Page 49 of Swords of Soul and Shadow
Fely shook her head. “Your scholars are wrong. Asa was supposed to control the Gate and acquire the sword when he was in Myrrai, but something went awry.” She pushed herself to her feet, a little wobbly. King Filip looked like he wanted to help, but his jaw only clenched harder. “There is another sword, but that one may be lost forever. We pray Asa is successful in his own mission. We must be successful in ours.”
Niels reached out to help her and winced at the pain spiking in his shoulder. Fely held up a hand. “I am well enough.” She took a few steadying breaths and looked Hallie directly in the eye. “I do not know if Filip’s body will accept the healing, and his Essence power must go into the sword before all Yalvara is lost. I cannot risk moving him. I need you to find Kainadr’s Shadow and return here.”
“That doesn’t explain what you need the sword to do,” Hallie countered.
“It explains everything.” She looked over at the statues at the other end of the ruins. She wiped a shaky hand across her brow once more. “It’s their legacy, and the reason we are here to deal with the consequences nearly three thousand years later.”
Hallie seemed to hesitate for a moment, but then she nodded. “All I need to do is get to the Gate Chamber and ask it for a sword?”
If Fely detected the disbelief in her statement, she didn’t show it. “I am unsure it will be that simple. But as an Essence wielder, you should be able to sense the Shadow.” She rubbed at her wounded head. “This is not ideal, but it is all we can do.”
“You should go,” Filip rasped. “They might—”
“I am not leaving you.” Fely glared between Hallie and Niels. “They will go and come back with the sword.”
He couldn’t tell if she was asking or threatening.
Hallie nodded stiffly, then turned to Niels. “Then let’s go. We have a hike ahead of us.”
She walked away. He’d not seen that look in her eyes in a long, long time. Something was wrong, and he wasn’t sure he wanted to figure it out.
With one last look toward the Cerls, Niels hurried to follow, the unease in his stomach simmering with each staggering limp. He just needed to give Hallie time. He’d earn her trust back soon…or he would die trying.
Chapter 9
IN THESE MOUNTAINS
32 Years Ago
HARLAN HALE SHACKLEY THOUGHT IT ironic that eighteen years removed from mine work, he still had blood under his nails. His past haunted him no matter where he went. Yet this time, the blood was not his own.
He rubbed his hand on his military-grade trousers. Not that it helped anything other than his mental well-being. He didn’t think he’d ever wash out the last few years of life on the front and dying men out of his uniform no matter how hard he scrubbed.
It was a testament how dire the last decade had been that, when he was about to perform a complicated surgery on a dying man, his only thought wasAt least it’s not my blood.
Regardless, Harlan knew all too well people didn’t survive long in the mountains unless they’d been born and raised there. For all their immense beauty, the towering shadows hid secrets better left in the dark. Harlan was one of those secrets.
He rifled through his dwindling supplies in his medic pack. Amputating a leg was not the way Harlan had figured his military career would progress. He also never thought he’d end up back in the mountains he’d left all those years ago. Such was his luck.
He’d only joined the military to please his adoptive father, though it turned out that Harlan had a gift for war. He’d been top of his class in the military academy. Too bad he’d been relegated to the medical legion. He figured Carleton had some say in that.
Lord Carleton Shackley was an honest man, not anything like his true father, the one who would’ve died before Harlan’s fourteenth summer even if the Cerls hadn’t killed him. No, Carleton wasn’t James Hale. Carleton never hit him. Carleton never screamed obscenities at him. Carleton never told him how worthless he was. Instead, he only knew his adoptive father as Carleton.
The dying man in front of him groaned as Harlan found a pot of salve. It wouldn’t do much to numb the pain in his leg, but it would do enough that the man wouldn’t flail while Harlan finished the procedure. He would need to restock soon.
He disinfected his hands and applied the salve just above the wound, rubbing it all the way around.
The man’s jerking fell away once the salve took effect. A harsh mountain wind blew through, rustling the tent flap—the promise of winter. He hoped it wasn’t some kind of omen, considering this part of the surgery might end up killing the man despite him living through the initial pistol shot.
The flap opened again, this time deliberately. A tall, reedy man entered. “The fire’s hot enough, and the cleaver is heating up. You’re good to cauterize as needed, but one day, I’ll fix up something that’ll work much better than the side of a hot cleaver.”
Harlan pulled the long bandage tight midway down the man’s thigh. He could tourniquet limbs in his sleep at this point. He tied off the knot with a grunt and grabbed a discarded arrow shaft pulled out of another man’s chest. They had to adapt fast out here; it’d been cleaned enough, and resources were scarce. Lucky some Cerls still used arrows instead of the newest iteration of flashpistols.
Well, lucky was relative. Lucky that Harlan didn’t have to go out and find a sturdy stick to tourniquet a man’s leg. Not so lucky for the man who’d taken the arrow to his chest in the first place.
Harlan looked over at his medic partner. “Prepare to cauterize. If he survives the cut, we’ll need to work fast.”
He was unsure if he should even try, but if it worked, then the soldier might just pull out a close one. He refused to get his hopes up, though.
