Forest of Ruin (22 page)

W
hen Tyrus walked away, the dragon whelp let out another little mewl, its head rising to watch him go.

“He'll be back,” Moria whispered. The dragon leaned against her, keeping warm as Ashyn gingerly approached and reached out a hand to pet the beast.

“You have a dragon now,” Ashyn said, smiling.

Moria chuckled. “It's not mine.”

“Did you truly see a vision of—?” Ashyn broke off and leaned in to hug her sister. “It does not matter. How do you feel?”

“As if I've drunk an entire skin of honey wine.”

Ashyn laughed softly. “You look as if you have, too.” She kissed Moria's forehead. “My sister, curled up with a baby dragon. If I wasn't seeing it, I'd not believe it.”

“The dragon? Or me as a nursemaid?”

“Both seem equally unlikely.”

Moria rubbed her eyes and looked around. “Where are my—?”

Ashyn handed Moria her daggers.

Moria stuck the blades in her belt and shook herself a little, throwing off that oddly intoxicated feeling. The dragon mewled, but only repositioned itself once she stopped moving.

“Zuri,” Ashyn said as she stroked the beast's neck.

“Hmm?”

“Her name is Zuri. The female is the smaller, and Edwyn told me her name is Zuri. He said . . .” Ashyn trailed off, and Moria was about to pursue it, to ask her more about what had happened here, but as soon as Ashyn said the name and looked at the old man's corpse, everything rushed back.

“Alvar . . .” she said. “Tyrus! Gavril! We need to—” Pain ripped through her as she tried to move. The bleeding had stopped, but Gavril's magics could not completely heal her so quickly. “Alvar,” she said again.

“We were just discussing that,” Tyrus said. “All seems quiet beyond the cave, and I would like to think that is a good sign, but if we have not seen Ronan or Dalain . . .”

“Neither Ronan nor Dalain nor any warriors of Alvar and Edwyn,” Ashyn said. “Which means a battle still wages. It has simply moved where we cannot hear it.”

“I'm going out to look around,” Tyrus said, handing a chunk of meat to Gavril.

He started for the exit, but when Zuri saw him leaving, she began to mewl and weakly flap her wings, and tumbled off Moria. She scrambled after the dragon and hissed in fresh
pain. Moria had to stop, and Ashyn went after the dragon, who was trundling along on unsteady legs, trying to get to Tyrus. Zuri snapped at Ashyn, who drew back quickly.

“I'll go,” Gavril said. “There's nothing more I can do for Moria, and that beast is going to give us all trouble if you leave.”

“No,” Tyrus said. “I must lead—”

He stopped short, and in his eyes, Moria saw a thoughtful look, as if perhaps he was reflecting back on what Alvar had said, mocking Gavril for following Tyrus's orders.

They are not their fathers. Yet there are similarities, and they must be careful not to fall into the same traps.

Tyrus took the meat from Gavril. “Yes, you go. Please. Tell them—” He clapped Gavril on the shoulder. “Just be careful.”

Gavril nodded and headed for the doorway.

“Kitsune?” Moria called. When he turned, she said, “Be
very
careful. And stay away from . . .”

“I know,” he said. “I suspect he is long gone. Running from battle is a talent of his. Stay here and rest.”

He left, and Tyrus lifted the small dragon, grunting as he did and saying he did not plan to play dragon-nursemaid himself. Yet he moved her to the fire and took pains settling Zuri and then began cutting meat off the chunk. He tried laying it in front of her. She ignored it, until he was putting down another piece . . . and she snatched it from his hand.

Ashyn laughed. “Apparently, she expects you to feed her, too.”

He sighed, and between bites, Zuri's adoring gaze followed his every move.

“She's imprinted on you,” Ashyn said. “Like a bird.”

He sighed again.

Moria snorted. “It's a
dragon
, Tyrus, not an inconvenient stray kitten. When is the last time that a Tatsu even
saw
an actual dragon?”

He leaned over and mock-whispered, “I know, it's amazing, but I don't want her getting too full of herself.” He looked at the dragon. “You'll need to behave and pull your own weight. Or I'll have the girls put you back to sleep.”

Tyrus shifted to sit against Moria, his arm going around her and pulling her close as he leaned to kiss her cheek. She turned and kissed him back.

“So . . .” Ashyn said. “I've been gone a while, it seems.”

Moria smiled at her. “Just a little.”

“Missed a few things, did I?”

“Just a few.”

Moria could feel her sister's gaze on her, evaluating, assessing, then nodding and smiling. “I'm happy for both of you.”

“Thank you,” Moria said. Then she turned to lean against Tyrus and face her sister. “Tell me what happened.”

“I'm not even sure where to begin.”

“With him,” Moria said, pointing at the dead old man. “Ronan says he told you he was our grandfather?”

“He is not.”

If Moria had already decided she hated the old man for deceiving her sister, hearing the bitterness in Ashyn's voice hardened that to loathing. With the death of their father, they'd lost their connection to their family, to their ancestors and their past. Moria had been able to forget that—there was no time to dwell on it—but she knew how much it had bothered Ashyn.
To not have any family was almost as great a tragedy as the actual loss of their father.

“We do have family, Ash,” she said. “Somewhere. We will find them.”

Her sister managed a smile. “Of course we have family. We have each other.”

“And we'll not be separated again. Now tell me—”

“Later,” said a voice from the entrance as Ronan ran in, breathing hard, Tova and Daigo at his heels. “We need to get out of here.”

Gavril followed him in. “All had gone quiet because Dalain and Ronan were pursuing my father and Edwyn's men. Pursuing them into a trap. I had Sabre climb the tallest tree, and she confirmed it—a small army waits on the horizon. When they realize we've stopped following, they'll march back for us.”

Dalain and Sabre came in. Zuri clearly decided this was far too many strangers, and she rose, her wings extending as she hissed. Tova stopped short, snorting in alarm. Daigo growled.

“That . . . that is a dragon,” Dalain said.

“Brilliant deduction,” Sabre said. “Well, since both you girls are alive, I suppose it didn't need that much blood. My suggestion, though? Let's leave the big one sleeping. Now, if we can please get aboveground before that army arrives?”

“But . . .” Dalain looked at her. “It's a dragon.”

“Yes, dragon.” She jabbed an emphatic finger at the cave exit. “Army. May we go, your lordship?”

“Moria's injured,” Tyrus said. “She cannot—”

“No, I think I can . . .” She pushed to her feet and staggered, Ashyn and Tyrus leaping up to catch her before she fell.

“You cannot, Keeper,” Gavril said as he strode over. “But Sabre is right. We need to move.”

“I can wait here,” Moria said. “I have my daggers and my wildcat. And a dragon.”

Gavril gave her a look. “All of which only means they will be captured
with
you. Then my father can drain the rest of your blood to wake her.” He pointed at the mother dragon.

“Gavril, you should take her,” Ashyn said. “I know you would rather fight, but she'll need someone to help her move to safety. Someone skilled with a blade and with healing magics in case her wound reopens.”

Gavril said he would, and tried not to look relieved. Moria and Ashyn both knew he would rather
not
fight, given who led the opposing army. Her sister was giving him an honorable way out, even if it did mean separating moments after saying they would not. Sadly, no such promises could be given anymore.

They made plans for reuniting. Gavril would get Moria to an abandoned farmhouse they'd passed on the way in, and she would rest there until Ronan came to fetch them. Tyrus would lead the others, fighting or fleeing, depending on the situation.

With both Gavril and Tyrus supporting Moria, they headed out of the cavern, Tyrus giving orders to the others as they walked. As for the dragon . . . when they started to leave, she seemed to have eaten enough to regain her walking strength. Moria had grabbed the hunk of meat and was cutting strips for her as they moved. She hand-fed the dragon—whose head reached her waist—but by the time they got out of the cave, Zuri was using her wings to propel jumps and snatch the strips as soon as Moria cut them.

“Here then,” Moria said, giving her half the rest. “Serve yourself.”

A flurry of teeth and claws and chomps and growls . . . and the chicken-sized hunk of meat was gone.

“Everyone?” Sabre said. “Keep your hands away from the dragon baby.”

When they prepared to separate, Zuri hesitated, looking from Moria to Tyrus. Daigo moved alongside Moria with a grunt that stated his intention to stay with his wounded bond-mate, and Zuri flew to Tyrus.

Partings were quick. Ashyn gingerly embraced Moria and told her to stay safe. Tyrus did the same, adding a kiss. The kiss seemed brief enough, until Sabre told them to hurry it up. Then Gavril put his arm under Moria's and helped her away, Daigo prowling ahead of them, watching for trouble.

T
he camp looked like a battlefield.

B
ecause it was.

A half-dozen bodies lay strewn across the blood-spattered ground. As Gavril led Moria past them, one stirred, his clothes so bloodied she couldn't tell which side he'd fought on, but Gavril lowered Moria to the ground, went over, and ended his suffering without a word. Then he gathered her up and continued on.

Riding in, the farmhouse had seemed so close. Now, as Moria realized exactly how badly she'd been hurt, their destination felt an impossible distance away.

Her side split open again. She felt the blood drip and told herself it was not enough to warrant stopping. Then it began to stream down her side, and she knew she ought to tell Gavril, but that's when they spotted the farmhouse in the distance—and riders on the horizon—and Moria knew if they paused,
those riders would draw close enough to spot them. So she gritted her teeth against the pain and said nothing.

Daigo had been scouting ahead. When he circled back to them, he lifted his black head above the long grass, his nostrils flaring. Then he bounded to Moria and growled.

“I'm fine,” she said.

He growled at Gavril.

“Yes,” Gavril said. “I'm doing something wrong. I have no idea what it is, but I'm sure I am doing something you disapprove of.”

His voice was weary, laced with frustration, and he stared straight ahead, supporting her as he walked. Perhaps wishing he
was
in battle instead of playing nursemaid to a wounded girl?

“Go scout,” Gavril said. “Leave me to get your Keeper to safety. You may disapprove of my methods later.”

Daigo stopped in front of him, so close that Gavril—his gaze on the horizon—nearly tripped over him.

“Blast it, Daigo! Can't you see I'm supporting your Keeper? Trip me and you trip her. Let me get her where we're going.”

Daigo let out a plaintive yowl.

“Keeper?” Gavril said. “Can you please tell your wildcat that blocking my path does not help either of us?”

Moria knew Daigo was trying to tell Gavril that she was wounded, and they needed to stop.

“Daigo, please,” she said. “We're almost there.”

Daigo stalked back into the grass but stayed close, anxiously monitoring their progress.

When they finally reached the farmhouse grounds, Moria's
legs gave out, and she collapsed, dead weight, startling Gavril enough that he dropped her.

“Blast it,” he said, helping her to her feet. “We're almost there. I need you to just take a few more—”

He stopped and slowly withdrew his hand. It was covered in blood.

“No,” he whispered.

He lowered her to the ground, cursing more. He fumbled to open her cloak. It stuck to her side, plastered by blood she could feel soaking her tunic and dripping down her leg.

“No, no, no. Blast it, Keeper! When did this happen? Why didn't you tell me?”

“We could not afford to stop.”

“So we can better afford to have you die from loss of blood?”

He let out a string of curses, the likes of which she'd never have imagined him knowing. When Daigo growled, Gavril spun on him with a snarl of his own.

“Do not blame me, cat. If this is what you were trying to tell me, then you need to have been clearer. If I'd had any idea her wound had reopened, I'd have stopped.”

“We need to get inside,” Moria said, and she meant to speak the words with full authority, but they came out a papery whisper. She blinked hard. “Help me up, and I can walk.”

“You cannot. You should not.” He turned his glower on her. “You are as bad as your wildcat, Keeper. You expect me to know something is wrong, and when I do not—”

“I expected nothing. Now, if we don't get inside, then all this has been for naught.”

“All what?” he said as he scooped her up. “All your bravery?
Is that to be your epitaph, Keeper? She perished because she was too blasted stubborn to . . .”

He continued, but her mind went fuzzy, less euphoria this time and simply a feeling of floating, barely tethered. She blacked out, coming to inside a dark, cool room, his fingers gripping her chin hard enough to make her wince.

“Good,” he said when her eyelids fluttered. “Now keep your eyes open. I don't care how tired you are, I swear if you close your eyes and give me any cause for alarm . . .”

Again, he continued talking. Again, she seemed to float away from his words, thinking,
He's frightened
, and mumbling, “I'm sorry, Kitsune.”

“I don't want apologies. I want you to stay alive. Tyrus entrusted me with your care, and I am not going back to tell him I failed. I will not. Do you understand that?”

“He would not blame you.”

Gavril stopped, his mouth open as if to retort something, and he froze there, not moving, poised over her, his panic palpable.

“I have no intention of passing into the second world, Gavril,” she said, her words oddly calm and measured. “But if I do, Tyrus will not blame you. You needn't worry.”

He blinked hard and swallowed. “I did not mean . . . That is not why . . .” He shot back onto his haunches, the rage finding a fresh target as he said, “If you pass, I will kill my father. I swear by the ancestors and the goddess that I will put a blade through his heart, and I know that should be for everything else he's done, everyone else he's killed, but it won't be. It'll be . . .”

He stopped and rocked, rubbing his face. She looked at him, that oddly distant feeling growing, as if she was divorced from the scene and merely observing it. Observing him. Yet she did feel something, and she could not put a name to it, only looked at him and at his fear and his panic and felt an overwhelming sense of some nameless thing. She reached for his hand and squeezed it weakly and said, “I forgive you.” Then, “For everything.”

From the look on his face, she might as well have spat curses. His eyes went wide and he scrambled to his feet, dropping her hand.

“No,” he said. “No, no, no. Not that, Keeper. You cannot forgive me until I've told you everything, and even then you probably will not, so don't speak the words. I do not wish them, and they are not true. You only say that in case . . .” His voice hitched and he shook his head. “
No
. In case of nothing. You haven't lost that much blood. You will be fine. So there is no need to say anything. I will get you water, and I will heal your wounds, and you will be . . .”

She passed out.