“All right. How long will it take us to reach Herdon?”
Tomas had no idea what all right referred to, but she wasn’t laughing at his stupid timber babbling, so he supposed it didn’t matter. “At this speed, three or maybe four hours.”
She was silent for so long Tomas was unsure if she was thinking or despairing.
“I have a blanket and a knife. If we cut a hole in it for your head, and you wore it, would that keep you warm enough?”
Thinking, then. Muscles he hadn’t realized were tense relaxed. He’d made the right choice. As for her suggestion…“It should.” The Hunt Pack had done winter training up in the mountains, just fur, no greatcoats, and one shitload of snow. Three or four hours in skin on a spring night would be no problem as long as they kept moving. He stopped walking as Mirian dropped to one knee and let the bedroll slide off her shoulder. It took her a minute to get her…Tomas frowned…her stocking untied, then she unrolled it and set the contents aside. Her boots, a folding knife, a fire-starter, a telescope, the pouch that smelled of meat and biscuits…
“Where did you get all that?”
“I took it from the soldier I killed.”
“You killed?”
“While you were running at the other one, I set a fire in his ammo pouch like you suggested. He went up like…” She waved a hand, unable to find a comparison or unwilling to voice those she’d found. Her fingers were trembling. “He was dead so, logically, he wouldn’t need any of this anymore. There’s a purse with a bit of money, too.”
“The other soldier…”
“One,” she snapped, “was enough. He was dead and I killed him, but the other one wasn’t my…I mean, I didn’t…I couldn’t…” She wiped her nose on her sleeve then tried to open the knife.
“Here,” Tomas knelt beside her. “Let me.”
She shoved it into his hand and when he glanced over at her face, her eyes were shut and he could smell the salt tang of tears.
“We’re at war,” he said quietly, hooking his thumbnail in the grooved steel edge and forcing the blade out. “He was a soldier. Soldiers die in wars.” He cut a slit in the center of the blanket, hearing Harry reminding him to be careful. Hearing Danika telling Ryder to return safely and soon. “Soldiers kill in wars.”
“I’m not a soldier.” Her eyes were open now, pale and free of mage marks. “I’m not an anything.”
He pulled the blanket over his head, the scent of the man who’d slept in it lingering long after the man himself. There might have been a slight scent of char; it might have been his imagination. When he could see again, Mirian had unbuckled her belt and was in the process of hanging her boots and the pouch from it. She’d lost the bedroll, but her hands would be still be free. Smart. “Then why are you here? If you’re not an anything,” he added when she looked confused.
“Because someone has to be.” She hung the telescope around her neck and tucked it inside her jacket, stared at the fire-starter then slipped it into a boot. The knife followed when Tomas handed it back. “And I’m all there is.”
“We’re all there is.”
She looked at him for a long moment. He could see her clearly, but he had no idea of how much of his expression she could make out even given how close they were. Enough, apparently. She took a deep breath and smiled—mostly smiled, partially bared her teeth. “We’re all there is.”
As she reached for one stocking, he reached for the other. “May I?” She nodded and he wrapped it around his waist, cinching the back of the blanket tight around his body, leaving the front loose enough to tuck his arms inside if he needed. Then he stood and held out a hand.
She needed more of his help to stand than she’d be comfortable admitting. Or maybe not, he reminded himself; she was sensible. Her skirt came to just above her ankles, her feet more obvious bare than they had been in boots. He could smell blood, but she hadn’t mentioned an injury, so he wouldn’t bring it up. Her jacket fit loosely—ease of removal dominated Aydori fashions. Anything under her skirt and jacket, he had little experience with, but it seemed a reasonable outfit for tromping around the countryside. It smelled of mud, and ash, and crushed plants, and sweat, and girl.
“What? You’re looking at me like it’s the first time you’ve seen me.”
It was, in a way. They hadn’t been Pack before. He shrugged, not wanting to admit to more than she could work out on her own.
She shook her head, then forced her fingers through her hair and used the other stocking to tie it back. When she caught him staring, she almost smiled a true smile with no aggression in it. “I know what you’re thinking; it was in a boot for two days and even I can smell it. But it’s better than having hair fall in my face all night.”
“That wasn’t what I was thinking.”
“Then what?”
He shrugged again, knowing that if he said sensible, she’d misunderstand. Knowing he couldn’t explain and that at some point, according to both Harry and Ryder, girls wanted to hear more than, “You smell amazing.”
After a moment, when she finally realized that was all the answer she was going to get, she rolled her eyes, took a deep breath, and started walking. “Three to four hours to Herdon? All right, let’s do it in three.”
What wind there was came from the northwest, so he fell into step upwind behind her left shoulder. The blanket rubbed a bit, not in a good way, and that helped. He wondered if she was going to talk now they were only walking not charging along the border. His limited experience with young ladies of quality, at least those he wasn’t closely related to, had involved rather a lot of staring over teacups and inane conversations about the weather.
Mirian Maylin walked—limped—as quickly as she could and said nothing at all.
So Tomas said nothing as well for about an hour until he picked up a scent he couldn’t ignore. “Wait. Someone died here.”
“Here?”
“Right there.” Wrapping a hand around her elbow, he tugged her back two paces, and dropped to one knee. The dirt was still damp, the pattern complicated under the bootprints. Tomas could smell blood and guts and horses and steel. “I think he was run over by a coach wheel. More than once.” Rising, he moved forward slowly, following his nose. “They stopped the coaches here. Everyone got out. Stina Menkyzck here.” He ran forward. “Jesine and Annalyse Berin here.” Further. “Danika and Kirstin Yervick here.” He moved off the road to a rough circle where the grass had been crushed under boots. “They gathered together here.” Their scents would be easier to separate from the Imperials if he changed, but none of the women were strangers. “Geoffrey Berin was Hunt Pack. Colonel Menkyzck was a senior officer. The Hunt Pack…”
“I know. I was at the reception when you arrived.”
“Ryder sent Sirlin and Neils Yervick to the front with the 2nd.” Sirlin was a Hagen. Another cousin. He was years older than Jesine, but they were stupidly in love. Jesine had laughed at the age difference and said Healer-mages were always more mature. She was beautiful and Tomas had been a bit in love with her himself.
Mirian had stayed where he’d put her. She was watching him, but he had no idea how well she could see in the dark. “Are they all right?” she asked softly. “No, stupid question; widowed and kidnapped, of course they’re not all right. Are they hurt?”
“They’re all walking. They’re not dripping blood.” He wanted to howl. “Other than that…”
“They’re all walking.” She held out her hand and he went to it, her scent stronger than the lingering evidence his brother’s wife and baby lived. “Let’s go get them.”