No one waited for them at the top of the hill, but Carstin’s grave lay disturbed. A pile of dirt lay to the side, the soil on one side dry, the other side still holding in the damp, shadowed from the sun. A clammy hand squeezed about his heart.
Dje’awsa had come for his friend’s body.
“Do you know what I can do to you with this? Do you have any idea?” echoed in Ōbhin’s mind as the harmonics of anger, fed by Otsar’s bold Tone, sang in him.
Finding no answers at the empty grave, Ōbhin retreated down the hill. He didn’t know what to do next. How to find Dje’awsa. He had Dualayn to protect. A house to secure. Men to drill. Impulses pulled him in two directions.
For now, he had given his word to Dualayn.
Chapter Thirteen
Thirty-Fourth Day of Compassion, 755 EU
Ōbhin’s boots thudded across the dark lawn of the mansion.
The chimes of the heliodor alarm blared from the manor house.
“There, there!” Bran’s excited voice shouted ahead, the youth’s gangly legs giving him long strides. In the dark, the purple glow of his binder bobbed beside him, spilling violet light across his hand and arm. “They’re heading for the blackberry gate!”
The two thieves were only shadows ahead of Bran. Ōbhin increased his step, pushing his body. The week of drilling his new guards had restored stamina he didn’t realize he’d lost. Banditry involved lots of waiting.
A figure burst out from the far side of the mansion, binder glowing. It was Fingers, Ōbhin guessed based off the gait. The older man still had pounds needing to be sweated off of him. He raced to cut the two thieves off.
Ōbhin’s boots, donned in haste and tied loosely, slipped on the dew-coated grass as he headed down the slope. For a mad moment, he thought he’d fall as he changed directions. Arms waved before he caught his balance. The scent of torn plants filled his nose.
“Got you!” Bran shouted.
The youth tackled one of the racing shadows, carrying him to the ground. Ōbhin grinned as the exhilaration surged through him. He charged down the slope to the practice grounds by the rhododendron bushes.
“Get off!” the thief shouted.
A loud crack echoed. Bran grunted, dropping his binder and grabbing at his nose. The thief scrambled to his feet and charged after his partner. He made it two steps before Fingers swung his binder, striking the thief hard in the chest. Purple energy sprang about the thief’s torso, pinning his arms to his side. He stumbled but held his balance.
“Wot you do that for?” the thief gasped, voice sounding young, cracking. “Eh, gramps?”
“Gramps!” snarled Fingers.
The thief kicked, foot planting hard in Fingers’s crotch. The old man groaned, doubling over from the blow. The thief whirled but Bran lunged, arms wrapping around the intruder’s legs. With arms bound, he couldn’t break his fall. His face smacked hard into the grass, bringing a grunt.
“Bugger my mother!” Fingers panted, falling to the ground a moment later. “What do you have in those boots? Lead?”
Ōbhin raced by them. The other thief was nearing the gate to the blackberry hill. The watchers hadn’t returned in a week. Not since they’d discovered Carstin’s plundered grave. He kept an eye on it now while his stomach churned at what Dje’awsa wanted with his friend’s mortal remains.
A violet light rippled into existence by the gate. The thief jerked short. He scrambled to change directions on the dew-laden grass as Smiles rushed at him, binder in hand.
Got you.
The shadow reversed direction, racing right at Ōbhin in what looked like blind panic. The figure peered over his shoulder. A gap in the clouds appeared, allowing Father’s purple moonlight to shine down and illuminate a youthful face, dark hair streaming in a wild mess. The boy gasped, spotting Ōbhin.
“Black’s foul piss!” The boy’s hand dipped low, drawing something from beneath his vest. He aimed it at Ōbhin as the guard closed the distance. Recognition flashed through Ōbhin’s mind.
A hand crossbow.
TWANG!
The bolt fired at Ōbhin across the five cubits that separated them. Out of desperate instinct, his hand darted out and closed about the wood haft of the short quarrel. The wood scraped down his bare hands, burning palms, before popping through. The point pierced through his nightshirt’s thin linen and struck his sternum.
Pain flared as the quarrel, slowed just enough by his crushing grip, bounced off his breastbone, leaving a deep gouge and a throbbing wound. The missile tumbled onto the ground. The youth gaped to see Ōbhin still standing. Battle exhilaration mixed with the surge of anger rushing through Ōbhin as he closed the distance.
His fist slammed into the boy’s temple, snapping back the youth’s head. The hand crossbow tumbled from his hands while the boy hit the ground hard, clutching at his forehead. Numb throbbing skated over Ōbhin’s knuckles.
Smiles arrived and hit the boy in the chest with the binder, wrapping him up in purple energy.
“Elohm’s bright Colours,” said Smiles. “How’d he miss at such range?”
“He didn’t,” Ōbhin said, his chest hurting more and more. He felt at the wound, blood slicking his bare hands. He glanced at the hand crossbow. It was small, lacking the power of a full-sized one. His burning palm was a small price to pay to keep the simple metal tip from burying into his heart.
He almost killed me, Ōbhin thought.
“You okay?” Smiles asked.
“Fine,” Ōbhin said. “Not a bad wound.”
“Best have Avena take a look.”
A flush of embarrassment rippled through him. He was gloveless. He might
