Shadow's Edge - Brent Weeks [106]
Vi didn’t stop to look. She grabbed a throwing knife from an ankle sheath and threw it as she brought herself back up into the saddle. It was a long throw—twenty paces at a target she couldn’t see before she released the knife—but it was really only meant as a distraction. Vi looked back.
Uly was lying on the ground, unconscious.
There was no hesitation. A wetboy doesn’t hesitate. A wetboy acts, even if it’s the wrong action. Vi couldn’t stay still, it made her a target. She dug her heels into her horse’s flanks again. The horse lunged forward—
And promptly crashed into the ground, its front legs cut out from under it.
Vi pulled her feet from the stirrups. She would land in a ball, roll free of the horse, draw throwing knives—except the horse fell faster than she expected. She slapped into the ground hard, her body flipping over as she skidded on her back. Her head kissed an iron-hard root and black spots swam before her eyes.
Up, damn you! Get up! She got on her hands and knees and tried to stand, eyes watering, head ringing.
“I’m sorry, I can’t let you do that,” the old woman said. She looked like she actually meant it.
No. It can’t end like this.
The beefy old woman raised a hand and spoke. Vi tried to throw herself to one side, but she didn’t make it.
38
It was two small cuts. A line along the ribs, and a matching line across the inside of his arm. Neither was deep. The knife had cut skin but not muscle. Even together, they were nothing a clean bandage and some fresh air wouldn’t have seen heal in a few days.
But in the Hole, nothing was clean. Fresh air was only a memory.
Logan recognized the signs, but there was nothing he could do. He was hot and cold already, shivering and sweating. The odds were, he wouldn’t come out of the fever. After all the time he’d spent in the Hole, he was a shadow of his former self. Cheeks sunken, eyes bright, face skeletal, his tall frame now skin and bone.
If he survived, he could get worse yet, he knew. For all that he’d starved, Logan still didn’t have the malnourished, emaciated look that those who had been in the Hole for years had. His body was clinging to its strength with a stubbornness that surprised him. But the fever cared nothing for that. It would take days, at the least, to fight off the fever. Days of total vulnerability.
“Natassa,” he said. “Tell me again about the resistance.”
The younger Graesin daughter had a hunted look in her eyes. She didn’t respond. She was looking across the hole at Fin, who was gnawing on sinews to add to his rope.
“Natassa?”
She sat up. “They move around. There are a number of estates that welcome them in the east, especially—especially the Gyres’. Even the Lae’knaught have helped.”
“Bastards.”
“Bastards who are our enemy’s enemy.”
She said that like she’d said it before. Damn, she had said it before, hadn’t she?
“And our numbers are growing?”
“Our numbers are growing. We’ve been conducting raids, small groups going and doing anything they can to hurt the Khalidorans, but my sister wouldn’t let us try anything big yet. Count Drake has set up informants for us in every village in eastern Cenaria.”
“Count Drake? Wait, I asked that before, didn’t I?”
She didn’t respond. Her eyes were still on Fin. Fin had killed four of the newcomers in the last three days. Three days? Or was it four now?
Count Drake was part of the resistance. That was great. Logan hadn’t known if the man had made it out alive.
“I’m glad Kylar didn’t kill him, too,” Logan said.
“Who?” Natassa asked.
“Count Drake. He betrayed me. He’s the reason I’m down here.”
“Count Drake betrayed you?” Natassa asked.
“No, Kylar. Dressed all in black, called himself the Night Angel.”
“Kylar Stern is the Night Angel?”
“He was working for Khalidor all along.”
“No, he wasn’t. The Night Angel’s the only reason there’s a resistance at all. I was there. We were all herded into the garden and he saved us. Terah offered him whatever he wanted to escort us out of the castle, but he