The Ippos King (Wraith Kings #3) - Grace Draven Page 0,93
Megiddo now.”
Her resolve strengthened his, and they packed their small trove of found treasures in the tattered shirt. Serovek used one of the spears as a walking stick while Anhuset carried the other two. Their trek to the rock ledge and overhang was slow going as they laid down more false trails. Near twilight, they reached the spot she'd chosen. Serovek noted how the topography did as she described, fooling the eye for anyone climbing the slope and offering a good view for whoever occupied it. “You're a woman of many talents, Anhuset,” he said as he pressed a hand to his side. A fire burned within his ribcage, and every bruised, abused muscle screeched a protest at his lack of mercy in traipsing across uneven landscape instead of resting in a soft bed to heal.
“Are you having trouble breathing?” Anhuset appeared in front of him, her gaze trained on his face, one hand covering his where it rested against his ribs. There was no misinterpreting or mistaking the concern in her voice. “Sit before you fall.” She pointed to a flat section of rock half covered by leaves.
“I'm fine, Anhuset. Just sore and wishing for a glass of Dragon Fire, a hot bath, and a comfortable bed.” And you to share all three with me. He didn't argue with her, though the aches and pains in body didn't lessen; they simply switched places.
They settled into the scant fastness, preparing for both an uncomfortable, cold night and the ordeal to come. Serovek prayed some of the hunters would take the bait he offered and head this way when they arrived. Anhuset, as superior a fighter as she was, would have a hard time of it trying to outmaneuver and kill a dozen or more hunters by herself.
While she built up a makeshift wall of brambles to slow down any charge up the slope and hide Serovek behind its screen, he split and unraveled the bit of rope, turning some of the fibers and a patch of the tattered shirt into a sling. The rocks Anhuset had gathered by the lake served as perfect projectiles. Bigger than a chicken egg but smaller than a fist, they were the right size for maximizing speed and accuracy without sacrificing impact. She'd admitted to not being as good with a sling, but the woman knew how to pick a good sling stone.
While Anhuset gathered brambles for her wall and kindling for their fire, Serovek carved throwing spikes for her. Once they'd prepared as best they could, she surveyed their handiwork with a dour expression. “I could construct two foot spike traps in the bramble to keep Chamtivos's men from getting to you without risking themselves, but you'd have as much of a chance at stepping on one as they would if you end up fighting hand-to-hand. And if I were them, I'd just use an archer to pick you off from a distance.”
“How glad I am you'll be on my side in this hunt,” he said without any sarcasm.
She snorted and left her inspection of the bramble wall for an even closer inspection of him. In the darkness, her features were merely hints of angles and curves layered in shadow, with her yellow eyes like twin suns flaring and darkening with her emotions. “Can you stand long enough for me to check your injuries?”
Her question made him even more determined not to be an invalid. He stood on more stable footing now, no longer dizzy or half blind. The sizzling pain under his ribs remained, but he'd grown used to the discomfort. “I'm just bruised and feeling my age.”
“Let me see anyway. For my peace of mind.” Her fingers were already tugging his blood-stained shirt up for a view of his torso.
He shivered, from the cold and her light touch on his bare skin. “Your vision at night must be even better than I assumed if you can see a bruise in this blackness.”
She didn't look up from studying the contusions decorating his body. “It's as daylight to you, just without color.” Her fingers traced a delicate map over his side, making him twitch at the sensation. Her claws, as hard and strong as the points he'd carved into her wooden throwing spikes could have cut him deep, but they glided across his flesh in the most delicate caress. “Those bastards knew where and how to hit. Enough to make you hurt and bleed but not enough to kill you.”