50. Killian

CHAPTER FIFTY

KILLIAN

I couldn't blame Hector for being concerned. It was a thought that'd been weighing heavy on my own mind since I'd realized I was going to have to fight.

Was I following in my mother's footsteps and rejoining the fight too soon? The wound was still a red reminder on my side, though it didn't even twinge anymore most days.

Perhaps more importantly, I hadn't spent much time getting back fighting fit since being injured.

No, I'd spent weeks abed and then weeks doing nothing but sitting at a desk, so was I in any shape to be fighting?

But even if I wasn't, how could I leave my clan alone to face the disaster of a major southern invasion, the likes of which we hadn't seen in generations? No, they wouldn't be lost without me, but if I lay in bed while my people fought and died, how could I ever face myself again?

I'd probably be dead anyway with an encroaching southern force that size. If we lost, they would overrun the wall and slaughter the rest of us in our beds and homes. Hector thought they had some honor and wanted to prove their prowess, and maybe that was true for some. It'd certainly been true for Carlyle. But it didn't change the fact that some of them clearly just liked to fight and kill, and it would make no difference if the targets were invalids and children.

So I kept that in mind as I led him to the practice yard. No, I didn't want to beat him. I didn't want to knock him down at all, either physically or emotionally. But I had to be there for my people.

He was beautiful in his determination, mouth set in a firm line and eyes alight with emotion, but... well, he was always beautiful, and almost always determined. Some days it was just to beat a little puzzle he'd set before himself in the smithy, but some days it was—well, like today, it was me. I was the thing he had to beat.

The practice yard quieted as we took a spot in the center, me with my spear and him with one of his own. He held it with more confidence than when Orestes had first been teaching him, but that wasn't a surprise. He was more confident in every way than he'd been when we met. He stood taller, as though he was no longer afraid of standing strong, no longer felt as though he needed to make himself less to accommodate others. His shoulders were straight and broad and... well, it wasn't a surprise either, that they had grown in those months he'd spent in the smithy. He'd always been strong, but now he was covered with muscle, and it looked damned good on him.

Not that anything ever looked bad on him.

When he struck out, it was quick and merciless, and he almost nailed me right in the gut with his first strike. For a moment, I was on my back foot, distracted by the immediate near-failure.

I let myself fall into a rhythm, defending against his flurry of blows, considering my situation. Did it hurt? Was the wound pulling? Was I getting out of breath quicker than usual?

But no. I was doing fine. I'd just been so damned distracted by thoughts of Hector that I'd had my guard down. Clever as always, Hector had taken advantage of my mind being elsewhere.

On his very fine body, mostly.

I let it go on that way for a moment, him throwing everything he had at me. Long, sweeping, elegant motions with the spear, going for my side, my injured hip, and even trying to sweep my legs out from under me. He'd improved at this as well as smithing. He must have been practicing with the spear in his free time when I hadn't been paying attention, because he was downright good. Maybe better than a lot of the people we had on the wall.

The men were gathering around, and I could hear the noises of approval for Hector's tactics and skill, murmurs they'd have never bothered with if they didn't think he was doing well.

He didn't tire easily, either, which was no surprise. He'd spent most of the last few months in the smithy, hours and hours of hard labor every day, lifting and carrying and creating, and it built stamina like few other endeavors. If fighting were just about that, I suspected Abram could still outfight every person who was on the wall, even at his age and missing those fingers.

But this wasn't about Abram, who was happy where he was now.

This was about me, and even more, it was about Hector.

If anything, though, the spar firmed my resolve. I wasn't at one hundred percent—of course I wasn't, I'd nearly died just a few months ago—but I was fine. I wasn't impaired by the injury.

In fact, the longer we went, the more I could hear relief in the growing crowd around us. They had also been worried that I wouldn't be able to handle the coming fight, and as much as none of us, including me, liked to acknowledge it, I was a focal point. Perhaps the Crane could and would go on without me, but that didn't mean I was just another cog on the Hawk weaving contraption. I was central and visible, and my people needed me to be well.

To be there.

So I let the spar continue, until both of us were sweaty and panting for breath, long minutes of fighting. I'd seen a few openings where I could have gone in for an attack, were we fighting, and I'd feinted toward each, reminding Hector to close the openings and protect himself. He'd adjusted masterfully, keeping himself protected. It was almost like he'd been fighting for years, and by the time he stopped, panting, and took a step back, I must have been grinning like a madman.

He frowned, sighing, and nodded. "Well, you're... that was impressive. I couldn't?—"

"You should join us," I told him, then quickly added a caveat: "If you want to. You're getting very good, and if you want to join us on the wall for the assault, you should."

His mouth fell open, and for a moment, all he did was stare at me. Uh-oh. Had that been the wrong thing to say?