Page 11 of Of Steel and Scale

All I got was an odd sort of static; I remained beyond communication range.

I swore and lifted my face to the sky, blinking back tears of frustration and tiredness. All I wanted was to lie down and rest, but I couldn’t; not here, not until I was sure help was on the way.

I stumbled on. Dawn came and went, but the day remained gloomy. Although therewasone bright spot—I was at least missing my wedding.

Not that it actually mattered. The political and trade agreements had already been signed by both parties; the commitment ceremony was little more than a formality, even if one full of pomp and splendor. If Ididhappen to die in this forsaken place, it would have little true effect. Garran—the firstborn son of Mom’s oldest sister—had long ago been made my father’s heir, and it was highly unlikely Damon would mourn the loss of a wife he didn’t want.

Even so, regret drifted through me. I might not have wanted the marriage, but I couldn’t deny the wisp of attraction to the man. It would have been interesting to see if time together produced anything approaching a loving relationship.... I shut the thought down. I had no time for regret, because I had no intention of dying.

Not before I caught the bastards behind the deaths of all those in Eastmead and all those in the boat.

Morning moved into afternoon. My head throbbed, my throat was raw, and there wasn’t a single part of my body that didn’t ache. Every damn step was becoming an effort.

Ihadto find somewhere safe to stop and rest. Now. Before the decision was taken out of my hands and I utterly collapsed.

A sharp cry to my right had me reaching for my knife and spinning around—too quickly. The beach did a brief but crazy dance, and nausea surged up my throat. I swallowed heavily and studied the ridge, eventually spotting the source of the sound. It was a kayin—a large seabird known for its ability to soar for days on the wind’s currents. They didn’t often land in open, flat areas like this, as their size made it difficult for them to take off again. Their usual haunts were the peaks high above the sea, where they could easily launch from mountain ledges and catch the updrafts.

I warily moved closer, my gaze moving between the bird and the ridge, my aching muscles humming with readiness to move—to fight—should this be some sort of trap.

The bird made no effort to get away, and I soon saw why; it had been shot through the chest. The cry I’d heard had been its last.

But the arrow hadn’t come from an Esan bow. We didn’t use this type of wood, and we certainly didn’t fletch them with blue feathers.

This arrow was Mareritten.

Túxn help me... Despite the long hours of walking, I remained in their lands.

I breathed deep, trying to control the instinctive rush of fear. I might be alone, I might be bone weary, but I wasn’t without weapons. The bastards wouldn’t take me down as easily as they had this kayin.

I moved past the fallen bird and cautiously scrambled up the slope. The lands beyond the razor grass remained desolate. There was nothing to suggest anything or anyone watched this place. And yet the hand that had fired the arrow had to be near; the kayin wouldn’t have been able to fly far with the arrow in its chest.

I carefully retrieved its carcass and placed it beyond the razor grass, where it was easily visible. Then I stretched out on the ground, the grass brushing my face, leaving tiny cuts in its wake. I ignored them. Moving farther down the ridge meant I wouldn’t be able to see the lay of the land or what might be moving across it.

Time ticked by. I remained absolutely still, though stones dug into my stomach and tiredness pulled at my eyelids.

Then I heard the soft crunch of stones.

I carefully looked left. A figure appeared over the slight rise in the land, and my pulse skipped several beats. He was pale of skin, with wide shoulders and a thickset body. There were six fingers on his hands rather than the usual five, and the tips of his short, spiky hair gleamed like blue ice against the cool grays of the sky.

Mareritt.

The instinct to rise, to fight, surged, but I ignored it. I had no idea if he was alone, and until Idid, I couldn’t react.

He stopped on the top of the small hill and scanned the area. His gaze swept across the ground between us and then paused. For too many seconds, he stared at the thick grass inches from my face, and my fingers itched with the need to unleash the flames burning against their tips.

I didn’t, and after a moment, his gaze moved on to the kayin. A bright smile flashed across his rough features, and he strode forward. He wore leathers rather than armor, and the only weapon he had beyond the bow was the knife strapped to his left thigh. My gaze shot back to his face, for the first time seeing the telltale features of youth—the lack of scars on his cheeks, the absence of malice in his expression.

He must be in the midst of p’asazhis—a rite of passage that all Mareritten warriors apparently went through, which had them living unaided—aside from the knife and bow—off the land for the three months of summer.

I released my grip on my sword and reached for my knife instead. I had one shot, one chance. Youth or not, I couldn’t let him get close. I simply didn’t have the strength or speed for hand-to-hand combat.

He moved forward, his gaze on his prize rather than keeping watch for anything or anyone else. I waited until he was so close that his foul scent—a thick, unpleasant musk—stung my nostrils, then leapt to my feet and threw the knife. He was fast, I’d give him that. The blade that should have pierced his heart got his shoulder instead. He tore it from his flesh and, with a scream of rage, drew his own and charged. I raised my hand, called to the fire, and pierced him with heat. He was dead before he hit the ground.

I sucked in another breath in a vague effort to ease the red-hot needles now boring into my brain—a warning that I was skirting the edges of strength both psychicallyandphysically—then warily moved forward, my hand on my sword and my gaze sweeping the area on the off chance he wasn’t alone. The desolation stretched on, undisturbed by further movement. After retrieving my knife, I moved across to the Mareritt and knelt beside him. His stench filled my nostrils again, briefly making me gag. I switched to breathing through my mouth and quickly patted him down. There was nothing under his clothes or in his pockets. A small water bottle was strapped to his left hip and a carryall pouch on his right. I sliced away the latter and tipped its contents onto the ground. There was a flint stone, a striker, a basic first aid kit, and random bits and pieces such as coral, oddly colored rocks, and... my heart skipped several beats... a small golden feather.

The same sort of feather I’d briefly glimpsed sticking out of Oran’s cheek before the boat had come under full attack.

I picked it up. It was heavy, cold to the touch, and definitely made of metal. Dried blood dotted the end of the hollow shaft, which in normal feathers meant they’d been shed from flesh. But what sort of bird had metal feathers? None, as far as I was aware. None that existed in either Arleeon or Mareritten, at any rate.

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