by M. D. Grimm
Gust closed his eyes and drifted just above a deep sleep.
Chapter Seven
Lance woke alone and smelled the evening in the air. He slowly stretched, achy and sore but no sharp pains greeted him. The most tender parts were still his face and groin, and it was nothing he couldn’t push through. For the first time in days, fatigue didn’t drag him down. Relieved, he sat up and frowned out the open window. Brutus was nowhere in sight. He scanned the small room, Gust’s faint scent still lingering in the air.
It was odd—that was probably the best sleep he’d ever had with Gust curled around him. He’d found it uncomfortable to sleep in such a soft bed the last few nights. He was used to hard ground or thin padding.
Looking around the room, he spotted Anknet’s effigy. He remembered Gust’s story. The touch of his hand. He smelled nice. On impulse, Lance bent and pressed his face into the pillow, taking a deep breath. He smiled, an unfamiliar warmth blooming in his chest. Lifting his hands, he splayed his fingers and looked at his scarred, callused palms. His were hands that had wielded sword, axe, and spear to destroy countless lives. So unlike Gust’s hands—his were softer, slimmer, with a few calluses on the fingertips. They were gentle but firm, used to save lives.
Gust was kind, and it wasn’t something Lance was used to. There was no cunning in his eyes, no sly smile or schemes. He was honest. Lance finally understood what it might be like to trust someone. To connect with someone. To have a friend.
Were the gods the reason for Ulfr’s cruelty? Ulfr worshiped the gods of cruelty and warmongering—the selfish ones that were distinctly unhelpful to the other gods of their pantheons. Were people not responsible for their own actions, then? Was Ulfr a puppet for the gods of war and chaos?
Was he?
The door opened and Kissa bustled in with a tray holding a bowl full of steaming soup and a goblet of water. “How are you feeling? Any sharp pains? Nausea?”
“No nausea. Just aches and some throbbing.”
“Where?”
“My face and….” He gestured to his groin.
Kissa set the tray on the table that held the various jars before stepping to his side and inspecting his various wounds. He eyed them as well, noting them as if they belonged to someone else.
“Healing nicely and no infection. Good. You’ll need to build your energy back up. I doubt that will take a man like yourself too long.”
She grabbed a small jar and returned to him again. She opened it and cupped his chin before rubbing blue paste all over his face with gentle fingers. He closed his eyes and contemplated the foreign treatment. He realized his hands were clenching the blanket across his lap and forced himself to loosen his grip. Touch wasn’t bad with healers.
“This paste will reduce the swelling and ease the discomfort. Don’t worry about the color, it won’t show if I rub it in enough.”
He made a noise of acquiescence to her ministrations.
When she pulled away, he opened his eyes. She held out the jar to him. “Scoop some up and tend to your private areas.”
He blinked and did as he was told. She turned her back when his fingers were covered in sweet-smelling goop.
“Clothes are on the chair. They might be a bit small but they’re the best we can do at the moment.”
“Thank you,” he said softly.
“You should try standing and walking around on your own but I encourage you not to overdue it. Perhaps wait until Gust returns. Or at least stay inside the hut so one of the other healers or apprentices can assist you.”
Lance nodded.
She glanced at him with a brief smile. “I’m glad you are doing so well. Bless the gods.”
“Yes,” he said faintly.
Then she left.
He tended to his groin, rubbing the paste in, fascinated when the blue gradually disappeared. And grateful when it numbed the discomfort.
He threw back the blankets and grunted as he stood. He took it slow, having no desire to fall again. He shuffled over to the bucket in the corner and relieved himself. Then he tentatively stretched, attempting to work out his stiff muscles. While he wanted something more substantial to eat, he drank the soup eagerly, delighting in the faintly spicy taste. Then he gulped down the water.
He turned and noticed the neatly folded grey breeches and sleeveless tunic Kissa mentioned, on the chair Gust usually sat on. They might have been black once. He dressed and noted that Kissa was right—the material was thin and a bit scratchy, and the tunic was a little tight around his chest. At least the breeches didn’t constrict his groin. He left the room barefoot. He skimmed his fingers across the wooden walls, noting the other closed doors, probably other sick rooms. He stepped out into a much larger room, filled with tables and chairs, and a cold hearth. He stared at the ash for a long moment before turning and heading out the front door. Regardless of what Kissa had said, he’d been inside too long and craved the freedom of open space.
He took another deep breath of fresh air tinged with wood smoke and something sweet he couldn’t identify. He didn’t smell blood or sweat or steel. Dirt coated the bottoms of his feet, the few pebbles a nuisance. He ignored the slight discomfort and walked farther away from the healing hut. Looking up revealed a clear sky with the moon to his right and the setting sun to his left. Vivid colors flared across the growing black, a last rebellion against the impending darkness.
He was alive. And if he wanted to stay alive, Ulfr had to die. Simple as that.
Lance looked around the town, noting that it spanned quite a ways on either side, homes pressed against each other, with stables, blacksmiths, bakers, tailors, and other artisan shops dotting here and there. Fields in the far distance were probably farms. It was a town that had everything it needed to thrive. Ulfr would burn it to the ground without a second’s hesitation.
Lance curled his fingers into fists, his knuckles cracking. This place had no defenses except for a few sentries on watchtowers scattered at random places. He squinted at the small figures blurred against the setting sun’s light. Did this place have warriors? Guards? Soldiers?
“Not enough,” he murmured to himself. No matter how many they had it wouldn’t be enough. How long? How long until Ulfr sent a scout south to find him? The bastard wouldn’t rest until he’d finished what he started. If Lance didn’t leave, this beautiful, innocent town would be razed to the ground and everyone slaughtered, man, woman, and child.
Gust’s face flashed in his mind, and Lance clenched his jaw, glaring into the distance. No way would Ulfr lay a hand on Gust. Lance would chop off any hand that tried to harm his healer.
Breathing through his nose and out his mouth a few times calmed the tightness in his chest, caused by the thought of Gust being harmed. But if he did leave and then Ulfr still came and learned they had helped him, well, this place would still be razed. What if Lance left and couldn’t find Ulfr in time?
Lance scrubbed his hands over his face and then winced as his bruises throbbed. What was he going to do? For the first time in his life he wanted to kill to protect. For the first time in his life he had the freedom to protect. Or did he? He’d been Ulfr’s puppet for years. Had he also been the gods’ puppet? The ones of chaos and war? Was he deluding himself to think he had a choice in his fate? Or had the gods already decided for him?
Ulfr believed in fate. Destiny. Preordained events. He’d always said he was meant to find Lance. That Lance was meant to wear the black armor, to be Scourge. But now? He didn’t feel like Scourge anymore. He didn’t really know what he felt, except confused by everything.
Voices drifted to him upon the air and one of them belonged to Gust. Lance swung around, keen eyes sweeping over the area. He cocked his head and headed in the direction of the sounds. He knew the tempo of distress in a voice, and he didn’t appreciate the way his heart tightened at hearing such a tone in Gust’s voice.
There weren’t many people outside. Many businesses were closed and people were most likely indoors readying supp
er or meeting with friends in the tavern. After a few turns and weaving between homes, Lance found his target.
Gust stood to the right, holding up a hand, and angry if his glare and clenched jaw were any indication. To the left was a tall, broad-shouldered man with even darker skin than Gust, and he also wore his hair in long braids. His clothes were fancy and brightly colored, the tunic and breeches heavily embroidered, and his black leather vest matched his shiny boots. He also wore hose, making Lance think of the handful of nobles he’d encountered in his life. His demeanor was domineering, and he kept pushing close despite Gust’s blatant disinterest. They both spoke in Taris, which relieved Lance.
“Dakar,” Gust said, obviously exasperated. “You need to back off. Now. How many times do I have to tell you that I’m not interested? We tried courting, and then I told you I didn’t want to take it farther.”
“I know you don’t mean that,” Dakar said, smiling sweetly. Lance saw the predator in his eyes. He knew that look well. “We’re meant to be together, Gust. I’ve known it since we were kids and so have you. I dare say the gods want this union. You won’t find better than me. These games you play make me angry. You shouldn’t make me angry.”
Lance bared his teeth and only then noticed the darkening bruise on Gust’s cheek. Anger wasn’t an emotion he’d felt in years, not since he was a child. Ulfr’s cruelty had burned it out and left behind a hollow shell. Detachment had allowed him to survive.
He didn’t feel detached now.
Now he let the anger come, and he liked the feel of it, the power behind it. Emotions were heady things.
“I know your parents dying changed everything for you,” Dakar said softly. “But they wouldn’t want you to be alone forever.”
To the untrained ear he sounded sincere. Lance wasn’t fooled. Then sadness struck just under his anger. Gust didn’t have parents?
“Don’t you dare bring them into this,” Gust said, fairly fuming. “This isn’t about them, Dakar. They were dead before we starting courting and have nothing to do with this. We are done and over.”
“Darling.” Dakar lifted a hand to touch Gust only to have Gust smack it away. Fury flashed in Dakar’s eyes.
“You will not touch him,” Lance said, stepping forward.
Both men jerked their heads to him. Gust’s eyes widened and Dakar scowled.
They spoke at the same time.
“Get out of here!” Dakar said with a dismissive flick of his hand.
“You should still be resting!” Gust said, taking a step toward him.
Dakar lashed out and curled cruel fingers around Gust’s arm. He yanked him back and Gust stumbled.
Lance stomped forward and grabbed Dakar’s fingers. He twisted them backward at the same time he gripped Dakar’s wrist, forcing him to let go of Gust. Lance shoved between them and heaved Dakar away. It was Dakar’s turn to stumble and nearly fall, stunned by the sudden move.
“Lance!” Gust gripped his arm.
Lance only had eyes for the predator and shifted to keep Gust behind him.
“You’re going to regret that!” Dakar lunged, ruled by emotion.
Lance reached behind and gripped Gust’s hip, forcing them to move in sync. They shifted to the left, and Dakar stumbled forward, unable to compensate. Lance pushed Gust a few steps farther back even as Dakar recovered and swung out.
“Stop it!” Gust said.
Lance caught the poorly aimed fist and used his own, the feel and sound of impact satisfying him like nothing had in a long time. Dakar’s head snapped back and he fell on his ass.
“Oh gods!” Gust tried to step closer, and Lance shot out an arm, blocking his forward movement. Gust collided with him and grunted. Despite his injuries, Lance knew he was a force to be reckoned with when he wanted to be.
“Lance, I need to make sure he’s okay.”
“He’s fine.”
Dakar sat up, wobbling and rubbing his jaw. He snarled at Lance and pushed to his feet. Lance raised an eyebrow. He had to admire a man who could take a punch and come back for more. Yet his actions told Lance he was someone who only understood violence. Lance’s message had to be made in blood.
“Dakar, just stop!” Gust pushed forward and held out a hand to both combatants. Lance vaguely noticed they were attracting a small crowd and mentally shrugged. He doubted anyone would think to harm Gust if they knew the consequences of such a move.
“How dare you choose this outsider over me!” Dakar shoved Gust hard, sending him crashing to the ground.
Lance saw red.
Before anyone could move or say anything else, Lance swung out and slammed his fist into Dakar’s stomach. Dakar bent forward, expelling all his air with a choked cry. Lance then grabbed Dakar’s head and jerked his knee up, smashing it against his nose. Blood sprayed as Dakar stumbled backward, arms flailing, head wobbling. Eliminating any chance of recovery, Lance kicked out with his foot despite the strain to his leg and slammed it against Dakar’s chest. Dakar smashed into the wall of someone’s home, cracking his head against the wood. He crumpled to the ground, unmoving.
Lance stumbled as he fought to keep his footing. He winced at the sharp pains to his ribs and legs and cursed the lightheadedness that followed. At least they were brief and didn’t take away his satisfaction at defeating his foe. He observed Dakar for any movement. His knuckles stung and his ankle felt tender but he shrugged those away.
Dozens of pairs of eyes landed on him, and many a jaw dropped, gaping. He snorted like Brutus before turning to Gust where he still sat on the ground, also gaping. Lance’s anger dissipated, and he held out a hand, palm up. Gust blinked several times before staring at his hand as if… afraid? No. No, he didn’t want Gust to be afraid of him.
Not Gust.
“Are you all right?” he asked softly.
Gust swallowed hard and nodded. Then he took a deep breath and gripped Lance’s hand. Relief shook through Lance’s legs as he pulled Gust to his feet. The healing slice on his arm didn’t appreciate the act of gallantry, and Lance hid another wince at the burning twinge.
“You didn’t have to do that,” Gust muttered as he swept his gaze over Lance’s body, probably looking for any other injuries.
Lance squeezed his hand. “Yes I did. He was hurting you.”
Gust met his eyes and a small smile touched his lips, though his eyes still showed concern and nerves. “You’re still healing, Lance, you need to be careful.”
“I’m fine.”
“Any nausea? Trembling? Lightheadedness?”
Gust’s concerned warmed him. “No. I am well. Thanks to you and your aunt.”
“Aye, thanks to us. And despite your insistence on ignoring all our orders.”
Lance huffed a breath in amusement, unable to deny it.
The crowd murmured and pointed, their various conversations growing louder and more aggressive. Lance couldn’t understand them since none spoke Taris. Then one single voice suddenly rose loud and clear, though it too, spoke another language.
A lean, grizzled man pushed through the crowd to see the source of the commotion. He wore a well-made leather vest and mail shirt, while his trousers and boots were a stark black that nearly matched his skin tone, making his gray hair stand out. Leather vambraces covered his forearms, and a short sword was strapped to his hip. He knew how to handle himself.
“Our sheriff,” Gust said, his warm breath caressing Lance’s ear.
An unfamiliar shiver moved through Lance. He cleared his throat and nodded. He found it comforting that Gust didn’t let go of his hand.
The sheriff stopped short at the sight of Dakar and scanned the crowd. His dark brown eyes glinted in the dim light. Lance knew it was unwise for the town to learn his identity since they’d kick him out in a heartbeat, and they’d be right to. But that would also leave them vulnerable to Ulfr. Despite Dakar’s disgusting behavior, Lance truly didn’t want anyone to be killed.
“Gust,” the sheriff said in Taris, probably for
Lance’s benefit, his voice husky and deep. “I suspect you know what happened here.”
“Yes, sir.”
The sheriff turned to the crowd. “All of you can leave now. Nothing more to see.”
“They’ll be more to see when Lukman gets wind of this,” someone said in Taris. “I don’t envy you Kafele.”
The sheriff scowled. “Get going! The lot of you!”
With some grumblings and a few laughs, the crowd dispersed, though many looked back and craned their necks to see more. The sheriff waited for everyone to move out of sight before turning to Lance and Gust.
The crowd’s reaction told Lance that Dakar wasn’t the most popular fellow in town.
“Dakar hounded you before he left town, didn’t he?” Kafele asked.
Gust blew out a breath. “Yes. He didn’t accept that I wasn’t interested in him. He confronted me again and… well, um.”
“That bastard was hurting him,” Lance said, narrowing his eyes in challenge. “I stopped it.”
Kafele looked Lance up and down, his expression inscrutable. “You stopped it? Aren’t you the half-dead warrior that Gust dragged here some days ago?”
Lance raised an eyebrow. “Yes. I’m better.”
“I can see that.”
Lance jerked his head toward Gust. “Because of him and his aunt, I’m better. I protected him.” And didn’t that feel great?
Kafele frowned and crouched beside Dakar. His face was already swelling and blood dripped down his mouth and chin. He shook Dakar’s shoulder, and a low moan escaped him as he weakly curled into himself.
“Looks like he needs the healing now.”
Gust stepped forward and Lance held tight.
“No.”
Gust frowned at Lance. “This is what I do. I heal. Let go.”
Lance shook his head.
Gust firmly tugged his hand out from Lance’s grip. “Don’t control me like he tried to.”
Lance’s eyes widened as he quickly took a couple steps back. “I didn’t—that’s not—I don’t like you hurt.”