How The Warrior Fell (Falling Warriors series Book 1) (10 page)

Leawyn swallowed as her throat suddenly became uncomfortably dry. She looked away from him and back down to the stallion’s nose that was currently resting against her breast.

“How come?”

Tristan took a step towards her, eying her curiously.

“He’s Xavier’s horse, Killix.”

“Killix.” Leawyn smiled, running her hands down the horse’s velvety nose. Killix let out another content snort. “It suits him.”

Leawyn patted Killix’s muscled neck before stepping away and meeting Tristan’s gaze once again.

“You can go see him now.”

Leawyn hesitated. She was afraid of what she would find inside her tent. She stumbled forward when a nudge was given to her back.

Leawyn turned to see Killix’s big form following her.

“That wasn’t very nice.” Leawyn glared at Killix, who only snorted at her, before she made her way back to the tent.

The heavy hoof-falls assured her Killix was right behind her.

“Is he . . . ?” Leawyn trailed off, staring at the still, sweating form of her husband.

Tyronian sighed as he pushed himself from his kneeling position by the bed to stand next to Leawyn.

“He’s weak. The arrow was poisoned. We got out as much as we could, but only time will tell if we got it all,” Tyronian said grimly, staring at the form of his cousin and leader sadly.

Tyronian sighed and rested his massive hand on Leawyn’s shoulder, making her jump. “I’ll take my leave now.”

Leawyn could only nod, her eyes never leaving her husband’s form.

“Leawyn?”

Leawyn looked to Tyronian, who was staring at her, one hand holding the flap of the tent.

“He needs you now,” Tyronian told her softly. He looked at Xavier’s form lying on the bed before looking back at Leawyn one last time and disappearing outside.

Leawyn stood staring at the space Tyronian occupied a moment ago before she slowly turned around so that she was facing her husband.

She took a slow, measured step towards the bed.

Then another.

Then another.

And another.

Before she knew it, Leawyn was looking down at her husband with a blank expression on her face.

His bare chest was covered in sweat. His breathing was shallow, his chest rising and falling in uneven pants. Dried blood covered him from his hair to his waist. His shoulder was already turning an angry red against the crude bandages covering the wound.

Her hands brushed his forehead, feeling that it was warm. Fever was already starting to set in. Leawyn pulled her hand away, and it was then she noticed the bloody dagger at her feet.

As if in a trance, Leawyn picked it up, holding it in front of her face. She glanced back down to her husband. Her eyes narrowed, her brows creased together. Her lips thinned into a tight line. Her breast rose and fell with ragged pants as she held her shaking hand out, the dagger glistening off the fire light as she held it against his throat.

It would be so easy . . .

So easy to end his life and make her escape. Leawyn would be free from his terrible treatment. She could run away. She could save herself. Take Deydrey, and run.

Leawyn pressed the dagger into Xavier’s skin, watching in fascination as beads of blood slowly swelled and dripped off the blade.

Do it,
her mind whispered.
Save yourself. He deserves it.

All she had to do was move her wrist, and she’d slit his throat.

Leawyn exhaled shakily and pulled her hand away, the dagger clattering to the floor. With a deep, mournful sigh, she sat down heavily beside Xavier on the bed, her shoulders sagging as the tension left her.

She picked up the wet rag from the basin of water beside the bed and lightly wiped the beads of blood away from her husband’s throat, and then started to dab it all over his head and body, trying to relieve his fever.

She was going to regret this.

T
HE VILLAGE WAS
on fire.

All around him was chaos, the screams of the women in the village almost drowned out the clashing of metal as the warriors defended themselves against the men attacking them. It was a fierce battle, but the Izayges tribe was filled with the fiercest warriors of Samaria, and they would not go down easily.

Xavier looked around wildly, taking in the scene around him as he tried desperately to locate his father or mother. He was on the verge of panic when he finally spotted his father fighting with a massive man wielding a huge hammer.

His father’s clothes were almost as bloody as the sword he wielded, his face locked in a look of concentration. Though the man his father was fighting was big, Xavier knew his father was going to slay him.

It only took a minute more before Xavier’s father ducked under the swing of the hammer and sprung up, spinning his body around, and with ease, delivered the finishing blow by severing his head.

Xavier’s relief was cut short when his eyes spotted the man behind his father. An arrow aimed straight at him.

“Father!” Xavier screamed loudly, running to him as fast as his seven-year-old legs could carry him.

Xavier’s father whipped his head around, eyes darting through chaos around him before he spotted Xavier running towards him.

“Behind you!” Xavier screamed again, but his warning came too late.

Xavier watched in horror as the man holding the bow released the arrow and pierced his father’s back.

Xavier’s father raised his eyes to his son’s, looking at him for what Xavier knew would be the last time.

Goroth, Xavier’s father, looked up as a shadow fell over him, staring at the man in the eyes to bravely meet his fate. His attacker smiled, his rotten teeth showing as he readied another arrow to Goroth’s head for the finishing blow.

“NO!”

Xavier let out a scream of pained anger as he swung a sword at the legs of his father’s attacker, cutting them deeply.

The man bellowed as he fell forward, catching himself with one hand on the ground. He slowly turned his head to look at Xavier, his lips curling above his rotten teeth in a deadly snarl. Xavier swallowed thickly, raising the sword up in front of him and trying not to show his fear as the man stalked towards him.

He swatted Xavier’s sword away easily and grabbed him by the throat, lifting him until their eyes met.

“Foolish boy,” he snarled, tightening his grasp on Xavier’s throat. “Now you die!”

The man raised his sword high over his head, ready to cut Xavier in half when he suddenly jerked. Pain flashed across his face as he dropped Xavier.

Xavier crumbled to the ground. He jerked back up, only to watch the man fall face forward as his uncle pulled out his sword from the barbarian’s back.

Xavier scrambled to his feet and ran to his father, skidding on the grass to kneel in front of him.

“Father?” Xavier asked shakily, putting his hand on his father’s shoulder.

His father looked up at him weakly, blood soaked his chest and spilled over his lip.

“Take care of your mother,” his father gasped out, blood spitting out with each word he spoke.

“I will, Father,” Xavier promised thickly. He held his father’s eyes and watched as the life disappeared behind them, replaced with emptiness.

Xavier bowed his head. A firm hand was placed on his shoulder, and he looked up into his uncle’s grave face.

“Find your mother, and get out of here as fast you can,” Xavier’s uncle told him sternly. “Hurry!” he shouted, throwing Xavier forward just before he managed to block another sword coming down at them.

Xavier raced forward, dodging fighting bodies in his search for mother.

By the time the battle was over, all the invading men were either dead or driven away.

Xavier stared down at the corpse in front of him impassively. The arrow protruding from the man’s throat was a sure sign he was dead.

His mother’s bow was still clenched in his tiny hand. The battle won wasn’t without a price.

That day, both of Xavier’s parents died.

He failed. He broke the last promise he’d made to his father.

That day, Xavier made his first kill at seven years old

That day was the day Xavier lost his innocence and became the youngest and fiercest warrior in Izayges history.

H
E HAD A FEVER.

Leawyn stared at her husband as she lightly rubbed the cool cloth over his hot and sweaty forehead. His condition had grown progressively worse since he was brought in four days ago. The arrow wound was ghastly; the red and black edges of the burn inflicted by Tyronian and Tristan to stop the bleeding were now covered in green puss.

Signs of infection.

Though no one said anything, Leawyn could tell they did not think he would survive.

It was all over their faces.

She leaned back and wiped an arm across her forehead and sighed. Her eyes closed in exhaustion. She had been awake all night caring for her abusive husband. Why?

She still had no idea.

Her eyes opened at the sound of a low moan. Her attention turned back to Xavier.

He was moaning in his sleep, his eyes flickering back and forth behind his closed lids. He was thrashing slightly, his hands clenched in tight fists.

Leawyn watched him for a moment, her brows creasing. He gave another moan, jerking forward in the bed as if he were struggling against something. She leaned forward, tilting her head to the side to listen to his quiet mumbling, trying to make sense of the words.

“Mother . . . !”

She jerked in surprise at his coarse shout.

“No . . . ! Please . . .”

At that tortured whisper, Leawyn couldn’t take it anymore. She leaned back and softly ran her hands through his sweaty and matted hair. When he continued to moan and thrash, without thinking, she started to sing softly under her breath.

Go home,

be free.

Like a swift breeze across the rolling green planes,

to the mighty mountain range.