Damian FINUCANE's Arc

Chapter 53 of 57

Damian rode north for two days. The name from the killer sat in his mind like a coal. But his hands would not stop shaking. He had chased and killed for months without real rest. When he flexed his fingers, they trembled. If he reached the last man like this, his grip would fail mid-fight, and the man would live. Rolo saw it too. She caught his wrist at a stream crossing. "You're done," she said. "Look at you. You'll drop the sword before you draw it." "There's no time." "There's time to lose if you die." She pointed down the slope. A warm-lit building stood among the trees, its wide porch lined with potted plants. A sign read Dylan Drafthouse. "One night. You rest, or I ride ahead and take him myself." Damian knew she meant it. He dismounted. Inside, the drafthouse was full and warm. A fire cracked in the hearth. Rolo took a corner table with her back to the wall, watching the door out of habit. Damian ate slowly. His hands shook over the bowl. He hated the sight of them. "Eat, then sleep," Rolo said. "I'll keep watch." He tried to argue. She slid the water toward him and said nothing. He drank. Half the night, Damian lay on a narrow bed above the hall. His mind ran the coming fight over and over. Each time, his sword slipped from weak fingers. He forced himself to breathe the way his master taught him. Clear the mind. Let the muscles loosen. Slowly, the fire below faded to embers, and sleep took him. He woke at dawn to sunlight on the floorboards. He held up his hand. It was still. He curled his fingers into a fist, opened them, curled them again. No tremble. The rest had done what months of will could not. Rolo was already downstairs, chewing bread. She looked up. "Better?" Damian drew the blue-stoned sword a hand's width from its sheath. His grip held firm. He slid it home. "Better." "Good." She stood and dropped coins on the table. "Because the man past the ridge road won't wait forever. Someone will warn him you're coming." That sobered Damian. He had traded a day for steady hands. But a day was also a day the last man could use to run or arm himself. He stepped onto the porch. The morning was cold and sharp. His raven waited on the rail and hopped to his wrist. "Fly north," Damian told it. "Past the ridge road. Find the high house." The bird lifted and cut into the pale sky. He watched it go. His hands were his own again. The exhaustion that had nearly beaten him was gone. But the last name in his hunt was still out there, warned by every hour that passed. Damian tightened his sword belt and started for the horses.