The Weight of a Wounded Escape
The cage rattled when the next catapult stone struck the fortress wall, and this time the sound carried a note of finality. Elias heard the crack of stone giving way, a deep groan that traveled through the earth like a dying animal’s last breath. Dust filtered down from the ceiling of the command tent, settling on his shoulders like a premonition.
Captain Rourke stood at the tent’s entrance, silhouetted against the orange glow of burning siege engines. His armor was dented, his left arm bound in a blood-stained sling, and his eyes had taken on the hollow look of a man who had watched too many of his soldiers die. He stared at Elias for a long moment, then spat on the ground.
“Your clans are breaking through the eastern breach,” Rourke said. “The General wants you moved to the rear lines.”
Elias lifted his chained wrists, the iron biting into skin already raw from six days of captivity. “And where exactly are the rear lines? Behind the baggage train? Or perhaps you’ll chain me to a supply wagon and let the mountain wolves have me?”
Rourke’s good hand twitched toward his sword. “You talk too much for a man in chains.”
“I talk exactly the right amount for a man who knows he’s about to die either way.” Elias leaned back against the cage bars, feeling the vibration of another impact through the metal. “The question is whether you want me alive when the clans break through, or whether you want to explain to Voss why his only guide through the mountains is lying dead in a pool of his own blood.”
The captain’s jaw tightened. He gestured to two soldiers who had been hovering near the tent flap, and they moved forward with the reluctant obedience of men who had seen too much death to care about one more. One of them unlocked the cage door while the other kept his crossbow trained on Elias’s chest.
“On your feet,” Rourke said.
Elias rose slowly, his joints protesting after days of being curled in the cramped space. The chains connecting his wrists allowed him only a foot of movement, and the weight of them pulled at his shoulders. He shuffled forward, and the soldiers fell in on either side of him, their hands resting on their weapons.
The camp outside the tent was a study in controlled chaos. Fires burned in a dozen places, some from cookpots, some from the flaming debris that the fortress defenders had lobbed over the walls. Wounded men lay in rows near the surgeons’ tent, their cries a constant backdrop to the shouts of officers trying to reorganize shattered units. The smell of blood and smoke and fear hung over everything like a shroud.
Elias counted the soldiers he passed. Two hundred, maybe fewer, where there had once been nearly a thousand. The clans had bled Voss’s army dry, and the siege had done the rest. He felt a grim satisfaction at the numbers, tempered by the knowledge that he was still trapped in the middle of it.
They had nearly reached the baggage train when the first arrow took the soldier on Elias’s left. The man made a wet, surprised sound and crumpled, his crossbow clattering against the stones. The second soldier spun, raising his weapon, but a second arrow caught him in the throat before he could fire.
Rourke shouted something, drawing his sword, but the chaos was already spreading. More arrows rained down from the darkness beyond the camp’s edge, and Elias heard the distinctive war cries of the mountain clans—high, keening sounds that seemed to come from everywhere at once.
“They’re inside the perimeter!” someone screamed.
Elias dropped to his knees, making himself as small a target as possible. The chains clanked against the ground, and he scrambled toward the cover of an overturned supply cart, his heart pounding against his ribs. This was the moment. Serai had promised she would come, but he hadn’t allowed himself to believe it until now.
A hand grabbed his shoulder, and he twisted, expecting Rourke’s blade. Instead, he found himself staring into Serai’s fierce brown eyes, her face streaked with war paint and her short sword dripping blood.
“Move,” she said, hauling him to his feet. “We have maybe two minutes before they close the gap.”
She didn’t wait for an answer. She dragged him through the chaos, her warriors appearing from the shadows to form a protective ring around them. Elias stumbled along, his chains making every step awkward, his eyes fixed on the dark opening of a drainage culvert that led beneath the camp’s perimeter.
An arrow whistled past his ear, close enough that he felt the wind of its passing. Serai yanked him sideways, and he nearly fell, his shoulder slamming into a wooden crate. Pain flared through his arm, but he kept moving, driven by the primal need to escape.
They reached the culvert just as a group of Voss’s soldiers rounded a burning tent, their swords drawn. Serai shoved Elias into the opening, and he landed hard on his hands and knees, the chains scraping against the stone. Behind him, he heard the clash of steel as her warriors turned to meet the threat.
“Go!” Serai shouted. “Don’t stop until you reach the river!”
Elias crawled forward, the darkness swallowing him. The culvert was narrow, barely wide enough for his shoulders, and the rough stone scraped his back as he moved. He could hear the sounds of battle behind him, growing fainter with each foot of progress, replaced by the drip of water and the scuttle of unseen creatures.
His chains caught on a protruding rock, and he had to stop, fumbling in the dark to free himself. His fingers were slick with sweat, and the iron seemed determined to hold him fast. He pulled harder, feeling the metal bite into his wrists, and finally the chain came free with a sharp jerk that sent him sprawling forward.
He lay there for a moment, breathing hard, listening to the distant sounds of the battle. The culvert smelled of damp earth and something older, something that might have been bones. He forced himself to his feet, hunched over in the confined space, and continued forward.
The tunnel seemed to go on forever. Elias lost track of time, measuring his progress only by the increasing chill of the air and the growing sound of rushing water. His legs ached, his wrists burned, and every breath tasted of dust and fear. But he kept moving, because stopping meant dying, and he had come too far to die in a drainage ditch.
Finally, the tunnel opened into a wider space, and Elias found himself standing in a shallow stream that ran beneath the camp’s outer wall. Moonlight filtered through the gaps in the stone above, casting pale stripes across the water. He waded forward, the cold numbing his feet, until he emerged into the open air.
The river was fifty yards ahead, a dark ribbon winding through the valley. Beyond it, the forest rose like a wall of shadow, and Elias knew that safety lay somewhere in those trees. He took a step toward the water, and his legs buckled beneath him.
He hit the ground hard, his face pressing into the mud, and for a moment he simply lay there, too exhausted to move. The chains were a dead weight on his wrists, and his body felt like it had been beaten with clubs. He had escaped, but he had nothing left.
A hand gripped his collar and hauled him upright. Serai stood over him, her face bloodied, her sword still drawn. Behind her, only three of her warriors remained, and all of them looked like they had been through a meat grinder.
“You’re hurt,” she said, her eyes scanning him for wounds.
“I’m alive,” Elias managed. “That’s more than I expected.”
She didn’t smile. She grabbed his arm and pulled him toward the river, her warriors forming a loose screen around them. “The river will cover our tracks. We need to move before Voss sends riders after us.”
Elias stumbled along beside her, his feet finding purchase on the slick stones. The water was cold enough to steal his breath when they waded in, and the current tugged at his legs, threatening to sweep him off his feet. Serai kept a firm grip on his arm, guiding him toward the far bank.
They were halfway across when the first arrow struck the water beside them. Serai cursed and pulled him faster, and Elias felt the sting of a second arrow grazing his shoulder, tearing through his tunic and drawing blood. He stumbled, and the current took him, sweeping him downstream.
The world became a chaos of water and darkness. Elias tumbled, his chains tangling around him, the river filling his mouth and nose. He fought against the current, but it was too strong, and he was too weak. He felt himself sinking, the cold closing over his head.
Then a hand grabbed his collar again, hauling him upward. He broke the surface, coughing and gasping, and found himself being dragged toward the bank. Serai’s voice was in his ear, sharp and urgent, but he couldn’t make out the words. He just held on, letting her pull him to safety.
They collapsed on the muddy bank, Elias on his back, staring up at the stars. His chest heaved, and blood seeped from the wound in his shoulder, but he was alive. He was alive, and he was free.
Serai knelt beside him, her hand pressing against his wound. “You’re bleeding too much. We need to get you to the fortress.”
Elias shook his head, the motion making the world spin. “No. I can’t go back.”
“You can’t stay here either.” She tore a strip of cloth from her tunic and bound his shoulder with practiced efficiency. “The General will send men after us. You’ll be dead by morning if we don’t move.”
“I know.” Elias forced himself to sit up, gritting his teeth against the pain. “But I can’t go to the fortress. Not yet.”
Serai’s eyes narrowed. “Why not?”
Elias looked past her, toward the distant glow of the burning camp. Somewhere in that chaos, General Voss was still alive, still commanding his shattered army. And as long as he lived, the war would continue.
“Because I have to finish this,” Elias said. “I didn’t escape just to hide behind the fortress walls. I need to go back.”
Serai stared at him for a long moment, her expression unreadable. Then she laughed, a short, bitter sound. “You’re insane. You know that?”
“I’ve been told.” Elias climbed to his feet, swaying slightly. The wound in his shoulder throbbed, but he forced himself to stand straight. “But I didn’t come this far to run away. Voss has to be stopped, and I’m the only one who knows how.”
“How?” Serai demanded. “You’re a mapmaker, not a soldier. You can barely stand.”
“I know his weaknesses.” Elias touched the torn map hidden in his tunic, the half he had kept when he’d split it all those weeks ago. “I know where he’ll be, and I know how to get there. I just need someone to help me reach the fortress walls.”
Serai was silent for a long moment, her eyes searching his face. Then she sheathed her sword and nodded.
“Fine,” she said. “But if you die, I’m leaving your body for the crows.”
Elias managed a weak smile. “That’s the most encouraging thing anyone has said to me all day.”
They moved into the forest, the three surviving warriors following in silence. Behind them, the glow of the burning camp faded into the darkness, and the sounds of battle grew distant. Elias kept his eyes fixed on the path ahead, his hand pressed against the map hidden in his tunic.
He had escaped the cage, but the real fight was only beginning.
Captain Rourke stood at the tent’s entrance, silhouetted against the orange glow of burning siege engines. His armor was dented, his left arm bound in a blood-stained sling, and his eyes had taken on the hollow look of a man who had watched too many of his soldiers die. He stared at Elias for a long moment, then spat on the ground.
“Your clans are breaking through the eastern breach,” Rourke said. “The General wants you moved to the rear lines.”
Elias lifted his chained wrists, the iron biting into skin already raw from six days of captivity. “And where exactly are the rear lines? Behind the baggage train? Or perhaps you’ll chain me to a supply wagon and let the mountain wolves have me?”
Rourke’s good hand twitched toward his sword. “You talk too much for a man in chains.”
“I talk exactly the right amount for a man who knows he’s about to die either way.” Elias leaned back against the cage bars, feeling the vibration of another impact through the metal. “The question is whether you want me alive when the clans break through, or whether you want to explain to Voss why his only guide through the mountains is lying dead in a pool of his own blood.”
The captain’s jaw tightened. He gestured to two soldiers who had been hovering near the tent flap, and they moved forward with the reluctant obedience of men who had seen too much death to care about one more. One of them unlocked the cage door while the other kept his crossbow trained on Elias’s chest.
“On your feet,” Rourke said.
Elias rose slowly, his joints protesting after days of being curled in the cramped space. The chains connecting his wrists allowed him only a foot of movement, and the weight of them pulled at his shoulders. He shuffled forward, and the soldiers fell in on either side of him, their hands resting on their weapons.
The camp outside the tent was a study in controlled chaos. Fires burned in a dozen places, some from cookpots, some from the flaming debris that the fortress defenders had lobbed over the walls. Wounded men lay in rows near the surgeons’ tent, their cries a constant backdrop to the shouts of officers trying to reorganize shattered units. The smell of blood and smoke and fear hung over everything like a shroud.
Elias counted the soldiers he passed. Two hundred, maybe fewer, where there had once been nearly a thousand. The clans had bled Voss’s army dry, and the siege had done the rest. He felt a grim satisfaction at the numbers, tempered by the knowledge that he was still trapped in the middle of it.
They had nearly reached the baggage train when the first arrow took the soldier on Elias’s left. The man made a wet, surprised sound and crumpled, his crossbow clattering against the stones. The second soldier spun, raising his weapon, but a second arrow caught him in the throat before he could fire.
Rourke shouted something, drawing his sword, but the chaos was already spreading. More arrows rained down from the darkness beyond the camp’s edge, and Elias heard the distinctive war cries of the mountain clans—high, keening sounds that seemed to come from everywhere at once.
“They’re inside the perimeter!” someone screamed.
Elias dropped to his knees, making himself as small a target as possible. The chains clanked against the ground, and he scrambled toward the cover of an overturned supply cart, his heart pounding against his ribs. This was the moment. Serai had promised she would come, but he hadn’t allowed himself to believe it until now.
A hand grabbed his shoulder, and he twisted, expecting Rourke’s blade. Instead, he found himself staring into Serai’s fierce brown eyes, her face streaked with war paint and her short sword dripping blood.
“Move,” she said, hauling him to his feet. “We have maybe two minutes before they close the gap.”
She didn’t wait for an answer. She dragged him through the chaos, her warriors appearing from the shadows to form a protective ring around them. Elias stumbled along, his chains making every step awkward, his eyes fixed on the dark opening of a drainage culvert that led beneath the camp’s perimeter.
An arrow whistled past his ear, close enough that he felt the wind of its passing. Serai yanked him sideways, and he nearly fell, his shoulder slamming into a wooden crate. Pain flared through his arm, but he kept moving, driven by the primal need to escape.
They reached the culvert just as a group of Voss’s soldiers rounded a burning tent, their swords drawn. Serai shoved Elias into the opening, and he landed hard on his hands and knees, the chains scraping against the stone. Behind him, he heard the clash of steel as her warriors turned to meet the threat.
“Go!” Serai shouted. “Don’t stop until you reach the river!”
Elias crawled forward, the darkness swallowing him. The culvert was narrow, barely wide enough for his shoulders, and the rough stone scraped his back as he moved. He could hear the sounds of battle behind him, growing fainter with each foot of progress, replaced by the drip of water and the scuttle of unseen creatures.
His chains caught on a protruding rock, and he had to stop, fumbling in the dark to free himself. His fingers were slick with sweat, and the iron seemed determined to hold him fast. He pulled harder, feeling the metal bite into his wrists, and finally the chain came free with a sharp jerk that sent him sprawling forward.
He lay there for a moment, breathing hard, listening to the distant sounds of the battle. The culvert smelled of damp earth and something older, something that might have been bones. He forced himself to his feet, hunched over in the confined space, and continued forward.
The tunnel seemed to go on forever. Elias lost track of time, measuring his progress only by the increasing chill of the air and the growing sound of rushing water. His legs ached, his wrists burned, and every breath tasted of dust and fear. But he kept moving, because stopping meant dying, and he had come too far to die in a drainage ditch.
Finally, the tunnel opened into a wider space, and Elias found himself standing in a shallow stream that ran beneath the camp’s outer wall. Moonlight filtered through the gaps in the stone above, casting pale stripes across the water. He waded forward, the cold numbing his feet, until he emerged into the open air.
The river was fifty yards ahead, a dark ribbon winding through the valley. Beyond it, the forest rose like a wall of shadow, and Elias knew that safety lay somewhere in those trees. He took a step toward the water, and his legs buckled beneath him.
He hit the ground hard, his face pressing into the mud, and for a moment he simply lay there, too exhausted to move. The chains were a dead weight on his wrists, and his body felt like it had been beaten with clubs. He had escaped, but he had nothing left.
A hand gripped his collar and hauled him upright. Serai stood over him, her face bloodied, her sword still drawn. Behind her, only three of her warriors remained, and all of them looked like they had been through a meat grinder.
“You’re hurt,” she said, her eyes scanning him for wounds.
“I’m alive,” Elias managed. “That’s more than I expected.”
She didn’t smile. She grabbed his arm and pulled him toward the river, her warriors forming a loose screen around them. “The river will cover our tracks. We need to move before Voss sends riders after us.”
Elias stumbled along beside her, his feet finding purchase on the slick stones. The water was cold enough to steal his breath when they waded in, and the current tugged at his legs, threatening to sweep him off his feet. Serai kept a firm grip on his arm, guiding him toward the far bank.
They were halfway across when the first arrow struck the water beside them. Serai cursed and pulled him faster, and Elias felt the sting of a second arrow grazing his shoulder, tearing through his tunic and drawing blood. He stumbled, and the current took him, sweeping him downstream.
The world became a chaos of water and darkness. Elias tumbled, his chains tangling around him, the river filling his mouth and nose. He fought against the current, but it was too strong, and he was too weak. He felt himself sinking, the cold closing over his head.
Then a hand grabbed his collar again, hauling him upward. He broke the surface, coughing and gasping, and found himself being dragged toward the bank. Serai’s voice was in his ear, sharp and urgent, but he couldn’t make out the words. He just held on, letting her pull him to safety.
They collapsed on the muddy bank, Elias on his back, staring up at the stars. His chest heaved, and blood seeped from the wound in his shoulder, but he was alive. He was alive, and he was free.
Serai knelt beside him, her hand pressing against his wound. “You’re bleeding too much. We need to get you to the fortress.”
Elias shook his head, the motion making the world spin. “No. I can’t go back.”
“You can’t stay here either.” She tore a strip of cloth from her tunic and bound his shoulder with practiced efficiency. “The General will send men after us. You’ll be dead by morning if we don’t move.”
“I know.” Elias forced himself to sit up, gritting his teeth against the pain. “But I can’t go to the fortress. Not yet.”
Serai’s eyes narrowed. “Why not?”
Elias looked past her, toward the distant glow of the burning camp. Somewhere in that chaos, General Voss was still alive, still commanding his shattered army. And as long as he lived, the war would continue.
“Because I have to finish this,” Elias said. “I didn’t escape just to hide behind the fortress walls. I need to go back.”
Serai stared at him for a long moment, her expression unreadable. Then she laughed, a short, bitter sound. “You’re insane. You know that?”
“I’ve been told.” Elias climbed to his feet, swaying slightly. The wound in his shoulder throbbed, but he forced himself to stand straight. “But I didn’t come this far to run away. Voss has to be stopped, and I’m the only one who knows how.”
“How?” Serai demanded. “You’re a mapmaker, not a soldier. You can barely stand.”
“I know his weaknesses.” Elias touched the torn map hidden in his tunic, the half he had kept when he’d split it all those weeks ago. “I know where he’ll be, and I know how to get there. I just need someone to help me reach the fortress walls.”
Serai was silent for a long moment, her eyes searching his face. Then she sheathed her sword and nodded.
“Fine,” she said. “But if you die, I’m leaving your body for the crows.”
Elias managed a weak smile. “That’s the most encouraging thing anyone has said to me all day.”
They moved into the forest, the three surviving warriors following in silence. Behind them, the glow of the burning camp faded into the darkness, and the sounds of battle grew distant. Elias kept his eyes fixed on the path ahead, his hand pressed against the map hidden in his tunic.
He had escaped the cage, but the real fight was only beginning.