"I'll kill him," he said. "I'll kill him myself."
"Thank you," she whispered, and because she felt safe, held by him, she let pain wash her into oblivion.
"You love her," said Kirill. His voice rasped with pain.
Bakhtiian simply sat, holding Tess against him as if he meant never to let her go. Blood leaked onto his fingers. He stared at her face, and if he had heard Kirill, he gave no sign.
"Vladimir," said Niko. "We need tents for the wounded.
We need fires and hot water. Send Anton Veselov here and send Sergei Veselov with riders to track Mikhailov."
"But, Niko, shouldn't we carry the wounded back to Veselov's tribe?" Vladimir asked.
Niko glanced at Kirill, who stared white-faced at Ilya and Tess from where he lay on the ground, and then at Yuri's slack body, and farther, at the other riders strewn like so much wreckage across the field. "For those who can, yes. But some of these won't live so long. Now go." Vladimir nodded and ran off.
Niko knelt beside Kirill. "Let me see, boy," he said brusquely. "No, don't argue with me. This is a bad cut here but mostly blood." Kirill gasped and clutched at Niko's arm. "Yes, that one's to the bone but it's clean. But what happened to this shoulder?" Tears came to Kirill's eyes as Niko probed the wound, and his breathing grew so ragged that Niko pulled away.
"I can't feel my right arm," Kirill whispered hoarsely. "Nothing."
"Gods," Niko sighed under his breath. "Well, young fool," he said roughly, "if you're still alive so far, I think you'll live to regret it. Just lie still. I'll bind those two wounds and then I'll leave you until I can look to the others."
"Tess-" Kirill whispered.
"Don't you mind Tess. Anton!"
Anton Veselov knelt beside Kirill. "Let me bind those," he said. "I've cloth."
Niko moved to crouch beside Yuri. He laid a hand on Yuri's throat, searching for a pulse.
Anton worked on Kirill as he spoke. "Ivan Charnov is dead. Matvey Stassov and Mikhal Yakhov will be dead by morning. Three of Mikhailov's men are dead. Five others of both jahars badly wounded. The rest-" He gestured with his head. "As you see them. They'll live. Sergei has taken twelve riders after Mikhailov.''
"So few?" Both men started round. It was Bakhtiian who had asked the question.
"Sergei," said Anton, "does not believe Mikhailov will attack him."
"She got Mikhailov," said Kirill in a low voice. "Tess, I mean. Damn." He shut his eyes. "I don't know how badly but, by the gods, she got him." He said it fiercely, with glee. "Aren't you done yet, Veselov?"
"Let me bind that shoulder up," said the other man evenly. "Then I'll let you rest."
Niko sighed and moved away from Yuri. "Ilya, I must look at Tess. Put her down. Ilyakoria."
Niko's voice was sharp enough that it got Bakhtiian's attention. He hesitated, and then, carefully, expressionlessly, he laid her down on the grass.
"I don't want you watching me," said Niko severely.
Ilya stood and walked over to Kirill. For an instant, he stood above him, staring down as Anton Veselov bound Kirill's shoulder and arm into a sling.
Kirill opened his eyes and, with an effort, focused his gaze on Bakhtiian's. He grinned weakly. "She may choose you in the end but, by the gods, she chose me first."
"Yes, you won that fairly. But you were always too damned charming for your own good. I always envied you that, Kirill."
Kirill's eyes widened. "Did you! Gods. I never knew."
"Anton," said Niko impassively, "can you help me here?"
Anton glanced at Kirill, then at Bakhtiian, and retreated to assist Niko. Ilya so forcefully did not look after him that it was obvious that he wanted nothing more than to know what they were doing. Instead, he knelt beside Kirill.
"So Mikhailov is injured?"
"Yes. I don't know-let me-"
"Don't get up. That you've gone this long with those wounds astonishes me. He left five men for dead, and if he's wounded, he'll be forced to run and wait for now. Gods, I've got to get those khepellis to the coast before the winds change. Damn them. I'll deal with Mikhailov when we return." He hesitated. Beyond, a man began to scream in pain, and then, mercifully, the cries ceased. "You did well, Kirill," he said softly.
"By the gods," said Kirill in a faint, mocking voice; it was all that was left him. "Are you praising me, Bakhtiian?"
"Here is some water," said Ilya, giving him a few swallows from his pouch.
Suddenly, behind them, Tess moaned and shifted away from Niko's grasp, struggling toward Yuri's body.
"Don't burn him," she whispered. Niko captured her and shook his head roughly at Ilya to go back. "Don't burn him. Don't burn him." As abruptly, she fainted again.
"Damn you, Niko," said Ilya. "I'll wait no longer. Will she live?"
"It's a deep knife wound. We've staunched the bleeding as well as we can. She has other wounds but it's this one-I can't say, Ilya. It's low in the abdomen. We can only wait. I'm sorry."
Vladimir ran up. "Tents, blankets. Petya has gone back to the tribe to bring their healer. There'll be enough fuel for a small fire soon but the great fire will have to wait until nightfall."
"Vladi," said Ilya, "bring me Kriye."
Vladimir blinked and obeyed.
Ilya walked past the unconscious Tess and knelt beside Yuri. For a moment he simply rested his hand on Yuri's pale brow. He gazed at Yuri's face, so quiet in repose. A few tears slipped down his face to dissolve in his dark beard. Then he gathered his cousin into his arms and stood, and walked to his horse.
"Ilya," said Niko, glancing up. "What are you doing? The fire hasn't been built yet-"
Ilya winced as he put his weight full on his injured knee to swing Yuri's body over the horse and mount up behind him. Yuri's hair hung down, stirred into a semblance of life.
Anton and Vladimir stared at him, shocked. Kirill had his eyes shut.
"Ilyakoria," began Niko. "He has earned his release-"
"Only to be separated from her?" Ilya replied harshly. "Didn't you hear what she said?" Without waiting for Niko to reply, he reined Kriye away. "I'll be back." And rode out onto the plains, alone.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
"Of night, lonely, blind-eyed."
Tess lived for a time in gray oblivion. Pain throbbed through her, as constant as the pulse of her blood. She lay on her back, aware only of darkness, a thick dry coarseness against her hands and lips, a heavy, hot, sharp ache in her side. She thought someone was with her but perhaps it was just a dream. She wanted to scream and thrash about, anything, if only it would dispel the pain.
"Tess." His voice, soft, uncertain.
Because she thought he was a hallucination, she lifted her hand to test his reality. Yes, he had a knee, a thigh, a hip, a chest-his hands caught hers, raising it to his face. His cheeks were damp. She moved her fingers on the soft coolness of his skin. He lowered her hand to his lips and kissed it repeatedly.
"You're taking advantage of me," she whispered.
"Tess! How do you feel?"
"Am I going to die?" she asked with a kind of vague hope.
"No, Tess. No. You must not die."
"Oh, well," she said, disappointed. She coughed, weakly, starting a spasm through her side so acute that gray surrounded her again.
"Tess. Don't leave me!" It was as much a command as a plea. One of his hands moved to rest on her cheek. His fingers, cool and light, traced the line of her jaw.
"Where are the khepelli?" she asked, when she could talk again.
"We're leaving this morning. I'm taking them to the coast. You won't see your brother this winter, I fear."
"But-" Memory came in fits and starts. "The letter I wrote-"