The Winter King (45 page)

The storm her unruly weathergift had summoned wasn’t helping any. Powerful gusts of wind sent the treetops swaying in all directions, and Khamsin, clinging to the uppermost branches of the spruce, was whipping back and forth through the sky like a ball on a spring. Branches from her own and surrounding trees slapped at her as the spruce swayed, raising welts and scratches on her exposed skin and threatening to knock her from her perch. To make matters worse, freezing rain was rapidly coating the tree branches in layers of slippery ice.

With each passing moment, her perch became more precarious.

A sudden, hard gust of wind bent the top of her spruce tree sideways and smacked her into the branches of a nearby fir. The blow knocked her back. Her feet slipped out from under her, and her mittened hands lost their grip on the slippery, ice-coated spruce branch. She began to slide down the branch, which bent beneath her weight the farther down its length she slipped.

Luckily, she managed to wedge one foot against a knot on the branch below and use that foothold to stop her slide. She clung to her new position and took several deep breaths to calm her racing heart.

As the daze of adrenaline faded, another gust of wind sent the fir and spruce smacking against each other again, their branches tangling together for several seconds, then pulling back apart.

The scowl faded from her face.

An idea blossomed.

A desperate, stupid, reckless idea, granted, but at this point, she was out of options. If she wanted to live, she was going to have to jump. As in let go of the spruce branch she was clinging to for dear life and leap through the air, eighty feet above a boulder-strewn ground, into the branches of one of the nearby trees.

And pray to all the gods that (a) those branches would be strong and supple enough to bear her weight, and (b) that she would actually be able to grab and hold on to them instead of plunging to her death.

Khamsin heaved out a breath. “Well, Kham, you may die either way, but as Roland always said, ‘It’s better to die swinging your sword than cowering behind it.’ ”

She glanced down at the rapidly approaching
garm,
then up at the dark, roiling sky. She fed the storm a little more power, only this time she tried to use that power to direct the storm’s gusting winds. Not an easy task. Wind had a mind of its own.

Whether because of her effort or in spite of it, the wind shifted direction again. The fir tree that had knocked her out of the spruce now smacked into her once more.

At the same time, a loud growl sounded below her. Icy cold shivered down her back, and the spruce needles on either side of her suddenly crackled and went white with frost. The branch beneath her feet shuddered.

Her time was up. The
garm
had reached her. If she didn’t jump now, she wouldn’t get a second chance.

The trees were already springing apart, the distance between them widening rapidly. She released the spruce and pushed off with her feet, diving towards the fir.

The
garm
screamed.

Waves of paralyzing sound enveloped her. Her feet and calves lost sensation as the scream’s accompanying vapor made contact. The freezing effect crept rapidly up her body, overtaking her thighs, her waist, her chest. It took all the effort Kham could muster to fight off the brain-scrambling effects of the
garm
’s scream and will the fingers of one hand to close around a thin fir branch. She held on tight as the fir sprang back and yanked her beyond the reach of the
garm
’s freezing cloud.

A furious howl burst from the monster’s throat.

Khamsin clung to the fir with all her might, but as the tree straightened, her branch cracked. She fell, crashing through the nest of the thin branches near the top of the fir. Her arms flailed, and she clutched at any and every thing within her reach. A branch caught her behind the backs of her still-frozen knees and flipped her upside down. Another smacked into her shoulder and spun her right side up. Tumbling helplessly, she crashed down through the thicket of branches towards the ground.

A last branch caught her thighs and spun her around. Then there was nothing but air and a thick, white blanket of snow rushing up to meet her. She landed hard on her back. All the air left her lungs on a painful whoosh, and she lay there, dazed and aching and gasping for breath as a hail of ice chips, bark, and fir needles showered down upon her.

Get up, Kham. Get up! Move or you’re dead.

Kham rolled to her knees, pushed herself to her feet, then nearly fainted when a stabbing pain radiated up her right leg. Her skirts were ripped near her thigh, the edges of the fabric dark with blood.

She pulled the ripped edges of her skirts apart with trembling hands, afraid of what she would see. A deep, six-inch furrow scored the flesh of her thigh. Blood dripped down her leg.

A loud rustle and the sound of snapping twigs in the trees overhead made her glance up.

She swore again, this time choosing one of Krysti’s more colorful and inventive curses. The
garm
had leapt from the spruce to a nearby fir and was quickly making its descent.

Khamsin scanned her surroundings with desperate eyes. She had no weapons. Between her sprained ankle and the wound on her leg, she couldn’t run, and standing her ground was out of the question. Even if she stoked the storm overhead, she’d lose control of it before it became powerful enough to be of any use to her. Her only chance was to reach the caves behind the frozen waterfall, scuttle deep into the narrow tunnels, and pray the
garm
couldn’t chew through rock the way it did tree branches.

She took off at a fast hobble towards the frozen lake. With each ungainly step, pain shot through the entire right side of her body. Shadows and stars swirled at the edge of her vision.

As she reached the edge of the skating pond, a heavy thud sounded behind her. She glanced over her shoulder. The
garm
had reached the ground and was racing after her, its enormous legs eating up the distance between them. A trail of brilliant scarlet drops stained the snow behind her.

She gritted her teeth and hobbled faster, slipping and sliding across the ice. The frozen waterfall lay before her. Behind the glittering crystalline icicles, she could see the black stone of the cliffs and the darker shadow of the cave opening.

The thick ice covering the lake groaned and cracked as the
garm
leapt onto its silvery surface and ran towards her.

Desperate, Kham dove for the cave opening, sliding across the last few feet of frozen pond. She grabbed at chunks of ice and stone with her left hand and kicked at the pond’s frozen surface with her right foot in an effort to drag herself to safety. Rivulets of icy water dripped down on her from the waterfall, soaking her hair and the skin of her neck as she passed beneath it. She pulled and kicked, dragging and propelling her body farther back into the long cave where Wynter and his brother had played as children.

The
garm
had reached the cave’s mouth. Khamsin rolled on her back, plugged her ears, and kept pushing with her good leg to shove herself deeper into the cave as the
garm
shrieked, spewed its freezing vapor, and ripped at ice and rock in an effort to get to her.

Her boots went white with frost, and she lost all feeling in her toes. She screamed and kicked at the
garm
’s nasal slits, its eyes, its jaw, trying desperately to land as many blows as she could while avoiding the rows of deadly, gnashing teeth.

“Get away from me, you Hel-cursed monster!” she screamed. “Get away!” She slammed the heel of her boot into the beast’s nasal slits and pushed off. Her good hand closed around a sharp edge of stone. Warm blood filled her palm as the stone sliced her skin, but she tightened her grip and yanked herself a few more inches deeper into the caves.

Suddenly, the
garm
went still. The sensory hairs on the back of its head flattened, pointing in the direction of the cave opening. It tried to turn, but the cave mouth was too small for the
garm
to maneuver, so with one last snarl and a halfhearted attempt to bite her feet, the beast began backing out of the cave.

Kham heard a roar—deep and furious—then the
garm
jerked and screamed like she’d never heard anything scream before. Its eyes rolled. Its head, chest, and forelegs shook and writhed. Then a frothy, blue liquid gushed from its mouth and nasal slits, and it collapsed, tongue lolling across rows of razor-sharp teeth.

A moment later, the
garm
’s body started sliding backward as someone or something dragged it out of the cave. Light flared briefly, then a new shadow blocked out the filtered sunlight shining through the cave’s mouth.

“Khamsin? Are you there? Are you hurt?”

Wynter.
Khamsin collapsed, shaking, on the damp stone floor.

“I’m h-here,” she tried to say, but to her embarrassment, her voice cracked, her throat closed up. A sob broke past her lips. Horrified, she clapped a trembling hand over her mouth to stifle the sound, only to sob again in complete mortification at the feel of warm wetness trickling from the corners of her eyes.

She was crying.
Crying!
Like some weak, spineless coward.

In front of him.

The shame of it burned like a fiery spear to the heart.

His cool hands ran gently up her legs, pausing briefly as they encountered the bloody wound on her thigh. “I have to get you out of here. Tell me if I hurt you.”

He gripped her hips and pulled her towards him. Each bump and scrape across the uneven stone floor made her wounds throb with pain, but Khamsin would die before making another sound. As he pulled her towards the mouth of the cave, she hastily scrubbed away her tears and flung an arm over her face to hide her reddened eyes and blotchy skin. The thought of Wynter’s seeing her so weak and weepy was more than she could bear.

With such gentleness he nearly made her cry anew, Wynter checked her bones for breaks and inspected the wound on her thigh. She heard rustling followed by the distinct sound of ripping. Curious, she peeked out beneath her arm and saw him using his hunting dagger to slice long strips of leather from the bottom of his vest. He braided the strips into a multistrand leather rope, then sliced a long rectangle of fabric from his linen undershirt. He folded the linen into a pad and placed it over her wound.

“Forgive me,
min ros.
This may hurt, but that cut is deep. I’ve got to stop the bleeding.”

Wynter slipped the braided leather rope under her leg and tied the makeshift bandage securely in place. The pressure on the wound sent pain spearing up Kham’s leg, and her body jerked in instinctive recoil. Then the stab of agony passed, and her multitude of wounds began throbbing again.

“Are you hurt anywhere else?”

“M-my b-b-back.” As shock set in, her body began to shake.

He pulled her into a sitting position, cradling her against one side of his chest as he inspected the deep furrows scoring her back. “Did the
garm
do this?”

She tried to speak, to tell him what had happened, but the words wouldn’t come out. All she could do was shake her head and tremble from head to toe.

Quickly, he made a second bandage and tied it in place over her back. Then his arms closed around her, muscles bunching with effortless strength as he gathered her up and held her close. She felt the cool press of his lips against her hair, breathed his crisp, woodsy scent. His heart was beating so fast and so loud, she could hear it through the thick layers of cloth, fur, and leather he’d donned for the Great Hunt.

The tears she’d fought so hard to battle back welled up again. She gave a choked sob and turned her face into his chest, gripping the fur of his outer vest in one fist and clutching his shoulder in the other as she utterly broke down and began sobbing against him.

His arms tightened further. “
Hössa, min stiarna.
The
garm
is dead. It cannot hurt you anymore.” His voice sounded gentler than she’d ever heard it before. Steady, soothing, almost a croon. His kindness only made her cry harder.

“She s-said it was a trap . . . that they meant to kill you . . .”

“Who? Who told you someone was trying to kill me?” When she only sobbed and burrowed deeper against him, Wynter’s fingers brushed against her damp cheek. “Look at me, Khamsin.”

She shook her head. She didn’t want to look at him.

Anger was her defense, the familiar wall of volatility and destruction she’d always used to keep the world at bay, to keep pain and tears at bay. Even as a child, when Tildy had rocked and soothed her over some wound or emotional hurt inflicted by King Verdan, a core of rebellious anger deep inside Khamsin had continued to smolder, giving her strength, shielding the most vulnerable part of her.

But how could she muster a protective shell of rebellion when Wynter gave her nothing to rebel against?

“Khamsin, look at me,” he repeated, and his tone was one of such calm, relentless implacability, she couldn’t deny him.

Her tear-spiked lashes fluttered. His face came into focus. His eyes so pale and piercing in the masculine, golden-skinned beauty of his face, regarded her with unblinking steadiness. Long, white hair blew about his head and shoulders like ribbons of snow.

“Reika,” she admitted. Her gaze dropped and her fingers plucked at fur of his vest. “I shouldn’t have believed her. It was stupid of me. But—but I . . . She said . . .” Kham’s voice trailed off.

“She said someone meant to kill me on the Hunt?” he concluded for her.

She caught her lower lip between her teeth and nodded. “To keep Rorjak from returning.”

“And you came to warn me?”

She nodded again.

“Why?” His voice had gone husky.

She shivered. The question danced across her skin like the electric purple glow that came when she called the lightning.

Such a dangerous word, “why.” Because so often its answer led to places a person didn’t want to go. Vulnerable places.