On Beta Sinta’s left, Carver gains the upper hand in his fight, driving his adversary back and out of my line of sight. Beta Sinta and the remaining Tarvan follow the same path, their swords clashing in a blur. The Giant moves after them, probably magically bound to the mercenaries in some way, and Kato and Flynn disappear as well, still trying to blind the monster with knives.
My hands already raw from before, I haul on the rope again to move farther out of the cave. The heavy rock won’t budge, and I turn to find it wedged fast between two other stones.
Damn it! I can’t see anymore!
I wrestle with the big rock, curse at it, go back and try to lift it, and get nowhere.
Time seems to slow down, and the wait to know what’s happening becomes interminable. The sound of fighting gradually fades. Pacing in front of the wedged rock, I watch the entrance to the cave. Then, strangely hesitant, I tug on Beta Sinta’s knot again. When it doesn’t give, an odd feeling stirs inside of me. I’m not relieved. Definitely not relieved.
A few minutes later, all four men walk in, blocking the light from the cave’s narrow entrance. They look surprised to find me so close to the exit.
My chest deflates as I exhale the breath I was holding. “Really? None of you died?”
“Don’t sound so disappointed,” Flynn chides, grinning like a fool. “And thanks for the advice.” He nods to me, but I don’t nod back.
“A blind Cyclops throws better than Flynn,” Kato teases. “He lost six daggers, including yours, going for the Giant’s eyes before he finally got one.”
One? Who got the other?
Who cares!
“Mine?” I turn to look outside. “I have to find them!”
“It’s a mess out there. We’ll buy more knives,” Beta Sinta says, pointedly adding, “for Flynn.”
“No. They’re mine, and I want them back!” Vasili gave them to me. I threw my Fisan knives down a sinkhole in Tarva four years ago. I was trying to “let go.” It didn’t work, of course.
I give him my death glare until Beta Sinta finally agrees to look for my knives before we leave.
“How do you know so much about Giants?” he asks. His gray eyes tell me he’s wondering what else I know, how much information he can get out of me. I should really stop giving it away for free.
I wave my arms around. “Soothsayer, remember? I know stuff.”
His grin surprises me. Straight, white teeth flash in the shadows, and a bolt of lightning thunders down my spine, splashing warmth along my nerves. I blink and turn away, off balance and alarmingly hot.
“Give me my knives back, and I’ll teach Flynn to throw something other than his ax,” I offer peevishly, my insides in a knot and my fingers itching for a blade.
Beta Sinta unties the rope from the rock and reties it around his waist. “We’ll see.”
At least it’s not a flat-out denial. Surprised, I glance up, my uncooperative eyes snagging on the shadowed planes, angular jaw, and aquiline nose of his arresting profile. He leaves the cave, and I follow, my stomach doing an annoying little flip when he catches my hand and helps me over the brambles at the entrance. I didn’t need help, and he knows it.
My hand still tingling from his warmth even after he lets go, I ask, “What did the Tarvans want?”
He shrugs. “They didn’t stop to talk, so neither did we.”
“Mercenaries are notoriously tight-lipped.”
He nods, and I can’t help thinking they’d only come after a small Hoi Polloi group with a hired Giant to assure the kill. I’m sure they weren’t here for me, so I have to wonder who’s after Beta Sinta’s blood—and who has the coin to buy it.
*
We ride north for the next several days, our pace sedate because of the pounding summer heat, our path dictated mainly by sources of water and shade. Beta Sinta gives me my knives back for target practice with Kato and Flynn. It’s a moderate show of trust, and I almost wish he hadn’t done it because I can’t seem to despise him as much since the day he handed over my blades.
I could have stabbed him right then. I thought about it. I really did, but some part of me just didn’t want to. I don’t know why, since Beta Sinta drives me insane. He’s always there, infuriating and practically on top of me, and I hate the fact that I’m getting so used to him.
Weighing the knife in my hand, I judge the distance to Beta Sinta and think hard about what I’m willing to do to escape. I never miss.
He’s alone right now, sitting with his elbow on one knee and his chin propped in his hand. A breeze lifts his hair, exposing the broad, masculine lines of his tanned and somewhat weathered face. There’s a crease between his eyebrows, and his preoccupied expression gives me the strangest urge to ditch throwing practice and ask him what’s wrong.