Page 62 of Stormvein
The hour passes too quickly. When Varam signals time to move, the carriers take their positions with grim determination. This time when they lift the stretcher, Sacha’s eye flies open, and a soundless gasp parts his lips. Raw pain breaks through his carefully held facade for less than a second, before he forces it back under control. The glimpse of it twists something in my chest.
Our journey continues under a sun that offers warmth but no comfort. I continue with my promised distraction, despite Varam’s warning glances, telling Sacha about anything that comes to mind. College courses, favorite books, and hot chocolate on winter mornings. I don’t even know if my words arereaching him as he drifts in and out of consciousness, but I keep talking anyway, my voice a thin thread connecting him to the living world while his body tries to surrender.
High sun brings another short rest, another check of worsening wounds, another argument I can’t win about needing more time. The carriers rotate again, fresh fighters taking the burden from those whose muscles tremble with fatigue.
Late afternoon brings the first sign of danger. A scout returns breathless from his forward position, face tight with worry.
“Authority patrol,” he reports to Varam in hushed tones. “Six soldiers ahead. Standard search pattern.”
Varam calls an immediate halt. The stretcher is lowered, and fighters move into defensive positions around Sacha. My heart stutters in my chest, fear a living thing clawing up my throat.
“Options?” Varam asks, his voice calm despite the threat.
“We can’t fight.” Mira’s voice is flat. “Not with Lord Torran in this condition. We’re outnumbered.”
“We could hide,” another suggests. “Let them pass, then continue.”
“How long?” I don’t take my eyes off Sacha. His fever has climbed steadily throughout the day, his skin hot again, his breathing too shallow and coming in irregular patterns that terrify me.
“Hard to say,” the scout answers. “Could be half an hour, could be they won’t even see us.”
“Too long,” Sacha whispers, his voice startling all of us. His eye is open, fever-bright but lucid. “Alternative route.”
“There is another path, my Lord,” the scout offers hesitantly. “Through the ravine below. It’s steeper, harder, but it would bypass the patrol entirely.”
Varam considers this, clearly weighing risks against necessity. “It hasn’t been used in years. It might not even be passable.”
“It’s our best chance,” I argue. “We can’t wait, and we can’t fight.”
No one disagrees.
The decision is made quickly after that. We change direction, heading toward a gap that will lead to the ravine’s path. The stretcher carriers adjust their grip, bracing for a walk that won’t forgive a single misstep.
As we approach the edge, my stomach drops at the sight below. The descent looks impossible for men carrying a stretcher. The ravine walls plunge almost vertically in places, with barely enough ledge to call a path. Loose stones skitter down when tested with a boot, disappearing into darkness that seems to swallow itself.
“This is madness.” Lysa’s words echo my thoughts.
No one argues with her assessment, but they don’t suggest turning back either. The Authority patrol behind us leaves us with no alternative, not if we want to survive at all.
I imagine the stretcher slipping, Sacha falling, and fear tightens my throat until I can’t breathe.
“We’ll need to create a relay system,” Varam decides. “Two men securing the stretcher with ropes from above, two guiding from below. One section at a time.”
Even with this plan, the descent is brutal. Despite the fighters’ best efforts, the stretcher catches on rock protrusions, tilts at dangerous angles, and requires constant adjustment. They have to stop every few feet, bodies straining against gravity and the weight of responsibility. Sacha’s breathing is erratic, face white, but every time they pause, he opens his eye and demands they carry on with nothing more than a look.
This isn’t strength anymore. This is madness. It’s refusal to surrender. It’s the last thing he can give them. The illusion that their Vareth’el is still in control, still making decisions, still leading from a stretcher that might become his deathbed.
I stay as close as the narrow path allows, one hand often resting on the edge of the stretcher, my eyes glued to his face for signs that the journey has become too much. The thought almost makes me laugh out loud. This journey became too much the second it began.
His skin is ghostly pale except for where the fever burns high on his cheekbones. The energy coiling inside me responds to my fear, threading through my fingers when I touch his hand. I don’t know if it helps, but I can’t stop trying.
“We’re almost at the bottom,” I whisper to him during one pause. “Not much further. Please hold on.”
His eye opens, finding mine in the growing darkness. There’s a moment, a heartbeat, when I see beyond the mask. Where I glimpse something human. “Authority?”
Unwilling respect for his stubborn focus tilts my lips into a tiny smile. Always the strategist, even at death’s door. The question should be absurd—his body broken, his life hanging by a thread—yet it’s perfectly him.
“No signs of pursuit. I don’t think they saw us. We’re safe for now.”
