I wasn’t able to stop myself, I laughed and laughed, all pain gone, the battle around us all but forgotten.
Finally, though, I exhausted my mirth and the pain in my side came back. Peridion collapsed beside me—his eyes were glassy, but he was still wheezing. My hit wasn’t clear; I probably only pierced his lungs. He had some time to reconcile with his gods.
I grabbed the shaft of the pitchfork and used it to lift myself, but my head spun and I barely managed to keep myself upright. Something cold and wet was dripping down my side, and when I looked down, I saw blood.
So Karlan had hit me after all. And judging from the amount of gore, it was more than a graze. My brain must have blocked the pain at the time, a typical reaction during high-stress situations. Argan Am didn’t even feel his hands burning until long after they were gone…
I snapped awake. What was I doing? I was bleeding out, and I stood there like an idiot, ruminating. I had to heal myself. Fast.
Red spots danced before my eyes as I reached into my pouch. I should probably sit down. But then I could never get up again. Finding what I needed was difficult with rapidly numbing fingers, but when I tried looking down, blood dripped into my eyes, reminding me of my shattered helmet. I took a moment to take it off; it was useless anyway.
Finally, my fingers closed around a familiar shape and I felt relief. I took the package out and started unwrapping, but as soon as I did, the clay slid from the foil and fell to the ground.
Fuck!
Deep breath. I can’t give up. It’s just a graze; it’s not lethal. But if I lose consciousness here, I may never regain it. I have to focus.
I clenched my fists so much it hurt. There. They were working fine. This time I didn’t have to look, having already located my medicine pouch. All I had to do was be careful. Use the other hand for support. That’s it. Then roll it. All right, that’s enough. Press it into the cut—a surge of pain blinded me for a moment, but it was good; it meant I was alive. I put my left hand over the wound and started an incantation. My mouth was numb, my tongue felt like lead, and the words came out all wrong. Panic prickled my mind as I realized I might not be able to cast the spell.
But then a wave of heat ran through my body and my head cleared. I tore my hand out and looked down. The wound was sealed. A piece of suit fused into my skin, but at least I wasn’t bleeding out. Nothing I could do for my face; the wounds were too shallow for clay, and the complex healing spells were beyond my scope. I only tried again to wipe the gore from my eyes, but the sharp pain made me realize what I took for blood was actually a strip of skin.
I took a deep breath, readying myself for what was to come. When I pushed away from the wall, the world spun, almost sending me back to the ground. I took a moment to steady myself. Behind me, Karlan Peridion was still wheezing. I could end his misery. Or heal him and take him as a hostage.
I walked away.
The battle was still on, but I had no intention of joining it. I was only hoping I wouldn’t encounter any more Tarvissi. My wand was broken and I was too weak to wield a sword. I had to find my way out.
A tingle ran down my neck.
Innam Ar’s warning ringing in my ears, I tried to get down, but my body refused to listen. It was all for nothing, I realized with dread. They weren’t going to kill me with a spell; that would be too obvious.
My legs buckled, and I fell on my face with a groan, sand biting into my wounds. A second later, someone stepped into my view, and I glimpsed the edge of a silver sash.
Myar Mal was right. The traitors were among us.
The guy bent to pick up Peridion’s sword, and, for a moment, I caught his face. I didn’t recognize him. I wished he would speak, then perhaps I could identify him. But he was silent. No gloating, no super-villain speech, not even a grunt. I guess I wasn’t worth the effort.
He walked back to me. He was going to kill me—no, murder me. And the only thought in my mind was, who the fuck is this guy?
His feet filled my view now. He didn’t show any inclination toward turning me around. I was gonna die from a sword to my back. In old legends, that was the death of a coward; I wondered if he knew?
A surprised yelp sounded above me and the threads of the spell loosened. I jerked back and pulled myself to a sitting position, to see my would-be-killer suspended in the air, stretched with magic. When I looked around, I spotted Myar Mal, hands raised and surrounded by a white gleam.
Of course, he was a sorcerer.
“Raison Dal-Aramek,” he stated coldly, “I have to say I didn’t fancy you to be power hungry. Or you’re just campaigning for someone else?”
“Fuck you,” rasped the captive.
Myar Mal smiled joylessly and twisted his hand in a studied movement. The prisoner shrieked in pain.
“Don’t worry, we’ll get your friends in time. I guess you were the one who got the nut. Was that the one Aldait Han dropped?”
The vessár didn’t speak, but Myar Mal didn’t seem like he expected an answer, anyway.
“One thing bothers me, though.” He cocked his head. “How did you get it to me? I don’t remember picking up new meds before the battle, and no one had access to my food or drink.”
Raison Dal made a rasped sound. It took me a while to
