Reign of Shadows - Deborah Chester [12]
Without warning he struck Caelan across the mouth with the back of his hand.
Caelan reeled back and went sprawling on the ground. His head roared, and he thought he might pass out.
“Lying runaway!” the man bellowed at him. “I wouldn’t bet my life on a scab like you holding your line position during a charge.”
“But—”
“Shut up! You’re going back where you belong.”
Caelan scrambled to his feet in fresh defiance. “I won’t! I—”
The man slapped him again. The pain seemed to burst Caelan’s head. Panting with his hand pressed against his mouth, he barely managed to keep his feet this time.
“Leave it,” one of the men urged. “Let’s go find the town. There’s better prey there than this.”
“Better shut him up, though,” warned another.
Their eyes held no mercy. Frightened, Caelan took a step back and dodged his way out of the circle.
“Coward!” one of them taunted him.
“Mama’s boy!” another joined in.
Their teeth gleamed in the lantern light.
“Run, schoolboy. Run for mama.”
The man with the tattoo pulled out a javelin and hefted it in his hand. His eyes narrowed, sizing up Caelan. Then he smiled a terrible, empty smile.
Fear congealed in Caelan’s veins. For a moment he could only stare, caught like a rabbit before a snake; then he turned and ran for his life.
The wind whistled in his ears, and the light from the lantern dwindled quickly behind him. Darkness faced him, and the cold wind lashed his face as though trying to slow him down. All he could think of was his own exposed back and of how the lurker had died from a javelin throw.
Behind him the men shouted encouragement and called out bets.
They were laughing, and Caelan told himself they were only trying to scare him. Maybe they wouldn’t really spear him in the back for sport. After all, they had saved his life.
He stumbled on his bad leg and glanced back just in time to see the man throw.
The javelin came, arcing perfectly through the air. Too late, Caelan tried to double his speed, tried to zigzag to dodge it.
Too late.
It hit his shoulder with a glancing blow, bringing a ripping flame across his back. The impact drove him down, and he was falling, falling in a tumbling dive that took him off the road and down into the ditch beyond it.
There were sticks and briars and stubble from where the bank had been cleared. He rolled in a bruising tangle, unable to stop his impetus, and all the while there was the brutal fire in his back, unquenchable, driving him mad.
He landed at the bottom with a jolt. Numbed and shaken, he sank into stagnant mud and water that was freezing cold. With a groan, he tried once to lift himself, but the effort proved beyond his strength.
He groaned again, hurting so much he couldn’t think. The darkness seemed to tilt and fold over him. He heard a strange rushing sound, and then there was nothing, nothing at all.
Chapter Three
CAELAN AWAKENED IN a shaft of sunlight that streamed in over his cot. The air smelled warm and aromatic with herbs. Dragging open his eyes, he blinked slowly until the room began to make sense. It smelled like the infirmary at school, only he was surrounded by screens that blocked his view of the rest of the ward.
He felt strangely light-headed and lethargic. A warm blanket of moag wool covered him, and a little brazier on a stand flickered with a small fire that kept his area comfortable.
“You’re awake.”
The voice startled him. Caelan lifted his head slightly, finding the effort exhausting, and smiled at his cousin’s serious face. “Agel,” he said, his voice sounding thin.
Agel did not smile back. The sleeves of his robe were rolled up above the elbow, and he was carrying a tray of items that he set upon a small table next to Caelan’s cot. A lock of his dark hair had fallen over his forehead, and his blue eyes were as cold as a winter lake.
In silence he set out a roll of bandages, small crocks of ointment, and bronze scissors.
Frowning, Caelan tried to make sense of things. He had the feeling of time lost, and his