The Bone Carver Page 11

  “Apologies, but if that prissy Fae allowed us to have our spoils, he would have spared you this dishonor,” the man says behind her.

  She thrashes wildly against her assailant.

  “Now, now,” he purrs, one hand roving across her body. “You wouldn’t have been my first choice either. Settle down and I’ll make this quick.”

  He roughly forces her around and pushes her face-first into the mountainside, slamming the air out of her lungs. He leans hard into her back, trapping her against the wall, that one hand kneading her breast all the while.

  She breathes hard through her nose, the fear of what’s to come sending waves of panic through her body.

  No.

  Rachel kicks back with her heel into his shin with as much force as she can, disregarding the painful blisters bursting from the impact. The male’s shout of pain is enough to encourage her to fight with more vigor.

  She twists out of his hold and looks down at the man.

  The burly soldier with beady black eyes is somewhere in his twenties, she guesses, and his dark-brown hair is sheared short against his scalp. He’s dressed in a black uniform with twin red deer embroidered on his lapels. So, that probably meant Orion was the “prissy Fae.” His ears are pointed, but not as elongated. And there’s a nasty scar running across his throat, like he’d either been cut or survived a hanging.

  He roars as he stomps closer to her, arms outspread.

  Ziggy appears, and crashes straight into her assailant’s face, effectively blinding him.

  His face turns red as he battles against Ziggy’s assault, the Fae light weaving in and out of the man’s reach in expert, choppy movements. Wherever Ziggy touches him, angry red welts form on his skin. Blisters pop up, encircling the burns.

  Yeah, her Fae light doesn’t take nonsense from anyone.

  As Ziggy keeps her attacker busy, Rachel scans the area, searching for an escape.

  The vegetation of the vast plateau within the mountain range mainly consists of grass and trees, but from the look of things, there isn’t much in the way of hiding places. There is a saddled horse grazing nearby, which is enough of a sign to get her to move again. She runs to the horse and, thanking her stars that she’s had some lessons when it came to riding the animals, finds the stirrup. Rachel quickly gets on top of the steed and grabs hold of the reins.

  With a click of her tongue, the horse trots forward, before gradually moving into a gallop.

  “Ziggy, we’re leaving,” Rachel shouts over her shoulder as the horse picks up speed. She’s still reeling over the close call. If he’d been stronger, if Ziggy hadn’t been there to help her ... “Ziggy!”

  A few worried beats later, the Fae light flits past her, crisscrossing ahead.

  Rachel chances a glance to the Fae they’d left behind, her assailant reduced to a heap in the dirt, face burned and hands scorched. She swiftly averts her gaze, grimacing, almost feeling guilty.

  “Is he dead?”

  Ziggy flashes twice.

  “Pity.”

  She steers the horse well away from both the unknown threat in the mountain, as well as the man who’d assaulted her, before slowing to an easy trot.

  Ziggy floats closer to her side.

  “Was that guy human?” Rachel asks, although she doubts it. “His ears were pointy, but short, so—”

  Two flashes.

  Rachel frowns. “Halfling?”

  Ziggy flickers once.

  “Stupid Halfling,” she whispers, stifling a sob. She fishes the brass compact mirror out of her pocket and opens it in her palm. Rachel studies the obsidian surface closely, discerning an arch-like feature, seemingly looming over a thinning forest. “This one won’t be too difficult to find.” She pushes herself up on the stirrups and scans the region again.

  Rachel points in the direction of a smooth peak above tall trees, merely a tip visible, but the surface gleams wherever the sun touches it.

  They change direction. Ziggy takes the lead, while Rachel steers the horse behind him.

  “I should probably give you a name,” she says to the horse, brushing the white and brown mane. It’s the best she can do to keep her mind from wandering to the assault. “Something neutral, yes?”

  Up front, Ziggy flashes once.

  “What about Blair?”

  The horse whinnies, as if saying, “I’d rather visit a glue factory,” while Ziggy flashes twice in disagreement.

  “Tough crowd. Okay, let’s try something more cultured. How about Tolstoy?”

  Ziggy immediately flickers twice, dims, and then flashes twice again.

  “There’s just no pleasing you.”

  Rachel passes the time by running through a list of names, all of which Ziggy hates. At times, the horse would make its thoughts known with either a neigh or a snort, but generally didn’t seem too invested in the conversation.

  “Journey?”

  Ziggy doesn’t immediately answer her proposal. Then, just when she thinks the Fae light’s grown bored with the game, it flashes once.

  “I’ve got one nod of approval. What say you?” Rachel leans forward in the saddle and brushes the horse’s muscular neck. “Do you like the name Journey?” An ear twitches. She sits upright again, grinning. “It’s a unanimous vote then, and fitting, if I may say so myself.”

  They reach the arch-like peak long after the sun has set, but even in the dark, she notices that the bases of each pillar are riddled with strange symbols, half-hidden behind strategically placed rocks.

  “We should make camp somewhere, give Journey a break.”

  Ziggy flashes once.

  She searches around for a well-hidden site, close enough to the arch-like structure but far enough to give her a semblance of security. There’s a trickle of water running past the area she chooses. Some grass, too. It’s better than nothing.

  She dismounts, walks through the thick foliage, and leads Journey to graze nearby.

  “Keep your light dim,” she whispers as Ziggy reaches her side.

  One dim flash answers.

  Rachel takes off her backpack and drops it at the base of a tree before stretching her legs and back. Her thighs ache from being on Journey the whole day, while her lower back screams for a soft bed. She walks around a while, fills her water bottle, and moves back to where she left her backpack.

  No way will she sleep tonight. Not with that Halfling still alive and relatively well. He’s probably already looking for her and his horse. He’s probably contemplating his revenge. That’s what she would have been doing if he’d—

  “Could you do a perimeter check?” she asks Ziggy.

  The Fae light bobs away and circles the area she’s chosen for the night.

  “Relax. You’re fine,” she whispers. “Hopefully tomorrow, you’ll find Orion. Then you can go home.”

  Time ticks on and night closes in. A laugh echoes through the forest, distant but undoubtedly male. A command is shouted somewhere else. Rachel listens, anticipating the sounds will grow louder and more volatile. Nothing of the sort happens. There’s smoke in the air, notes of food drift along on a breeze. Her stomach rumbles, wanting a proper meal. A bird sings. Soon, the darkness deepens, grows silent.

  Ziggy settles at her side and she tickles the top of the sphere with her fingertips, unable to shut her eyes even for a minute.

  Long before dawn, Rachel mounts Journey and heads back to the arch, following Ziggy’s bobs and weaves.

  “Please don’t be a gateway. Please don’t be a gateway. Please don’t be a gateway,” she whispers her mantra, squeezing her eyes shut as they move through the opening.

  When no weird sensation comes, she opens her eyes. Hundreds of white tents lie at the bottom of the road, circles placed within circles, stretching as far as the eye can see. Smoke trails up from the settlement, but there is no movement in the spaces between.

  Rachel looks up the side of the arch, spying a vacant watchtower carved from the mountain itself. She scans the area for clues
as to what type of settlement she’s venturing in to. It’s early enough to go unnoticed, but there’s no telling what they’ll do when they see her.

  She finds the compact mirror and opens it, waits for an image of a tent to materialize on the smooth surface, an indecipherable flag fixed above the entrance. The image of Orion is obscured by pre-dawn darkness.

  Rachel shuts the mirror and replaces it in her pocket as Journey trots toward the quiet, sleeping campsite. She searches for a tent with a flag above its entrance, for anything remotely official. Maybe she’ll get lucky.

  Are humans even tolerated around here?

  Her growing anxiety makes her feel like she’s swallowed a rock as she approaches the settlement.

  Journey slows her advance as the first tent comes up.

  A couple of horses graze in a small clearing. Embers burn in a nearby fire pit. Journey moves expertly through the open space, sliding between tents as if having done so a million times.

  Rachel continues searching for a flag. When she sees none, she maneuvers Journey deeper into the settlement, where she instead finds a wooden weapon rack, full of swords and spears and axes.

  Journey travels through to another inner-circle, where a sleeping, uniformed man occupies a chair near an extinguished fire. She veers away from the soldier, earning herself a bump from Ziggy. The Fae light rushes in between two tents, the space too small for a horse.

  Gritting her teeth, she halts Journey and dismounts.

  First I fail the SATs, then I steal a horse—although technically it’s not the first time I’ve done that—and now I’m sneaking around a military camp. What’s next?

  She carefully follows Ziggy deeper into the camp, ducks behind white canvasses, sprints through open spaces, all while scanning the entrances for the nondescript flag.

  The morning grows brighter as the sun crests the horizon, and people begin rustling inside the tents.

  Rachel’s heart beats faster and terror pushes to the forefront of her thoughts. What if Orion isn’t here anymore? With her sneaking around a military encampment, the only logical conclusion anyone can make is she’s an enemy spy, and there’s a good chance the enemy is King Nova. They might very well execute her.

  Ziggy bobs in midair before bouncing off the sides of the stretched fabric.

  Get down, you suicidal lightbulb.

  Rachel peers around the tent just as a soldier walks into the open. She jerks back into the shadows, praying he didn’t see her, and makes herself as small as possible in the shadows. Footsteps approach.

  “Wake up, scoundrels,” comes a commanding voice from somewhere behind her. “The general wants three scouts to head out within the hour. I volunteered you sorry lot for the mission. Get dressed.”

  Footsteps pass her hiding place and fade into the distance. Groans and yawns come from within the tent she’s using as cover.

  Rachel sucks in a breath through her gritted teeth, and risks taking another look. The area clear, she sprints to where she last saw Ziggy and hides behind a stack of wooden crates labeled: BUMBLEBERRY WINERIES.

  “Ziggy,” she whispers. Rachel inches around the crates, careful not to bump into anything and alert the entire army to her presence. “Zigs?”

  Ziggy glides into view before rounding the tent again.

  Her jaw stiffens with irritation.

  Rachel follows Ziggy around the tent and is greeted by a black flag, twin red deer silhouettes stand on their hind legs in the center. The flag hangs limply above the entrance, the tattered edges hardly shifting in the slight breeze moving through the camp. Shouldn’t this have been harder? Yes, getting here wasn’t the easiest thing, but this feels a bit anticlimactic.

  She pulls the white canvas aside and steps into the gloomy interior where a large table is covered with maps, scrolls are stacked into high piles on the single chair. Rachel walks inside, the thick carpet muting her footsteps. On one side of the tent is a curtained-off area, large enough to hide a bed. Across from the gauzy fabric, a metal tub—lined with swaths of cotton—sits on a brazier, in order to heat the water within.

  Keeping her breathing steady, Rachel reaches up to push the curtain out of the way, but freezes as a blade cuts through the fabric, stopping short before it can embed itself in her throat.

  She swallows hard, the tip of the dagger tickling her skin in the process.

  “Give me one good reason not to kill you right here and now.” Orion’s voice is calm, too calm.

  The tip of the dagger presses harder into her skin by the unmistakable silhouette behind the curtain.

  Rachel says the first thing that pops into her head. “Mrs. Crenshaw will be über-pissed.”

  Whether it’s a good reason not to be killed, though, is unclear.

  The curtain slides out of the way. Fabric flutters to the floor as the dagger cuts the curtain in two. With the dagger still pointing at her throat, the dark-haired Fae prince studies her with his galaxy eyes, forming a Fae light in his free hand. It floats into the air, joining Ziggy against the tent’s ceiling.

  Orion’s brow furrows as the silence between them stretches on.

  “Miss me, Faerie Boy?” Rachel raises her finger and pushes the blade away from her throat, ignoring the clean slice against her fingertip. She’d rather lose a finger than have a severed artery.

  Orion moves the dagger back to its original position, the suspicion in his glare intensifying.

  “Well, this is awkward,” she says.

  Rachel purses her lips together, her gaze moving to his left forearm, where the tattoo curls all the way up his arm, around his biceps, and moves over his shoulder. The black lines coil and twist around his bare chest, ending on his right waist. The tattoo is one thing—the faded scars marring his skin are a whole other matter.

  “How did you even get in here?” Orion asks.

  “I walked most of the way, but I procured a horse from one of your men yesterday, after he tried to sexually assault me.” Rachel senses something off about Orion. “I called the horse Journey. Pretty thing, a docile mare, has loads of personality.”

  “But how did you get into the camp?” Orion asks, dropping the dagger from her neck.

  Rachel shrugs. “My womanly wiles, of course.”

  Orion rolls his eyes.

  Rachel slips the backpack’s straps off her shoulders and places it on the floor. She moves to a round table situated next to his bed, and picks up the brass pitcher standing on a dented tray. Rachel fills the matching goblet with what she hopes is just red wine.

  “What’s the legal drinking age around here?”

  “We don’t have liquor restriction laws in Amaris.” Orion takes a seat on the edge of the bed.

  “Good to know.” Rachel lifts the goblet to her lips and takes a swig of the heavily spiced wine. Cinnamon and citrus notes play on her tongue.

  “What are you doing here, Clarré?”

  “I’ve come to take you home.” She wanders toward the large table, studying the foreign maps lining the surface. A red stag marker sits in an outlined area surrounded by mountains. She guesses that’s where they are. The golden crown, however, is positioned precariously close to where the camp is located. There are other red and gold markers, too, signifying troops across various territories over Orthega. “And just in the nick of time, it seems.”

  Orion materializes on the opposite side of the table, and uses his forearm to topple the red and white markers off the map. His expression is inscrutable. Orion regards her with a stony gaze, yet a smile plays in the corners of his mouth.

  He presses his hands on the table and leans forward. “Didn’t I tell you not to follow me?” Orion masks his smile with a snarl. “Nova has eyes everywhere, even in this camp, and he will stop at nothing to get his hands on you if it means he has a chance to hurt me.”

  Rachel raises her free hand to her heart, tilts her head. “Aw, I’m touched. To think, a poorly planned war campaign can be swayed in one brother’s favor by little old me.”
>
  Bristling, Orion pushes away from the table. “Poorly planned? I’ll have you know I’ve been doing this for centuries.”

  “Yeah, well, judging by your security, you’ve lost your touch. It’s amazing Nova hasn’t sent assassins yet.” She turns on her heels and makes her way back to the bed, sipping on the wine as she goes.

  “Who says he hasn’t?”

  Rachel snorts and glances over her shoulder. “I say.”

  Eleven

  Sidetracked

  Bells toll as the alarm is raised. Deep voices shout across the camp for men to ready themselves against an attack, to answer the call if they are able.

  A heartbeat later, a breathless, red-faced soldier with barely a single whisker on his lip rushes into Orion’s tent. The boy comes to an abrupt halt when he sees the Fae prince standing at the table. He salutes to Orion’s back, his chest heaving from exertion.

  “Sir,” he says, hand still raised.

  “What is it?” Orion barks without turning around.

  “The generals urgently require your assistance. Nova’s army is forcing its way North and there’s a security breach to the West.”

  Orion’s voice is thick with command and laced with displeasure. “I’ll be there to in a few minutes.”

  “Yes, sir, but ...” The boy’s fist, firmly fixed beside his waist, trembles.

  “But?” Orion turns to face the messenger.

  The boy visibly shrinks under Orion’s scrutiny. “Sluagh, sir. A horde of Sluagh are heading right for us.”

  “Why didn’t you start with that?” Orion snaps. He vanishes into thin air, leaving the shaking boy alone with Rachel in his tent.

  “What’s a Sluagh?” she asks, taking the last sip of wine.

  The Halfling’s eyes widen as he finally seems to notice her. “It’s the souls of the restless dead. Men who didn’t receive their last rights. How—?” He snaps his attention over his shoulder. “Coming!” The boy runs off.

  She sets the goblet on the empty tray and makes her way to the tent’s entrance. Men run around in full body armor, armed and ready to die. Orders are barked, though they can’t drown out the screams of the dying. A fire blazes nearby, the smoke and flames already visible through the canvas’ opening. Horses gallop past, trampling those who aren’t fast enough to get out of the way.