands of that Tiwan.

Another roar filled the air and every Criton on the ground took flight. Even Critons with riders on their backs joined the others in the sky. Critons from both sides flew together, circling overhead. Their unusual behavior halted the battle as puzzled soldiers gazed upward.

Sampson loped over, his curly, black hair plastered to his head from sweat. He struggled to catch his breath. “Sire, have you ever seen this?”

Marek had witnessed something similar during his childhood. The Critons were acting as though a transitioning was about to occur. But that wasn’t possible because all the animals on the field were adults, a juvenile would never be taken into battle. He stared at the marvelous spectacle of Critons circling, diving, and infusing the air with their rebellious screams before shaking his head in bewilderment. “They’re behaving like it’s a transitioning.”

“Is that possible?”

As if on cue, FireStrike hovered in the sky and bellowed, his eyes blazing and tail snapping back and forth in agitation. Marek called to FireStrike, but the Criton amazingly ignored his plea. FireStrike squealed again, his attention focused on something in the gorge below.

Marek turned to Sampson. “Whatever is bothering them is in the ravine. Let’s go.” He covered the ground in long strides, but fear for what he would see twisted his gut. He hoped the river had carried Carina’s broken body downstream.

He had just reached the edge when Sampson threw him to the ground as another Criton swooped up from the bottom of the canyon, barely missing them with its sudden ascent to soar with the animals above. The Critons formed a protective ring around the newcomer.

“It
is
a transitioning,” Sampson whispered.

Since transitionings were a vulnerable time for young Critons, they usually occurred in the early morning hours when darkness provided cover. Marek had never heard of an evening transition, let alone one happening during a battle.

His eyes widened in surprise. He recognized the small Criton female with the undersized wings and dull, mottled green coloring. Mira, Carina’s little Criton, had followed them.

“Sire, look! Someone rides upon it.”

Marek’s pulse quickened. Carina’s motionless body lay doubled over Mira’s neck. A flood of emotions rushed through him, the strongest being relief. She’d not fallen to her death.

“Can she survive a transitioning?” Sampson asked.

Marek clasped Sampson’s shoulder. “Let’s hope so.”

A sky full of Critons roared in unison drowning out additional conversation. Mira’s body shimmered until she lit up the heavens like the sun, forcing Marek to raise his hand to shield his eyes from her brightness. Sparks flew outward from the blazing center and shot into the darkening sky like a beacon as the magic of transition changed Mira into an adult Criton capable of bonding with a rider.

The deafening bellows from the adults subsided until only the steady beat of their leathery wings whispered through the air. The light enveloping Mira and Carina faded and winked out. The other Critons dispersed, but Mira lingered, hovering in the sky as if testing her new wings. Even from the distance, Marek could tell she’d transitioned into an amazing Criton just as Carina had predicted. Mira’s throaty cry pierced the silence before she arched her elegant neck to survey the land.

She belted out another scream then pinned her wings to her body and dove, her large head scanning the ground. She spotted Marek and angled toward him. While those around him scattered, Marek stood his ground as the young Criton landed with a thud, vibrating the ground in front of him with the fury of her descent.

Carina clung onto Mira’s neck. He approached with his hand extended. Mira tilted her head and fixed a large, emerald eye on him, her elongated, golden iris contracting. He touched Mira’s neck. She twitched, but didn’t shy away.

Even though Carina was his goal, he couldn’t help but assess—and admire—the beautiful Criton. She radiated in the soft glow of transition, but would settle into a rich, green sheen. Perfectly proportioned legs and wings balanced her long, lean body. Once she filled out and developed her muscle, she would be a fast, agile Criton.

His hand trailed along Mira’s neck as he walked toward Carina. When he approached Mira’s shoulder, she snorted and turned her head to watch him.

Sampson and the rest of his men circled Mira, but maintained a safe distance. Sampson spoke softly, his voice full of concern. “Sire, she just transitioned. There’s still magic coursing through her. She’s unpredictable.”

At the sound of Sampson’s voice, Mira raised her head and curled her lips into a growl but made no sound.

“Sampson, be quiet,” Marek hissed. “She won’t harm me.” His hand roved from Mira’s shoulder down her back until he touched Carina. His body trembled when his fingers grazed Carina’s knee. Feeling her body again, the world settled into place. He wouldn’t let anything happen to her. Although arrowshot, her wound didn’t appear fatal. An oppressive tension that had knotted his shoulders with its unseen weight slipped off him on a quiet exhale. But his solace was short-lived.

“Carina,” he whispered. He squeezed her knee. When she didn’t respond, he spoke louder. “Carina.”

Her motionless body lay slumped over Mira, crouched in a fetal position. He ignored the erratic pounding of his heart. Something was wrong. But he refused to entertain the possibility she could be dead. His mind slammed the door closed to that agonizing avenue of thought.

He stepped closer, his body brushing Carina’s leg. Sampson opened his mouth to protest, but Marek stopped him with a threatening glare. Carina’s head rested against Mira’s neck, her hair obscuring her beautiful face. Her fingers gripped Mira’s pale green mane with a white-knuckle, rigor mortis hold. He brushed the hair off her face, pinning it behind an ear, and tried to keep the quaver out of his voice when he again whispered, “Carina.”

Agony knocked at the door he’d just dead-bolted shut. He couldn’t prevent it from wrapping ice cold tendrils around his heart as it chanted of her death in the far corners of his mind. He choked on his words, his throat too tight to speak.

She’s alive, she can’t die.
His fingertips traced along her cheek. Willing her eyes to open, his fingers tracked down her neck to check for a heartbeat. Before he reached her pulse point, he stopped and fisted his shaking hand. Gritting his teeth, he bit back the urge to shout out his frustration and rising fury to the Gods, condemning them for Carina’s senseless sacrifice. She was pure, the light guiding him home in a valley of darkness. She could not be dead, not while he still breathed.

Lowering his voice, he whispered in her ear, demanding her compliance. “Obey me, Carina McKay. Obey your king and open your eyes.”

Although her eyes didn’t open—her obstinate character would never bow to such a mandate—a quiet moan tumbled from her lips, a faint acknowledgment of her awareness of him.

His eyes misted as relief washed through his veins, flooding him with hope. But her cold body and ashen skin shot warning arrows through his heart as he tugged her hands free from Mira’s mane. “Carina, I’m going to help you,” he said before placing his arm on her lower back to avoid the arrow.

She whimpered when he slid her off, and her eyes briefly fluttered open before shuttering closed again. He cradled her against his chest and murmured a quiet thank you to Mira.

Mira snorted and stamped a foot before flying the short distance to FireStrike, who had resumed the arduous task of pulling arrows from his tattered wings.

“Sire, they’re gone,” Sampson whispered.

Marek glanced up from Carina’s pallid face to confirm Sampson’s observation—the Tiwans had disappeared. “Move the men. We’ll make camp in the shelter of the trees and tend to our wounded and dead.”

He strode toward the tree line. The plateau was littered with the wreckage of battle, forcing him to step over dead bodies and churned up dirt while trying not to jostle Carina. “Johansen, find the healer,” he bellowed.

“Aye, Sire.” The blond-haired soldier raced off.

Marek placed Carina on her side underneath a cloister of tall pines. He resisted the urge to remove the arrow, leaving that responsibility for the healer.

Sampson had followed him the short distance and waited until they were alone to speak. “Sire, now is our chance to escape. We should use the cover of darkness to get out of this blasted land.”

Dunston, a grizzled veteran, approached with a tattered blanket and some strips of cloth. Marek nodded and took the items. Before draping the blanket over her, he packed the strips of cloth around the arrow shaft to staunch the bleeding in a feeble attempt to ease the helplessness consuming his mind. Satisfied she was as comfortable as he could make her, he straightened to his full height and stood over Sampson. He spoke without emotion. “She’ll die if we leave.”

Sampson fidgeted, but didn’t back down. “Look at her. She’s dead already.”

“How many men did she save? And you would just abandon her?”

Sampson clasped Marek’s shoulder. “I don’t understand your affection for this mixed blood, but we won’t survive another assault. Everyone will perish
because
of her
if we stay and they attack again.”

Marek stepped away, forcing Sampson to release his shoulder. “As captain of my men, you disappoint me.” He folded his arms across his chest. “Instead of preparing for our defense, you would refuse me and run?”

Sampson shook his head. “No, I would never disobey you. I’m just trying—”

Marek cut Sampson off with a wave of his hand. “I’ve spoken. Either do as I say or I’ll find someone who will.”

Although Sampson’s words were unwelcome, they were true. His men were too few and could not withstand the overwhelming numbers in the Tiwan Tribe. The strategically sound maneuver would be to escape, but doing so would guarantee Carina’s death.

In the end, tactics didn’t really matter because the vestiges of rational thought had slipped from his mind. Carina and her wellbeing had become his sole purpose. Because when he saw her fall, a chasm had ripped through him searing every nerve ending in his body. Although only minutes had lapsed from Carina’s plummet to her rise on Mira’s back, the bone breaking despair he’d endured during those brief moments would last forever.

The Gods had issued their warning—he now knew what life would be like without her. Grateful for a second chance, he would heed the Gods’ admonition and give her every opportunity to live. Helping her was the least he could do. And since he understood what his life would be like without her, it was the least he could do for himself. No matter how irrational his decision, they would stay, fight, and die trying to save her.

He knelt beside her and brushed the hair from her face. Her pale skin and shallow breathing scared him. He could feel her slipping away, the strength draining from his body the closer she came to death.

Aware Sampson stood behind him, his frayed nerves flared in anger. Sampson should’ve left to ready their defense. About to lash out, Marek stilled his tongue when he noticed Sampson’s expression. A range of emotions danced across Sampson’s face, but hurt seemed to be the one that settled into place, causing Marek to regret his harsh words.

“Forgive me, Sampson, for I misspoke.”

Sampson shook his head. “No, ‘tis I should beg forgiveness. You gave an order. It’s my duty to obey, not to question. I’m sorry. I’ll organize the men.”

Sampson turned and almost plowed into the healer before disappearing into the forest, barking orders.

The healer looked like a man who’d never missed a meal in his life. His round, red cheeks were flushed from the exertion of hurrying across the uneven ground. With a small groan, and using a tree for support, he eased his large frame down beside Carina. His chubby fingers performed a cursory exam before he acknowledged Marek.

“Sire,” he managed, but went silent again as he monitored Carina. After a moment, he sat back on his heels and fixed a pointed eye on Marek before speaking. “Tiwans lace their arrows with poison. Although her wound isn’t fatal, I’ve no cure for the poison. We should leave her, so I can tend to the other wounded.”

Marek did not appreciate being told what he already knew. “Healer, Tiwan poison works quickly. Carina should’ve been dead long ago, yet she still breathes.”

The healer rubbed his double chin. “Hmmm, that is true.”

Marek continued. “Since she transitioned with the Criton maybe she absorbed some of that life energy.”

The healer glanced at Carina again as if looking at her for the first time. “I suppose the magic of transition could’ve lessened or absorbed the effects of the poison. I could remove the arrow and give her the remedies I use for other poisons.”

“Do it,” Marek ordered.

The healer nodded. “I’ll need a fire.”

21 – HOPE

The men set up Carina’s tent, the only one to survive the destruction of their camp since it had never been raised. Marek carried Carina inside and stayed with her as the healer removed the arrow, sewed up the wound, and applied a salve. Once bandaged, the healer slipped Carina’s undershirt back in place.