The Adani Chronicles: Birthright
Chapter 7

The scent of wood smoke was the first thing that reached Ryn through the inky black heaviness that blanketed her consciousness. Natural and earthy, it tempted her toward wakefulness. She struggled through the gauzy layers of oblivion, registering rough voices and other everyday sounds as she cracked her eyelids open slowly. Sunlight made her eyes water and the pain in her head clawed its way to the forefront of her attention, forcing a soft moan out of her despite her disorientation. A throaty chuckle reached her from somewhere to the left. The sound brought Ryn’s last memory rushing forward; her heart thumped into her stomach at the same time she forced her eyes open again, ignoring the pain.

Dashing for the camp, behind Kota, an explosion of agony in her right thigh, searing heat spreading insidiously through her veins, then...nothing. sᴇaʀᴄh thᴇ FɪndNøvel.ɴᴇt website on Gøøglᴇ to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.

She could feel it, as signals from her extremities began rolling into conscious realization: stiff muscles, the chafing of ropes at her ankles and wrists, biting sharp pain emanating from her leg. Now she could tell the rumbling voices she’d heard while waking up were actually the rough, throaty language of the nagrat, growling and snarling at one another as they went about their late-day business in the camp.

Well, shit.

“It is good you have awake,” the voice to her left croaked in poorly-executed Common. Ryn held her breath and kept her eyes shut, her face impassive, hoping the creature would mistake her for having passed out again, but now that she was awake the nausea in her belly refused to be ignored. Two heartbeats later she was doubled as far over as her restraints would allow, heaving bile into the sparse dry grass. The spell made her eyes water again and her head felt ready to fall clear off her shoulders by the time her stomach finished spasming. She spat and sat back, willing her gut to settle, recognizing the feeling instantly—that heavy awareness of her bones, the way her skin felt too tight to contain her, the heat in her veins.

The knife had been poisoned. That was going to make escape slightly less manageable, though she was determined to arrange it anyway, just as soon as she got her bearings.

The nagrat guarding her was grinning when she finally squinted up at him. The expression revealed sharp, blood-stained teeth and smashed the brute’s one puffy eye closed entirely. Gray skin covered a bulky frame, and rough-made steel armor reflected the sun, dull with filth and dented from multiple blows. Metal armor meant this one was fairly high ranking in his clan. Nagrat of lower importance only warranted leathers. He was toying with a crude knife, but rose and lumbered away when she opened her eyes fully. Ryn took stock of her surroundings while he was gone.

A camp had been set up in a small grassy field several leagues north of her last conscious location. She knew because the ever-present mountains had shifted, the double peaks of Haradhorn closer than before—and her friends further away, for their route had taken them well south of that dangerously rocky ridge. Nagrat of varying sizes, shapes, and degrees of deformity trudged here and there, erecting shelters and preparing the evening meal. Dinner was to be several bucks, Ryn could see, though she looked away immediately from the enthusiastic way the only female nagrat present was tearing into the hide of one poor animal. It was bloody, gory work, and not to be relished, with death so near.

Ryn herself was tied tightly to a thick tree near what looked to be the center of the camp. Her wrists were chafed and her back hurt enough that she suspected she’d been bound for some time, probably on the way here. She was dizzy and dry-mouthed, and her skin felt feverish; all symptoms of common snakeroot poisoning, she knew. She was unlikely to die, unless the dose she’d received had been massive, but she was definitely going to wish for death within a few hours.

The guard returned with the largest, ugliest nagrat she’d ever had the displeasure of looking upon—what she knew of their culture told her this would be the leader, the Hunt Chief. She squinted up at him, trying to muster a look of utter disdain.

She was fairly sure she managed complete dejection instead.

“Echowood,” the Hunt Chief growled. His Common was much more coherent than that of her guard. Her stomach lurched again—this time it had nothing to do with the poison—as he spun her staff in his hand, looking as though he could have snapped the thing in two easily, though Ryn knew the runes carved into the black wood would prevent that. “Very rare, very hardy, near impossible to damage.” He pulled back and whipped her across the ribcage with her own staff, the limber weapon singing through the air before it struck her. Starbursts exploded behind Ryn’s eyes at the pain, and she gasped—a mistake, as her ribs were screaming in agony now.

The Hunt Chief went on as though nothing had happened. “Very difficult to fashion into any sort of tool. In fact, Kudrack has only ever heard of it being formed into a weapon by one particular human.” She realized slowly that Kudrack must have been her tormenter, referring to himself in the third person. Charming. His smile disappeared, leaving in its place an expression that unnerved Ryn. It was equal parts eager anticipation and unadulterated hatred. “You were found in the company of a large spotted lynx.”

Ryn swallowed the rapid heartbeat climbing her throat, refusing to give the monster the satisfaction of knowing she was actually frightened. She had created this legend surrounding herself, inadvertently perhaps, but never blind to its potential to get her in real trouble if her enemies managed to catch her. She cursed herself for being taken out by something so simple as a thrown knife. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

The sound of wood meeting linen and flesh registered almost before the pain did; a hearty smack! followed by blinding agony, this time in her right shoulder. The Hunt Chief looked down on her, a satisfied smile contorting his face. “The reward for finding you will be great indeed, Little Phantom.”

The wyvern hit their little camp with all the force of a hurricane.

Evin had been sitting watch, dozing, and had barely heard his brother’s shout of alarm before the massive reptilian creature bowled him over, roaring its victory. He choked, trying hard to force air into spasming lungs, flat on his back beneath the wyvern’s massive feet. The thing was the size of a horse, and he was certain that his ribs were going to be at least bruised after this.

If he even survived it.

The creature bared its razor-sharp teeth at him, growling as it brought its face—and fangs—closer to his exposed throat. Evin’s stomach turned, in both disgust and fear, and he wriggled desperately, trying to escape or at least reach his hunting knife—

The wyvern screamed when Kota tackled it from behind, his claws raking its back mercilessly.

Then everything was a blur of fighting—Evin took a sweep of its massive tail to his already-bruised ribs, Kota took the worst of its claws, Brandt its teeth—before both Evin’s long sword and Brandt’s axe found their way into the creature’s skull.

In the aftermath, Evin had stood, breathing hard.

Failure is all the worse when others suffer for it.

Such was the sentiment—no, self-recrimination—echoing through his head on repeat. An incessant mantra that, with every iteration, broke a little something more inside his soul.

Before him, Kota whimpered as Evin did his best to apply bandages to the lynx’s thickly-furred left flank. He was no Healer of Beasts, but battle medicine seemed to be much the same across species lines; sweetroot juice to disinfect a wound, pressure bandaging to stop the bleeding. Nearby, his brother hissed as he struggled to tie off the linen bandage wrapped round his forearm. Brandt hadn’t said a single word since that first warning. The bite his brother had taken had been meant for Evin himself, a fact which did nothing to quell the indictments screaming through his skull.

He tied off the last of Kota’s dressing, laid a hand upon the beast’s head for a moment in a gesture of attempted comfort. Kota growled low in his throat, but licked Evin’s dirty fingers before lying back down, dull gold cat eyes drifting mostly shut. Evin turned to Brandt. His older brother was still fumbling with the bandage, growing more frustrated by the moment, but Evin dared not speak. Brandt was an honorable, kind man who could be cold and vicious when he was in a great deal of pain, or in the midst of a fight. It was a strength on the battlefield, and thus something their uncle and teachers had always encouraged; but off it, Evin was of the opinion such a characteristic was anything but an asset.

Finally, once again losing his grip on the end of the knot he was attempting to tie, Brandt let go of the linen entirely and placed strong fingers about his own thigh. He clenched, slow and hard, until Evin could see the blood vessels standing out on the back of his hands, and took two deep breaths; an attempt to calm himself, the younger realized. Another moment, and then Brandt was holding his injured limb toward Evin, eyes hard and glittering.

Still he said not a word.

Evin moved forward silently to assist, adding more of the cotton cloth before tying it off—Brandt had bled through the original bandages already. The younger man tried not to remember the glance he’d stolen at his brother’s arm before Brandt managed to turn and hide the severity of the wound. The entirety of the muscle from wrist to elbow had been lacerated, mangled by the wyvern’s double row of razor-sharp teeth. The sharp fangs had sliced clean through leather and cotton like nothing Evin had ever seen before.

It was with extra care he finished the knot. His face was unbearably hot, adrenaline now replaced by something much more insidious; guilt, gnawing at his belly, suffocating. He felt almost lightheaded with it, as though oxygen were suddenly in short supply.

Your fault.

He studied the bandage briefly, checking for thin spots or areas where any of the wound would be exposed. There were none; it was a thorough job.

Your watch. Your fault.

All set, he opened his mouth to say, but the words stuck in his throat, emerged as a choked cough instead. Brandt moved, but Evin couldn’t bring himself to look up, to meet his brother’s eyes. He knew he would, in a moment; he was a prince and a warrior, after all, had been raised from the cradle to take responsibility for his own actions, be they right or wrong, whether they made him proud or horrified. But if there was one person he could not stand to disappoint, it was his older brother.

Warmth and weight on his right shoulder did not really register consciously at first. He leaned into it instinctively before withdrawing, finally looking up and meeting stormy blue eyes. But Brandt didn’t look angry; his face was pale and lined with what appeared to be concern, drawn and exhausted. Brandt didn’t let Evin retreat, gripping his shoulder even tighter and shaking him once, as if to make sure he really had the younger’s attention. Evin stared.

“Not your fault,” Brandt said simply, without fanfare. Evin winced, but Brandt just curled pale fingers tighter in his shoulder, the grip almost painful now. He held on for a long moment, until Evin gave a small, jerky nod. Seeming satisfied by that, Brandt sighed as he sat back, moving his injured arm experimentally. His face contorted in pain, and Evin forced back a visible cringe of sympathy.

“How bad is it really?” he asked, taking advantage of Brandt’s rare openness. Unexpectedly, his brother seemed to actually consider the question before speaking, rather than simply slam a lid on his pain and insist he was well. Brandt opened and closed his fingers experimentally, moved his arm this way and that, jaw clenched and sweat beading his forehead—though Evin couldn’t prove that was pain rather than exertion.

After a moment, Brandt nodded once. “I will manage, I think. We should go.” He stood slowly, sighing at the mess the wyvern had made of their hastily-erected camp. Bedrolls were torn apart, their gear strewn about. Evin’s pack was ripped and spilling foodstuffs all over the bare dirt. “We have lingered here too long as is.”

Evin nodded, and went to work gathering their things up as quickly as he could. He tackled the more difficult tasks quietly, not giving Brandt a chance to try to wrestle his bedroll back into shape or handle the broken leather pack. His brother was right; every moment they spent here, picking up scraps of dried meat and torn blankets, was a step further they lagged behind their guide.

Haste was essential, now more than before.

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