People of the Nightland(163)
“What do you want?” she asked wearily.
“Where is Nashat?”
“I don’t know.”
“And the Guide?”
“I don’t know that, either. But Nashat thinks he’s a fool. All of this, it’s a great trick. There is no hole in the ice. No paradise in the Long Dark. Nashat told me that much.” She lifted her eyes. “If you ask me, Nashat’s fled.”
He reached up, fingering her long black hair. “Then it was all for nothing?”
She looked up at him with wide dark eyes. “What do I have to do? If I lie with you again, will you let me go?”
A slow smile crossed his lips. That might be just what he needed to restore his wounded soul. “I would like that.”
She lowered the pack from her shoulders, unrolled a hide, and spread it on the floor. With a flourish, she pulled her dress over her head, and flipped her long black hair back. She stood before him, letting him admire her perfect body.
Whatever Nashat did to her, this new lack of modesty serves her well.
He undid his weapons belt, letting it clatter to the floor. She sighed, stepped back, and lowered herself to the hide, saying, “Your war shirt, too. Take it off. I’m tired of being chafed.”
Goodeagle grinned, pulling his war shirt over his head, feeling the cold air prickle on his skin. He turned, selected a stone, and laid the garment there. When he turned back, Blue Wing was lying, ready for him, an odd gleam in her eyes.
Goodeagle stepped over and lowered himself, the tingle of anticipation already rising in his loins.
It annoyed him that she was dry when he forced himself into her. How long had it been since he’d coupled with a woman who wanted him? What did it say about the quality of the life he’d come to lead?
With that knowledge, the wound in his soul opened. You are not the only one with a cursed life, Blue Wing.
She had locked her legs around his hips, her arms clasped at his back. He could feel her fingers, pressing, as if following his ribs.
The moment began to build, the anticipation of release stirring deep in his hips.
She sensed it, tightening herself around him, her arms shifting.
He was lost in the pulsing waves of pleasure. The faint pressure against his skin barely registered … . Then a terrible pain lanced deeply into his chest.
In that instant, he stared down into her eyes, feeling the white hot agony drive into the center of his being.
“I have had the pleasure of your shaft,” she hissed, “now you have felt mine!”
He rolled off her, reaching around to finger the handle of a bone stiletto where it protruded from between his ribs just below the shoulder blade.
Numb with pain and shock, he barely registered as she grabbed up her dress and fled past the door hanging.
“By Raven Hunter,” he whispered. “No.”
He got his fingers around the handle, and with one desperate jerk, pulled it free. His scream echoed in the ice. He stared stupidly at the bloody stiletto, the ground and polished bone so familiar. Mine! His gaze went to the weapons belt; the stiletto’s sheath gaped empty.
When did she … ? His war shirt lay folded on the stone. He clamped his eyes shut, remembering how he’d turned his back on her.
He blinked at the pain burning in his center, heart hammering with fear. His chest seemed to scream with searing agony, and an odd tingle began deep in his throat. He stared in disbelief at the bright red blood frothing down his side.
A lung. She punctured a lung.
Goodeagle could hear shouts from beyond his shelter. Had they caught her?
He forced himself to his feet, wincing, hating the fear more than the pain. He staggered past the hanging, wandered down the tunnel, and stopped short, propping himself against the cold ice, heedless of his bare skin.
“Dead!” a warrior called, running toward the front. “The Guide is dead! Murdered!”
More shouts broke out from near the entrance. Goodeagle coughed, feeling warm fluid on his lips.
He forced himself to stagger forward, blinking, feeling as if his soul were already loose in his body.
He slumped to the floor, oddly weak, and watched the milling confusion as Bishka and Rana were overrun by the pressing crowd. In an endless stream, people hurried past, filing into the caverns.
Goodeagle watched them go, coughing blood, gasping for breath. He leaned back against the ice, thankful for the cold on his skin.
No one noticed him, but the Nightland People continued to pass, shouting in fear and confusion. It all grew faint as Goodeagle began to shiver.
The pool of blood around his buttocks spread, frothy and red, as his life drained away.
“Bramble, Windwolf, I’m so sorry … .”
He toppled on his side as the world turned gray.
Sixty-eight