Chapter Twenty Four

The rapid scamper of paws rustling in the dark of the forest drew Nick's attention for a moment, a sharp, scything glave into the shadows, and then lost it again, in favor of guiding Tala around terrain too rough for the travois to transverse. The horse wasn't fond of his current task; he had snorted and shivered at the feel of the makeshift harness.

"Easy, lad, easy. Shh," he soothed the horse, settling him before the Gearran could think to spook. "Another bit, Tala, then we're 'ome."

The horse's ears pricked at 'home'—a verbal command they'd been working to prefect, asking the horse to return to the barn, and wait patiently by his stall, if the door was not already open—and his step extended and quickened. Five miles now, perhaps a bit less.

Even as he fell back under unexpected, clinging weight, he shouted "Home!", his blade slipping free of it's scabbard to slash at the creature that had sunk fangs and claws deep into his flesh. The horse jumped away from him, head flinging up as he surged forward, frightened and following Nick's directive more from instinct than training.

Roarke, simultaneously, lept forward, catching Nick's staggering form, cursing as the animal—an imp, the mage can see, and what the hell is it doing here, doing this?—clung only tighter, the blade scraping over a hide like strengthened iron.

More crashing came from the woods, as Tala, still with his precious burden, fled toward home, and as still other horses emerged, these with riders bearing torches and weapons, and there went all of his alarms, just now, as they finally ventured deep enough, blasting through his head like a dragon's roar at close distance. Shaking the discomfort away, his hand settled on the hilt of his sword, drawing it carefully.

Can't use too much—too much magic, and he'll be no good to anyone. He cradled Nick's writhing form against his body, drawing his sword, sharp eyes flicking between the men on horses. Some had bows, arrows already nocked and ready, others an assortment of sharp or blunt metal weapons.

Panting, cursing, relying on Roarke to keep him standing, Nick dropped the knife and worked to fling the beast from him. It's teeth had sunk deep into the junction of neck and shoulder, piercing flesh and muscle, meanwhile long, tearing claws had either sunk deep into to hold, or scrabbled madly to find purchase, ripping at his body, through his clothes, rending long bloody gashes in his skin. The pain of it was stunning, for its unexpectedness, for its brutaility. He couldn't even see past the bloody thing—its tail was long and whipping around his face, but he could hear the approach of others, the crunch of underbrush under hooves, the hiss of Roarke's indrawn breath.

"Nick," Roarke's voice was thick and low with urgency.

Head jerking in recognition, he struggled to straighten, to push the creature away from his face, that he could see at least, if not free himself entirely. The mage slid his dagger's hilt into Nick's hand, curled his fingers around the leather-bound metal. "Stay close," he hissed, settling himself into preparedness.

"Yes," the younger man agreed, putting from his mind as much as was possible the clinging creature that would disturb his balance and concentration, cause him unneeded pain and weaken him dangerously, as he went back-to-back with his lover.

It couldn't end this way, he thought, struggling against the hard hands that were restraining him. Not with blades pressed to Roarke's throat, the mage defeated by numbers and chance and the sheer bad luck of being caught in the tangle that was his mother's desires; not with ropes already winding around his wrists like snakes that bit and burned. Not with this fucking thing stealing his powers, his energy, his ability to defend. There had to be—something—

"Wait!"

The world froze for a moment, men pausing in the dark, the gleam of steel soft and very cold in the gloom. A grunt from the mage could mean he was already hurt, already bleeding, or only that the soldiers had been rough, shoving him down to his knees. Either way, it had ice shards slicing through him.

"Leave 'im be, an' I'll come with you," a hand tightened in his hair, and the imp scrabbled to get a better grip on him, making his vision go fuzzy and strangely bright for a moment, "—quietly—"

He heard a protest from a distance, sharp and angry, but separated from him by pain and godsawful fear, unlike any he'd felt before in his life. It made the words distort and twist, rendering them unintelligible, but unmistakably Roarke's.

"'f you 'urt 'im," he continued, as grimly steady as he could force his voice, "you've mah word, I'll make't hell fer you in ana way I can."

There was a rustle of cloth nearby, and the scrape of metal on metal. "Wot's't mean tae you, then, Changeling?" this was a new voice, harsh, but soft, and subtly demanding. It sounded familiar, faintly. A captain, perhaps, Nick thought, it bore the clip of command well enough, and grimaced as the hand in his hair tugged again, farther up-and-back than his neck wanted to support.

"He doesna need tae die in this—'e's done nothin' tae the Empress tae warrant't, 'sept harbor a man 'e didna ken was a fugitive—"

"Who is 'e?"

"—Nobody—jist a-a—'e takes in children, an' teaches 'em." His voice strained and broke as his head was jerked back again. They couldn't be allowed to know who their other captive was; they'd either kill him here and now, or bring him back, before the Dowager. Nick, at the moment, wasn't sure which fate would be worse.

"'e doesna look a scholar tae me," there was a growling, taunting note to the captain's voice, pricking terror through him. "Scholars don' generally run around th' woods a' night with traitors, armed t' the teeth."

"One—one o' the children was lost—" he grunted again, as the men holding him jostled his body, bruising him, causing his hair to be viciously tugged. "Leave 'im tae find 'er. She's—" he groaned, long and low, as an errant boot collided with his side. "She's na' chance, other."

"Touchin'," the captain drawled, seeing the lie. "An' if we leave 'im, knocked cold an' tied, in the forest 'ere, you'll come quiet, will you?"

"Aye." Gods, it was far from ideal, but if it would spare the mage's life… "I swear't, on th' Goddess."

There was a long moment of hush. Such an oath was made only with extreme sincerity; who knew what form the Moonmother's vengeance would take, otherwise?

"Then tha's wot we'll do," the captain decided. "I've no wish tae shed anaones blood bu' yers, Secondson, ye traitor," and his boot collided heavily with Nick's solar plexus to prove the point. Nick gagged, and choked on bile and breathlessness, before the ropes twisted tight, and a hood was pulled over his head.

"If you've lied, an' make trouble," the captain's voice said, muffled by rough cloth, "I'll no' wait fer the Mother tae deal wit' you. I'll come back, an' kill 'im mahself."

Another kick, and blackness flashed green-white and spiraled away to nothingness.

He lay motionless, unresisting as his arms were bound, and cloth was tied over his face, regulating his breathing and holding tight to the vicious flood of rage. He could strangle Nick, for leaving him no choice but to play unconscious, head throbbing with the blow they'd inflicted, and wait for the men to leave, taking Nick with them, senseless, bound, and with that imp still clinging like the bloody magical limpet it was, a binding vow to Thalia hanging over him. Immediately, as soon as they had finished tying the knots, he set to work, loosening and tugging with magic, tugging and easing them apart. Once they were out of sight, he was free.

Free, but still as helpless to stage any sort of rescue as ever. He could only stand, listening as the sounds of horse's hooves faded, as the flickers of torches disappeared, and cursing virolently beneath his breath to try and damper back the fear that threatened to hollow him like a reed, hoping against hope that the forest's natural defenses would waylay them long enough that he could catch them.

And, still cursing as the noises segued back to the reemerging sounds of the forest at night, he turned and loped toward home, mind already flickering over what he needed to do.