CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  -Where the Chains Went

  The pain stayed with him long after the cabin vanished behind the trees. Every breath scraped his ribs. His chest felt packed with coals. When he tried to straighten, his body reminded him that the Hermit had planted one boot in the center of it and sent him through a door like he weighed nothing.

  He didn’t even use his full strength. Ouz knew that. He’d seen the man fight. That kick could have broken bone if the Hermit wanted it. Instead he’d given him something less than that, and still it left him with one of the worst pains he could remember.

  He walked anyway. The forest closed around him. Trunks came in and out of his vision as he staggered between them. Each step jarred the bruises in his chest. His throat stung where the sword had kissed it, a thin line that oozed and dried and cracked again when he swallowed.

  Cold seeped through his bare feet. Snow lay in thin patches under the trees, packed in shadowed hollows and along roots. Each time he missed his footing and hit one, his toes went numb a little more.

  He didn’t know how long he kept going. For a while he counted breaths. When that slipped, he switched to steps instead, and even those numbers slid away from him. The only steady thing was the ache that spread from the center of his chest out along his ribs.

  At some point he coughed. The motion bent him double. Pain flared, a bright spike under his ribs. Something warm hit his tongue. He spat and saw red on the snow at his feet.

  “That’s new,” he muttered. “Promising.”

  The trees didn’t answer. He staggered to the next one and leaned his shoulder into the trunk, bark rough through his shirt. He wrapped his arms around himself, holding his ribs still more than chasing warmth.

  He took another step. Then another. On the third his knee buckled. He caught himself on the trunk and let his back slide down until he sat on the roots. The tree took his weight and held it.

  “That’s enough,” he told himself.

  The forest around him had gone quiet. The light had thinned. Evening pressed in under the branches. His breath came in short, uneven pulls. Each one hit the bruises and bounced.

  He meant to rest for a moment. Just until his legs stopped shaking. He pulled his knees up, wrapped his arms around them, and let his head drop forward. The tree at his back felt solid. Snow lay in a thin crust around the roots. Cold crawled through his clothes.

  Sleep took him there, before he could decide whether that was smart.

  A harsh sound woke him.

  “Caw.”

  Ouz’s eyes opened to a grey sky and the sight of a black bird hopping in the snow a little way in front of him. It tilted its head, bright eye on him, then let out another rough caw that seemed far too loud for the cold morning.

  His whole body shook. The night had wrapped itself around him and stayed. His fingers hurt with a deep dullness that meant they’d gone too cold. When he tried to move them, they responded slowly. His feet felt like blocks. His breath smoked in the air.

  He pushed his back harder against the tree and forced himself upright. His ribs complained in a long line. He gritted his teeth and rode it out.

  The bird hopped again, leaving little marks in the snow, then flapped up into a low branch. It watched him from there, feathers puffed against the chill.

  “Morning,” he told it. His voice sounded rough. “I’m not dead yet.”

  He pressed one hand to the tree and pulled himself to his feet. His first step almost put him back on the ground. His legs didn’t want to hold him at first. He waited until the worst of the spinning behind his eyes settled, then tried again.

  The fort lay behind him somewhere, past the trees and the roll of the ground. He knew the way well enough. He’d already walked this stretch twice, out from the fort and into the trees. The formation felt quieter now that he’d left its heart, but it still tugged at him in small wrong ways.

  He had to think around it. He closed his eyes for a few breaths and found the faint sound of the river. He angled toward it, trusting how the land felt under his feet more than what he saw. The water led him to the cut through the hills that he recognized. From there he knew which ridge to climb, which stand of pines to leave on his right shoulder.

  What should have been a morning’s walk stretched. He had to stop often. Sometimes to catch his breath. Sometimes because his vision narrowed and he needed to wait for it to open again. Once he had to lean over with both hands on his knees while another cough shook loose more blood.

  The sun climbed higher, a pale smudge behind cloud and branches. Light that came through landed at a different angle. When the trees began to thin and he felt the ground slope down, the light had gone flat, a white sheet over everything.

  By the time he reached the edge of the forest, his feet barely belonged to him. He stepped out of the last line of trees and saw the fort below.

  The sight of the open gate stopped him. He’d expected the place to be sealed, the doors barred the way he had left them and the yard quiet but for old blood on the ground. Instead the big doors stood wide, one hanging a little crooked, and movement crossed the gap.

  Blue cloth. The glint of spear tips. Men’s shapes. He squinted. A figure stepped out through the gate and down onto the packed ground in front. The man wore Zhanar colors. His cloak sat on broad shoulders. His hair was tied back. A spear rested in one hand, the butt planted in the dirt.

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  He saw Ouz a heartbeat later.

  “Who goes there?” he called.

  The words came in Zhanar, crisp in the cold air, every syllable clear. Ouz didn’t have to think about his answer. The language sat in his mouth as easily as the steppe tongue.

  “I’m sorry,” he said in the same speech, letting his shoulders hunch. “I just fell in the forest.”

  He took a step forward and let his weight slide wrong on purpose. Pain flared, let him cough. He turned his head and spat a thin streak of red into the snow.

  The soldier’s eyes narrowed.

  “Yesterday I went into the forest to collect mushrooms,” Ouz went on. “I fell from a small ridge and hurt myself. I must’ve blacked out for a bit. On my way back to town I saw the fort’s gates open. What happened here?”

  The man took him in slowly this time. Bare feet in the snow. Torn shirt, old trousers stiff with dried blood and mud. Hands that shook. His gaze lingered on each piece. Suspicion settled on his face.

  “Don’t be too curious,” he said. “Curiosity isn’t good for your health. Go back to your parents before they worry themselves sick, you stupid boy. Nothing here concerns you.”

  He jerked his chin toward the road, making it clear the matter was closed.

  Ouz turned like he meant to obey. He took two steps away, then hesitated and looked back.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “At least could you give me something to wear? I’m cold. My shoes… I couldn’t find them after I woke from the fall, and I think I don’t feel my hands.”

  “Why should I care about your stupidity?” the man said.

  Boots thudded on the packed earth behind him. Another soldier came out through the gate. This one wore a cloak of better cloth. His armor sat cleaner on his frame. The first man straightened.

  “What’s going on?” the new arrival asked.

  “Nothing important, sir,” the first soldier said quickly. “This boy went to collect mushrooms in the forest and hurt himself, that’s all.”

  The newcomer looked past him at Ouz. Nothing in his face softened, but his gaze didn’t slide away.

  “Nothing important,” he repeated, without taking his eyes off Ouz. “Look at him. He’ll die before he reaches town.” He lifted his hand. “Come here, boy.”

  Ouz let his steps drag as he walked toward them. His breath puffed out in quick bursts. The ground inside the gate felt different under his feet, packed harder by boots and cart wheels. He saw the yard beyond as he came in.

  Somebody had scraped away the worst of the blood. The dark patches still stained the dirt where bodies had lain. Smears marked where something heavy had been dragged. The walls showed new gouges from blades and arrows. A fire burned near the center, set in a hastily built ring of stones. Around it a knot of Zhanar soldiers sat or stood, hands held in the heat.

  Ouz’s gaze flicked to the places where wardens had fallen. He saw no bodies. No chains with boys still attached. The yard felt wrong without them. He turned back to the man in the better cloak.

  “What happened here?” he asked.

  “The slaves revolted,” the man said. “They killed everyone inside.”

  Ouz let his eyes go wide.

  “What?” he said. “How?”

  “We don’t know yet.” The officer shrugged. “By the time we arrived for supply, everyone was already dead.”

  Ouz let his mouth twist, caught between offense and a thin, mean pleasure at remembering how some of those wardens had died on his blade.

  “Did you kill those bastards for that?” he asked.

  The officer’s mouth twitched in something close to a smile.

  “Some,” he said. “Most of them were sent south.”

  “South,” Ouz repeated. The word tugged at an older memory, something he’d heard wardens grumble about in another loop. “By the Samrajya border?”

  The man looked at him with new interest.

  “You know the land well,” he said. “Don’t tell me you want to join the army.”

  Ouz let a shy grin show.

  “I always wanted to bleed for my country,” he said.

  The officer laughed softly.

  “Good,” he said. “We need brave young ones like you.”

  He set a hand on Ouz’s shoulder and steered him toward the fire.

  “Sit,” he said. “Wait here. I’ll bring you a blanket.”

  He turned to one of the other men. “See if you can find some clean clothes for him,” he said. To another, “Bring stew. Something hot.”

  The soldiers moved at once. One headed toward the storage room where they’d stacked whatever was left of the garrison’s gear. Another went to a big pot set off to one side, where steam rose.

  Ouz lowered himself to the ground by the fire. Heat washed against his front and stung the cold out of his skin. His toes began to ache as feeling tried to return. He held his hands out toward the flames. They shook. His thoughts ran faster than his pulse.

  The boys who’d given him their oaths weren’t here. They’d been rounded up and sent south, chains and all. South meant long marches. Guard lines. Samrajya watching from the border like a patient wolf.

  If I want them back, I have to go that way too.

  A blanket dropped across his shoulders. He flinched, then pulled it tighter around himself. The wool scratched his neck but trapped heat. The soldier who’d brought it gave him a quick nod and went back to his place.

  The man with the pot arrived next. He handed over a wooden bowl and a spoon. Thick stew sloshed against the rim. Meat floated with soft grain and a few dark herbs.

  Ouz ate slower this time. He didn’t want to throw it up the way he had at the cabin. He took small mouthfuls and let each sit a moment before he swallowed. Warmth sank into his stomach and spread outward. The ache in his ribs eased around the edges.

  The soldier sent for clothes returned last. He carried a bundle under one arm: a worn cloak, a shirt with frayed cuffs, trousers that had belonged to someone broader, a pair of boots.

  “That’s all I could find that might fit,” he said.

  Ouz nodded.

  “Thank you,” he said.

  He set the empty bowl aside, moved a little away from the fire, and changed quickly, teeth chattering while his damp clothes left his skin. The new shirt and trousers hung loose, but they were dry. The boots pinched his toes at first, then loosened as the leather warmed. The cloak wrapped him in something that at least pretended to be comfort. When he came back to the fire, the officer watched him.

  “So,” Ouz said, “what’ll happen here now?”

  “We sent a messenger,” the man said. “They’ll send reinforcements. Until then we hold this place. After that we move south.”

  He made it sound simple. March, report, continue.

  “You should go back to your parents,” he added. “Stay away from the forest. Don’t go there alone again.”

  Ouz let his shoulders sag in a show of chastened regret.

  “I learned my lesson,” he said. “Never again.”

  A soldier across the fire snorted.

  “What’s your name?” he asked.

  “Chanyu,” Ouz said. “My father calls me Chanyu.”

  The man’s eyebrows rose.

  “You’ve got a strong name,” he said. “You look strong too. Anyone else would’ve died out there the way you look. I can see you fell hard.”

  “Thanks to you all I’m alive,” Ouz said.

  The officer nodded, satisfied.

  “This is why we became soldiers,” he said. “To protect our own.”

  Ouz looked at him over the fire. One day he might stand on the other side of blades from men like this. For now he let admiration show, easy and false.

  “One day I’ll be like you,” he said.

  The officer laughed.

  “Go before your father worries more than this,” he said. “If he sees you limping in after dark, he’ll come here and shout at us too.”

  Ouz got to his feet. His chest pulled but held. He pulled the cloak tighter.

  “Thank you,” he said. “For the clothes. For the fire. For the food.”

  “Just get home,” the man said. “And keep your head clear.”

  Ouz walked out through the open gate. The cold bit less with boots on. The blanket smell of smoke followed him a little way, then faded under pine and winter air.

  He didn’t turn toward any town. He looked south and thought of chains on boys’ ankles, of a border where Zhanar and Samrajya watched each other across the line. He pictured the road that ran there, the forts along it, the supply trains.

  First the border, he told himself. Then the steppes.

  If they’d sent the others south, he would follow the chains. Wolves protected their own. He’d decided which one he was.

  Osireads’ question from yesterday’s chapter, so once you finish reading, drop a comment and I’ll reply there.

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