The agacin herself had capitulated to his demands only when he threatened her with the possibility of seeing her village destroyed like Midrigar if the rulers of the Empire found out they had been deceived.
Midrigar sprawled across the landscape in its unnatural silence, repulsing and beckoning him by turns. Hiding behind its walls guaranteed him safety from the Empire’s trackers, but what lay beyond the shattered gates, waiting for the unwitting or foolhardy traveler?
He tapped the horse’s sides, coaxing the animal down the slope before guiding it to a spot not far from the western gate. Not far for an uninjured man unencumbered, but an interminable distance for one with cracked ribs and carrying supplies as well as the dead weight of an unconscious woman. It couldn’t be helped. He needed the horse, and he needed Midrigar, and the two would not meet, no matter how much he might wish otherwise.
Within the shelter of evergreens, he found a place for his mount to graze. It happily ignored his actions in favor of eating and stood docile as Azarion eased himself off its back and paused a moment to lean against the saddle to take shallow breaths. The bloodbath in the arena followed by the brawl in the empress’s chambers and a round of fucking in her bed had drained the life out of him. The pain in his side, while piercing and burdensome, reminded him with every breath that he hadn’t died yet.
With night fully on them, the air had turned chilly, still carrying the last vestiges of old winter. Azarion shivered from the cold as he looped and tied the reins around the branch of a young fir. He pulled the supply satchels free of the saddle rings and dropped them to the ground before lifting the agacin from the horse’s back to lay her gently on the grass. He left the animal saddled in case he had to abandon Midrigar and ride away fast.
The agacin had rolled to her side and curled in on herself. Azarion knelt beside her, staring at her features, pale in the moonlight. A bruise marred her cheekbone, the skin puffy under her eye. He hadn’t meant to strike her in his struggle to keep them both in the saddle. He didn’t blame her for fighting to get free. In her place, he’d have done the same and more.
Were she a Savatar woman, she would look for the first opportunity to sink a knife between his shoulder blades or set him ablaze. Even so, he hadn’t failed to notice her resolve or the abhorrence of him in her gaze. He would do well to stay on his guard when she revived. The deadliest adversary wasn’t always the fiercest, and he suspected that, like him, this woman would do whatever was necessary to obtain her freedom.
He stroked her cheek and found it hot to the touch. Fever. Her eyes snapped open, and she cringed away from him. The movement made her cry out, and she gripped her leg, rolling back and forth on her side.
Caught off guard, Azarion covered her mouth with his palm and held her still. “Shh, Agacin,” he whispered. He didn’t think the hunters would hear them yet, but they grew closer every moment. No need to help them in locating their prey.
Had she been injured during their flight from Kraelag beyond the blow from his knee? He remembered her in the street, moving purposefully through the crowd toward a wagon and a man who beckoned to her. Azarion hadn’t noticed at the time, but when he thought back on it, she had limped.
“Agacin,” he said. “Can you stand?” They couldn’t stay here. Midrigar’s questionable sanctuary was their best hope, and Azarion needed the fire priestess to walk there on her own.
“Wake up, Agacin.” He shook her shoulder but got no response. He recalled another man by the cart, his expression as horrified as the first one as they caught sight of Azarion riding toward the witch. He had shouted a word that had made her turn and face what pursued her. Gilene. “Gilene,” he said and shook her harder.
She peered at him with a confused gaze. As memory and awareness seeped in, her eyes widened. She struggled to sit up. Grass and the remnants of dead leaves rustled as she scooted away from him on her haunches. Whatever injury plagued her was forgotten for a moment.
Azarion stayed where he was, waiting for her to settle. He kept a wary eye on her hands, looking for the warning bloom of flame to ignite in her palms.
“Filthy bastard,” she spat at him. “I should have known better than to believe a Pit fighter might keep his word.” Her hand came up to touch her cheek, and she flinched. “You struck me.”
He rose and followed her movements, noting she still hadn’t risen, and the tightness around her mouth spoke of pain as much as it did fury. “Where else are you hurt?”
Her hand went involuntarily to her thigh before she pulled it back. “My face, where you hit me.”
Azarion sighed, his patience thinning even as his unease rose. “It was an accident. Gilene . . .”
“Don’t call me that.”
“Is it your name?”
“No.”
“What is your name?” he asked for the second time since he met her. Her mutinous silence told him he wouldn’t get that piece of information from her anytime soon. He shrugged. Unless her name held magical powers and could transport them from here to the Sky Below, it didn’t matter what she was called.
“Agacin,” he said. She went still at his warning tone. “Tell me if you can walk. If you can’t, I’ll have to carry you, but we aren’t staying here.”
“I’m not going anywhere with you.” She rolled to her hands and knees and paused, hands curling into fists in the grass, head hanging low between her shoulders. He empathized with her; his own pain made him dizzy, but what care he might be able to give her would have to wait. He bent and scooped her into his arms.
She thrashed in his grip, back arching away from him. He had all he could do to keep a hold on her as she did her level best to climb up him and out of his arms.
“My back,” she said between gasps. “My back is on fire.”
Had anyone else said the same thing, Azarion would have assumed they spoke figuratively, but this was a fire priestess. He set her down, looking for any flames that might be dancing up and down her spine.
She swayed, and her hands shook as she reached for him to steady herself. “Mercy, please, I beg you. Don’t touch me.”
He stared down at the witch’s pale features. If he didn’t need her to gain back his place in Savatar society, he would abandon her. Her injuries, combined with his, put him in jeopardy, slowed him down. Even now, they should be inside Midrigar instead of here at the tree line struggling to walk. They were a pathetic pair—the half dead defeated in their goal to rest among the long dead.
“Which hurts worse? Your leg or your back?”
She blinked at him through a fall of tears. “My back.”
“So be it.” He crouched, ignoring the splinters shooting through his side and the tearing of scabs on his back. The agacin gasped when he flipped her neatly over his shoulder, growling through the agony of holding her weight, even on his uninjured side.
Her hands clutched at his tunic. “Put me down! I’m going to be sick!”
“Then be sick and have done with it.” He bent once more to retrieve the supply satchel he’d taken from the saddle. It held a water flask and road rations to last half a day between two people. She squirmed in his grip, which made him hold on to her even tighter. “Be still,” he warned in his most threatening tone, and her struggles subsided.
Black spots swarmed his vision, and he feared he might pass out before he took his first step toward the west gate. The moment passed, and he trudged to the dead city.