The Sword in His Hand by J. J. Fischer

Author:J. J. Fischer [Fischer, J. J.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: anonymous
Published: 2023-06-01T16:00:00+00:00

The shudder moved through El as if it had originated from Torsten’s own body. He was keenly aware of the fragility of her—including the bird-like bones of her wrists and arms—but he did not lessen his grip. He registered warm liquid on the back of his hand and realized she was crying.

“I’m sorry,” he said, “but he’s gone.” Wanting to face her, he turned her around so that she was sitting across his saddlebow.

She turned her face away to hide her tears, a lock of bright hair falling over one eye. Impulsively, he lifted a hand and tilted her chin. His hands were filthy, and he left a swipe of blood on her jaw.

“There’s nothing you or I could have done.”

She looked at him imploringly, her eyes still full of hope. “Please. I’ve watched you take on five men by yourself. They may be—”

“El,” he replied, with certainty. “He’s gone.”

In that moment, she seemed to cave in on herself, and she clung to him tightly, her slender hands grasping his tunic as she pressed her face into his chest. Her heart beat impossibly fast next to his. He could feel the warmth of her shallow breaths against his throat.

Liadan appeared at his side, covered in blood and sweat. His quiver was completely empty. “Torsten,” he said urgently, “we need to move before they regroup and return.”

Skandar materialized out of nowhere. He looked at Torsten, his sharp eyes taking in everything, including the way that El clung to him. “You must all be blindfolded.”

“We are friends of the Rebellion,” said Jed sharply.

But Skandar only looked at the dozens of bodies surrounding them. “Friends did this to us.”

There was no further debate. Strips of fabric were produced, and they were forced to dismount. Rough hands dragged El from Torsten’s saddle and blindfolded her. When Torsten reluctantly dismounted, he caught a brief glimpse of El’s hands being bound before his own eyes were covered.

“Skandar,” he growled, “she is not your prisoner.”

“We will see,” came his half-brother’s disembodied voice before he felt strong hands on his shoulders, pushing him forward.

They moved quickly uphill, their guides driving them faster than they could direct them, and twice, Torsten stumbled over a fallen body. His wounded thigh was aching, but he gritted his teeth and pushed on. After twenty minutes of the brutal pace, Torsten heard the soft rush of a waterfall, which intensified as they pushed on up the side of the mountain. He could no longer hear horses, and guessed that part of their force had split off from the main group. Judging from the footsteps around him, maybe a dozen rebels were left.

Their pace quickened, until Torsten heard a woman’s cry, and the man guiding him stopped abruptly.

“What is it?” came Skandar’s harsh voice.

“My lord, I think she would walk easier if her hands were not bound.”

“Then carry her,” was the impatient reply.

They pressed on again. The waterfall swelled to a dull roar, drowning out all other noise. Torsten felt mud beneath his boots, and suddenly the air around them was tighter, moister.

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