Strongman (20 page)

He leaned into the wind, sheltering Griff with his body, while the miles pounded past. The tumbler lay ominously still in his arms, but he could no longer stop the stupid flow of words. “She said she loved me more than anyone, anything. But she left me, Griff. Godsdammit, she left!”

His throat closed up. Terror sat gibbering on his shoulder, pointing a bony finger at the exhausted animals, at the long dusty track. At Griff’s pale face.

Grimly, Fort pulled up and transferred himself and his burden to the other vran, the process so slow and awkward he knew he must have lost a dangerous amount of blood. Or an infection had set in. Or both. Not that he fucking cared. A jerk of the reins, a curse, and they were off again.

“There’s so much I never said. And now I’ve talked you to death.” The laugh came out rusty with regret, and bitter with tears. “Fuck, Griff! I’m not ready. This isn’t finished, not finished at all.”

The tumbler’s head lolled in the crook of his arm as the vran missed a step, stumbled. Shit, shit, shit!

Holding the beast up with main strength, Fort threw his head back and let out an inarticulate bellow of rage.
No
,
no
,
a thousand times fucking no
!

He squinted at the dark smudge on the horizon, convinced for a hideous second his vision was failing.

Valaressa!

Holy Mother
,
thank you
,
thank you
.

The last hour or so was a blur, only the frozen iron of his will holding off the exhaustion, keeping the foundering vranee moving. As the Shadow caught the Sun, their hooves clattered over the first bridge into the city. Thank Lufra he’d been to the palazzo of the Winged Envoy to pay for Fledge’s wagon. There was no one at the Fair with the skills Griff needed, but the Aetherii were a wealthy people. They had their own physician, a man with an excellent reputation.

Jan the Aetherii owed Griff and Ruler God, he was going to pay!

He rode the vranee right up the steps to the door, too rigid with pain to unlock his limbs and dismount. Drawing his sword, he used the tip to lift the heavy knocker and let it drop with a cavernous clang. When a maid pulled the tall carved doors open, he simply walked the vranee past her into the foyer, ignoring her startled shriek.

“Jan!” he bellowed. “
Jan
!” Heads popped out from doors all around him.

“
McLaren
?”

The bell-voice came from above. Fort looked up. Janarnavriel the Noir leaned over the stair rail six flights up, frowning. The vran between Fort’s thighs gave a long rattling sigh and wobbled. Its knees folded and it listed sideways.

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Strongman

Desperately, Fort clutched Griff’s body to his breast, gritting his teeth, ready for the shocking impact of the marble floor. A sharp exclamation and the stairwell was full of the beat of mighty wings. Muscled arms banded around both of them, holding them steady as the vran subsided in a huge heap of dusty feathers. With an enormous effort, Fort threw his leg over and slid to the floor, swearing with the pain. But he held Griff fast.

“I’ve got him.” Jan’s voice was gentler than he’d ever heard it. “You can let go.” A pause. “McLaren,
let go
!”

It took everything he had to uncramp his fingers, unlock his elbows. He did it in the end, but he kept Griff’s skull cradled in his palms. “Healer,” he croaked. “Need—”

“I know. Mirry’s gone to fetch him.”

“Don’t move him.”

“No, I won’t.”

He was conscious of the Aetherii’s indigo gaze boring into him. “You look like shit, McLaren. What happened?”

A stocky, bronze-winged Aetherii appeared in Fort’s field of vision. “Not now, Jan,” he said absently, reaching for Griff’s wrist. He looked at someone over Fort’s shoulder. “Two beds, Fledge. Second floor.”

Fort didn’t dare take his gaze from Griff’s face, but he heard a woman’s murmur of assent and quick feet running up the stairs. He wet his lips. “Is he—?”

The healer unfolded the bloodstained bedroll and ran square, capable hands over Griff’s limbs. “Whose blood is this?” he asked.

“What? Oh, mine.” Fort’s heart banged in his chest, blundering against his ribs like a highhunter locked in a tiny cage. “A Hssrdan hit him, behind the ear. One blow.”

“And how long has he been like this?”

“A night and a day. He wouldn’t wake. But is he—”

“You immobilized his neck?”

“I tried.” Fort forced the words out in a harsh whisper. “
Is he going to die
?”

109

Denise Rossetti

To make a goodly quantity of bruisebalm
:

2 pounds of blistergrass leaves
,
stripped
,

1 pound bunrat lard
,

1 half
-
cup trintri kernel oil
,

10 drops essential oil of gaeta blossom
,

Extract from the handwritten notes of Trilgeriel
,
healer of the Aetherii
.

“Unlikely,” said the Aetherii cheerfully.

The room dipped and swayed. Fort staggered and someone grabbed his shoulders from behind.

The healer’s voice dropped, took on a more serious note. “Given the circumstances, you did everything right, but I don’t know…” He shrugged. “I need to do a proper examination.”

“What about Fort, Tril?” said the deep voice behind him. Mirry, he thought muzzily. “He doesn’t look too good.”

The healer sighed. “Rip the Veil, I’m tired of heroics. Someone pry him loose and get him upstairs. I’ll check him after this one.”

But in the end, Fort staggered up the stairs under his own power, every step like burning spears prodding the back of his legs. With one hand, he still supported Griff’s neck, though Jan and the healer, whose full name appeared to be Trilgeriel, took most of the weight of the tumbler’s body. Mirry walked at his side, his fingers hovering near Fort’s arm, ready to grab.

When they laid Griff gently on the huge circular bed, Fort released him slowly, feeling oddly bereft. Immediately, the healer bent over the tumbler, the spread of his bronze wings obscuring Fort’s vision. As he tried to peer around him, small determined hands pressed him into a chair and he looked down in bemusement. A soft fall of russet hair curling over one shoulder, Fledge frowned, concentrating on the laces of his shirt.

When he opened his mouth, she shook her head. “Save your breath. Tril will take care of him, I promise. Your turn.”

The breath whistled from between his clenched teeth as she began to peel the fabric away from his upper arm.

“Mmm.” She took a cloth from a steaming bowl and began to work at loosening the dried blood. The smell of bruisebalm filled the air.

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Strongman

Over her head, Fort fixed his attention on the healer as he stripped Griff, methodically checking every limb, lifting his eyelids, running his hands into the thick hair, pressing gently.

“Tril.” Fledge had managed to remove Fort’s shirt. “You need to see this. I think it’s infected.”

“I’ve had worse.” Fort looked at the healer. “Will he be all right?”

“I don’t know.” Trilgeriel wiped his hands with the damp cloth Fledge handed him.

He smiled gravely, the tip of his tail flickering. “Your friend has a mighty hard head, I know that much. A sleep this deep can be healing or…” He shrugged in a rustle of bronze feathers. “But he’s strong for a Grounded and very fit. It’s just a case of waiting.”

Frowning down at the gash on Fort’s arm, he sighed. “Veil-it, I hate patchwork. Get both salves, Fledge, the cleansing and the numbing, and my sewing kit. Anything else need fixing?”

When Fort shook his head, the healer raised a brow. “Strip so I can check anyway,”

he said. “We’ll get you sewn up and then you’d better eat.”

“And I want my report.” Jan came forward. He’d been leaning against the wall with Mirry, their heads together in low-voiced conversation, but his blue eyes had never left Fort.

Fort’s stomach growled and Fledge giggled as she kneeled to pull his boots off.

Trilgeriel glared at Jan. “Give the man a bloody chance, will you?”

Jan grinned, unabashed. But all he said was, “Two minutes, McLaren.” Then he turned on his heel and strode out the door, his magnificent tail swishing behind him.

True to his word, a few minutes later he returned with a loaded plate in one hand and writing materials in the other. Mirry dropped an absentminded kiss on the top of Fledge’s head and set himself up with ink, brush and paper at a desk in the corner of the room. Jan removed a roast leg of bunrat from the plate and sank his white teeth into it before handing the meal to Fort.

Fort didn’t enjoy the next half-hour at all, but he made his report in his usual soldierly fashion, concentrating on stringing words into clipped sentences while Trilgeriel sewed his flesh together. Fledge handed him a small towel for modesty, bathed his other cuts and bruises and smeared salve over the purple expanse on his hip.

The food he simply inhaled.

And every few seconds, his eyes turned to the still figure in the big bed, his heart thudding with tension while black waves of exhaustion tugged at his aching body.

Mirry completed a final note and laid his brush down. “No wonder we couldn’t find the bastards from the air.”

Jan came to put a casual hand on his shoulder as he leaned past him to examine the map on the desk. “Hssrda love repetition. They’ll have more of these camps for sure.”

111

Denise Rossetti

His index finger swept over the map in an arc. “Across this line, where the Empty Lands border Mother’s Hearth. Has to be.”

“Mm,” agreed Mirry, and his tawny tail coiled around the black one. “But see here…” Their voices dropped as they argued geography and strategy.

Fort blinked and his head nodded.

“C’mon, you two.” Fledge’s voice brought him back. She stood next to Jan, right under the curve of his wing. The healer had disappeared. “We should bathe before dinner.” She smiled at Fort out of a living cloak of shining blue-black feathers. “You’re asleep on your feet. I’ll show you to your room.”

“No!” At her startled look, he moderated his tone. “I’ll stay here. In case he wakes.

When he wakes. He’ll need, he’ll want…” He floundered to a halt.

Three pairs of eyes considered him for a moment and he felt the flush heat his cheeks. Fledge smiled. “Good idea. I’ll have another bed sent up.”

Over her head, Mirry and Jan exchanged a long look and Fort gritted his teeth.

“Thank you,” he managed.

“Bathe if you like,” she said, indicating a doorway to his left, “but keep the stitches dry. There’s a pot of bruisebalm on the dresser and some godspeace. Don’t hesitate, all right?”

Fort nodded.

As Jan ushered the other two out the door, he looked back over his shoulder. “You did well, McLaren.” His elegant mouth curved. “I was right about you.”

Before Fort could gather his scattered wits and respond, they’d disappeared.

Immediately, he limped over to the bed. Griff lay flat on his back, arms by his sides, as if he’d been laid out for burial. Fort shivered and touched his cool hand. No response.

It was a long time before he could make himself weave his way to the ablutions chamber where he took a hurried, fumbling sponge bath, almost stupefied by exhaustion. When he came out, he found a perfectly adequate, normal-looking bed on the other side of the room, already made up. A last look at Griff and he subsided onto it with a long groan. Black waves drew him under.

* * * * *

When he woke, he lay puzzled for a moment, confused by the unfamiliar room, the dark shapes. A noise, there’d been a noise. Out of the gloom, a voice said, quite clearly,

“No, no, spin it
counter
clockwise.” A pause. Then a groan. “Hurts. Shit, it hurts!”

Griff
!

Fort hurtled out of bed and hit the floor, his head spinning. He lurched over to the circular bed. A single shielded candle burned on the dresser and by its light he could see the tumbler’s eyes were open, his brow furrowed.

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Strongman

Unable to speak, he touched the other man’s shoulder. Dark eyes turned to him, showing no trace of recognition. “My head…shit.” Griff frowned, blinking slowly.

“Who are you?”

A great hand seized Fort’s heart and squeezed, so hard that spots danced in his vision. He sank to his knees beside the bed. “Fort,” he husked. “Don’t you remember?”

“I can’t…can’t…” Griff’s eyes fluttered closed.

Fort ran his fingers through his hair until it stood on end. “You will,” he muttered.

“Ruler God, you will.”

Stiffly, he rose and swallowed four pellets of godspeace dry. Moving like an old man, he stretched himself out on the roomy bed, his head next to Griff’s on the pillows.

That was better, much better. With a long sigh, he laid his hand over the tumbler’s.

Then he let sleep take him.

* * * * *

Griff woke again, just before dawn, irritated and fretful, his eyes blank and confused. Fort gave him water and godspeace, slid an arm around his shoulders and held him close. The tumbler’s tense body relaxed and they slept again.

The pattern repeated itself during the day, Griff drifting in and out of

consciousness. But Trilgeriel pronounced himself well pleased. “The lucid periods are increasing,” he pointed out. “He has the use of all his limbs, thank the Veil, though he’ll have the devil of a headache, for a couple of weeks probably. And there’ll be memories that are gone forever.” He flexed Fort’s arm, testing the stitches. “It’s pretty typical of this type of injury.”

Hell, he knew that, he was a soldier, he’d seen plenty of head wounds. The question was, which memories? For a split second, the old shame reasserted itself and he actually wasn’t sure if he wanted Griff to remember the day in the hidden valley—the Crookedness. And then he knew he couldn’t bear for Griff to remember part of what they’d come to mean to each other if he couldn’t remember it all, right from that first challenging look across the Big Top.

Fort threw himself into the chair by the bed and ran a restless hand through his hair. If the ClawCaptain’s fist robbed Griff of those memories, the tumbler wouldn’t be the only one who suffered a loss.