Cannek spread his hands in a gesture of impotence. The knives that lay along his forearms pointed out at an angle.
‘I am not sure you can prevent them, unless you wish to do so by force. As I say, they are already on the move. And... well, I dislike being the bearer of unwelcome news, but that na’kyrim of yours, who put on such a performance in the halclass="underline" he is with them.’
‘Aeglyss is not mine,’ Kanin snapped. ‘I thought he was in his sickbed.’
‘So he was,’ agreed Cannek. ‘The woodwights were caring for him, I believe. Anyway, he seems to have recovered. Enough to ride with them on the pursuit, at least.’
Kanin kicked the chair and sent it spinning across the room. Cannek watched it go with a neutral expression.
‘He wants the other na’kyrim,’ Kanin said. ‘I want the girl. If Aeglyss gets in your way, kill him too.’
Orisian leaned against the bole of a great oak. He fought the urge to vomit. The wound in his flank was throbbing, and he feared he had torn the new flesh there. The pain, and the head-spinning exhaustion he felt, had brought on waves of nausea. Never in his life had he run so far and fast.
Their flight from the river had been punishing. Varryn set a stern pace. His features showed little hint of it, but Orisian knew the Kyrinin was frustrated at their slowness. There was nothing to be done about that. At the best of times, no human could match the night vision of a Kyrinin, or their speed through the darkness. As it was, Orisian was hampered by the imperfectly healed wound in his side, Anyara was already weary and, most of all, there was the fact that Rothe was carrying Inurian in his arms.
The fighting by the river had been over quickly. Ess’yr and Varryn, with Rothe close behind them, had darted into the darkness. Orisian held Anyara. Even as he registered Inurian’s slumped form at his feet, the indistinct sounds of struggle reached him. There were fierce impacts, stifled cries and grunts, then a fearful, leaden silence. Rothe reappeared first. He turned this way and that, his unbloodied sword ready.
‘I couldn’t find them,’ he muttered. ‘Too dark for me.’
Ess’yr and her brother returned. The two of them whispered to one another, and then Ess’yr gave a sharp nod.
‘To the forest,’ she said. She was distracted in a way Orisian had not seen before, as if her thoughts were elsewhere. ‘One escaped. Many spears will come soon.’
‘We must get to Anduran . . .’ Rothe started to say.
‘You will die,’ Varryn said.
‘There is nothing left in Anduran,’ said Anyara, and that had been the end of it.
Rothe stepped forwards to carry Inurian as soon as it was obvious that he could not stand, let alone run. Ess’yr snapped the shaft of the arrow in the na’kyrim’s back. Inurian groaned. Orisian felt an awful emptiness at the sound.
‘Shouldn’t we get the arrow out of him?’ Anyara asked him.
‘Not now,’ said Varryn before Orisian could reply. And with that he was off, plunging into the night.
Orisian kept as close to Anyara as he could. He longed to speak with his sister, to ask her what had happened since that terrible night at Kolglas, but there was not a moment to catch breath. He could only stay by her, make sure she knew he was there.
Now, panting and aching amidst the first trees of the forest, it was a struggle for him to stay on his feet. Varryn and Ess’yr stood together, gazing back the way they had come. Anyara flung herself down at the base of a tree nearby, her head resting against its bark, rasping breaths rushing in and out of her. Rothe laid Inurian down on the turf, and sat beside the na’kyrim. The shieldman’s great frame was hunched and shrunken, his arms hanging limp. Orisian stumbled over and knelt next to him.
‘Are you all right?’ he managed to ask.
Rothe nodded. Even in the gloom, Orisian could see that his shoulders were heaving as the big man struggled to regain his breath.
‘Inurian?’ Orisian asked.
‘Still lives,’ Rothe said. ‘But he is badly hurt. I’m sorry.’
A sudden flapping sound, and a shape leaping towards him, made Orisian cry out. A scrap of the blackest shadow swept down from amongst the trees and folded itself noisily on to the ground. Rothe too had started away, but then there was a sharp croaking noise, and the shieldman gave a pained laugh.
‘It’s that cursed crow,’ he muttered.
Anyara came over. ‘Idrin. It’s Idrin. He followed us all the way.’
And then, as the very first smudge of light appeared in the sky, she told them what had happened. Neither Rothe nor Orisian, nor the two Kyrinin when they came and squatted down to listen, said a word as she spoke of Inkallim and White Owls, of Aeglyss the na’kyrim and Kanin the Bloodheir. When she had finished Orisian told his own tale.
They were quiet for a little time. Ess’yr crouched at Inurian’s side. She laid a hand upon his cheek. They could all see that the na’kyrim ‘s face was tight and washed out of any trace of colour. His breath rustled. There was an extraordinary tenderness in Ess’yr’s touch upon his face and the still, strange set of her expression. For some reason he could not quite identify, that scene—the Kyrinin woman and the ailing na’kyrim, the leafless trees crowded round and the midnight-black crow that stood close by its master, all illuminated by the tenuous, mournful morning light—made Orisian’s heart ache acutely. He turned away.
Varryn roused himself. Almost hidden amidst the densely woven tattoos, there was a grave look upon the Kyrinin’s face as he regarded his sister.
‘We must move,’ he said. ‘We lose time.’
‘Perhaps they are not following,’ said Orisian, craving even a few more moments’ rest.
It was Ess’yr who replied, though she did not raise her eyes from Inurian’s pale face. ‘We killed three,’ she said. ‘They will come.’
‘We go higher,’ Varryn told them. ‘Then follow the sun. Back to the vo’an.’
‘Wait,’ snapped Orisian. He could feel a sudden surge of anger colouring his cheeks. He was tired, and for this moment at least did not want to be ordered about by Varryn. ‘We have to think. Rothe, we have to head for Glasbridge now, don’t we?’
‘There’s nowhere else, if Anduran’s taken.’
‘We could try for the road, follow it down.’
‘Perhaps, but not yet. Better to keep to the trees until we’re further south. If we can get close enough to Sirian’s Dyke, we could make a run for it, join the road there. They can’t have taken the Dyke yet?’ He looked questioningly at Anyara. She shrugged.
‘All right,’ said Orisian. He was avoiding Varryn’s gaze now, afraid that if he met the Kyrinin’s eyes he might falter. ‘We’ll do that. We stay together until then. What about Inurian? Can we get the arrow out?’
‘Leave it,’ said Ess’yr, and though her voice was calm it was firm. ‘He dies if it moves.’
It drained Orisian’s assertiveness away. He looked at Ess’yr, and saw how her hand lay on Inurian’s chest, like a mother’s on her sick child.
‘Rothe, can you carry him further?’ he asked quietly, and the shieldman nodded.
Varryn and Ess’yr led, as always. Sometimes they ran, sometimes they slowed to a long-strided walk. Much of the time, they were travelling uphill. Orisian noted it, and knew it was adding to the distance they had to cover to Sirian’s Dyke, but he said nothing. It took all his energy to keep moving forwards. In any case, he could see the sense in putting more rough ground between them and any pursuers. It might not make a difference—his father’s shieldmen used to say that a White Owl could follow the trail left by a wind-borne leaf—but any chance was better than none.
Orisian’s legs had nothing left to give him and he could see that Anyara had passed into a place where will alone kept her from falling. Rothe’s breathing was becoming tortured, as if each step drained the air out of him. On they went, in spite of it all.