Page 44 of Stormvein
He jerks his head toward the cage I’m trying desperately not to look at. The metal bars are still stained with blood and other things I don’t want to identify.
“His back—” I can’t finish the sentence.
The flayed skin, the brands burned into his chest and cheek, the wounds that cover every single inch of his body. Someone took their time doing this to him. They enjoyed it.
“I know.” A muscle in Varam’s jaw pops. The hardened fighter looks away, and that terrifies me more than anything else. The fact that evenheis shaken by what they’ve done tells me this is not just the normal behavior of the Authority, but something more. “We have no choice. We will have to be as careful as we can.”
The stretcher presents an immediate problem. Every position will mean agony for him. Keeping Sacha on his back is going to put all his weight on the ripped flesh. On his front, the Authority symbol branded into his chest will press against the wood. On his left side, there’s a deep, seeping wound that smells of infection and death.
“We’ll need to position him on his side … his right side,” Lysa suggests. She’s the healer Varam trusted the most to be among the rescue party, and even she looks overwhelmed by the extent of his injuries. “We will have to stabilize him with padding on both sides to stop him rolling onto his back.”
While they try to adjust the stretcher, I kneel beside Sacha. His face is almost unrecognizable beneath the bruises and cuts, and everything else they’ve done to him, yet somehow it’s still unmistakably him. The proud features I’ve come to know are distorted by swelling, but the determination remains etched in the set of his jaw, even unconscious.
My gaze drops to the restraints locked around his wrists. Strange symbols glow faintly against the dark metal. When I reach toward them, my power sparks from my fingers likelightning seeking ground. I jerk back with a gasp. The mist stalker growls, its nose dipping to brush against the metal.
“Which way?” Tarn asks, pulling my attention away from Sacha.
Varam unfolds his map. I peer over his shoulder.
“We’ll go northwest, through Riven Pass.” His finger follows a line on the parchment. “There’s a cave system maybe four hours from here. It’s defensible, with a water source.” He taps a spot on the map. “And importantly, it’s off any routes the Authority patrols.”
“What if they follow us?” Mira’s normally confident voice is edged with something I’ve rarely heard from her—fear.
“We’ll split up.” Varam’s gaze sweeps over our group, assessing each face. “Three groups. Different routes. Different timing.” He looks at me. “One group will transport Lord Torran. The others will create false trails, drawing any potential pursuit away.”
“I’m staying with him.” The words come out before I can think, fierce and non-negotiable. The thought of being separated from Sacha now, when each breath might be his last, sends a wave of panic through me.
Varam doesn’t waste time arguing with me. “You will travel with Kiran, Lysa, Jarel, Arem, and me." He turns to Mira, the sharp lines of his face softening slightly for his oldest ally. "You take the second group east, then double back west after nightfall. Tarn, your team goes south. Both of you leave obvious signs—broken branches, disturbed earth, even blood if you can spare it. Make them think we’re desperate enough to risk the open roads.”
Everyone moves into their groups, preparing to leave. I help Lysa position Sacha on the stretcher, my hands shaking.
“How is he even alive?” I whisper.
“Sheer will,” Lysa says quietly, not looking up from applying makeshift bandages. “Most would have succumbed days ago. The fact he’s still breathing shows his strength.” She glances up at me. “But I don’t know how much longer he will be able to hold on for.”
We secure him on his right side, using rolled up cloaks to stabilize his position and prevent pressure on the worst wounds. We can’t bind his ribs properly, can’t clean the wounds thoroughly, can’t doanythingbut the most rudimentary battlefield medicine.
Fighters come back with the horses. The decoy groups will use them to make false trails, or set them loose to create confusion, and we will move ahead on foot.
Varam and Jarel secure the stretcher, then they, Kiran and Arem lift it carefully. I let my fingers touch Sacha’s hand one final time before we set off. His skin is fever-hot, clammy with sweat, yet beneath the heat there’s an unnatural coldness. The contradictory sensations frighten me more than the visible wounds.
We finally leave Glassfall Gap as the sun starts to set. Our three groups separate to follow their assigned paths. I hug Mira before she goes, scared that this might be the last time I see her, then take my place beside the stretcher, so I can help steady it whenever the ground gets rough. Each jolt sends a shudder through Sacha’s unconscious form.
Erratic sparks jump from my arms as we walk, in response to my churning emotions. Fear for Sacha’s survival. Rage at what’s been done to him. Determination that borders on something darker … something I might have feared before coming to this world.
We move at a slow pace, trying to keep the stretcher as steady as possible. My legs ache. Tension makes my head throb, and I flinch at every unexpected noise, expecting Authority soldiers toappear at any time. I try to ignore it, focusing on Sacha, and hold my breath every time his stutters.
“Are we getting any closer?” I feel like a whiny child asking if we’re there yet.
“At least another two hours at this pace.” Varam’s voice is low. “Once we reach the next stream, we follow it through a ravine. The caves are a little way beyond it.”
Darkness falls too quickly, forcing us to slow our pace. We can’t light any torches in case they’re seen, and have to rely on the moonlight filtering through the trees. The path is harder to navigate in the dark. Loose stones on steep inclines, exposed roots that threaten to trip, and narrow passes that require careful maneuvering of the stretcher.
Every so often, I catch glimpses of Sacha’s face. Sweat beads his forehead despite the cool night air, tracking clean lines through the blood and dirt. His breathing is getting worse, each inhale a visible struggle.
“We need to stop,” I whisper to Varam when Sacha stops breathing for over a minute, then inhales with a wet, rattling sound. “Something is wrong.”
Varam hesitates, then nods. We ease the stretcher to the ground carefully, but even that gentle movement draws a moan from Sacha’s throat.
