Berk lifted it to his nose and sniffed. The sharp tang of heather wine met his nostrils. "Goddess love him."
"Somebody besides us has to." Sully raised his own cup in toast and took a drink.
Berk could feel him studying the side of his face and did his damndest not to return the look.
"You need to let it go," Sully said. "Whatever happened there, it's done and buried in the past and you're the stronger for it."
"I know." He shifted the sling, and his gaze ran down the Southrun before he snapped it back.
Sully leaned his elbows on the wall, cradling the mug between his hands and looking at nothing in particular. "We see too much of death when we take up the sword. More than most folks. There's no way we can avoid it. We watch it claim our brothers, we dole it out, and sometimes it walks right up and touches us." He took a long swallow. "It's a scary thing, looking that beast straight in the eyes. It'll put the strongest man on his knees, crying like he just left his mum's teat. No shame in it."
"It's not that," Berk said. Sully gave him another long look but didn't press him, and for a while they drank in silence.
"They had this metal cage," Berk said at last, his voice soft. "Not very big. Maybe as long as I am tall and half that high. Had it raised up on stones with a fire beneath it. They'd caught themselves a messenger, and they put him in there." Berk squeezed his eyes shut, the image so vivid he could make out the charred finger bones wrapped around the steel bars. He looked at Sully unable to keep the quiver from his voice. "He was just a boy, Sul. He couldn't have been much older than Cadyl. They kept him alive for seven days. Seven days. They kept throwing wood on the fire, just enough--when he begged for water they poured it over his skin. They would have kept at it longer, but one of them had enough of his crying, and stoked the fire."
He sucked in a ragged breath and scrubbed a hand over his face. His cheeks were wet. "I can't--I see Cadyl in there. I can even hear him screaming. Every time I close my eyes--"
Sully laid a hand on his arm. "Cadyl is safe with your father in the Reaches. Whoever the lad was, the Goddess has him now, and all his suffering is forgotten. He'll have a place in the Halls sure enough. We'll see he gets his proper honors when we get back to Nisair."
"He was a boy, Sul. He should've been playing at swords with his friends, or helping his pa with chores. He should never have had to face that. What did he ever do to them? What did he ever do to anyone?" Berk wiped his face again and downed the rest of the contents of his mug, his hand shaking. "How can they hate us that much?"
"They don't see beyond the uniform. It's how they're raised. They're weaned hating the empire no matter what form it takes. A child, an old woman, a soldier--one's the same as the other to them. You've got a real cause to return their hate now. More than most others that'll ever face them, but you can't let it fester. Hate's an ugly thing to carry. It blackens the soul. You're too good a man for that, Berk, and I won't lose you to it."
Thirteen years he and Sully had known one another. Berk had been fresh to the guard and Sully, already a veteran of border skirmishes at the ripe old age of twenty-two, had taken up the role of older brother for a boy trying to fill his father's boots. From friend, to brother, then comrade-in-arms. Berk had no doubt Sully had been instrumental in getting him assigned to Commander Garek's detail. There were few people Berk felt closer to, and fewer still who knew him as well.
He met Sully's honest gaze. "How do you do it?"
"You give it no quarter," his friend said. "You acknowledge it and let it go. Today, Berk. It's what you have right now. You can't do anything for that boy. You can't change what you saw, or what they did to you. Not saying you can ever forget, or that you should. Remember your first bloodying?"
Berk furrowed his brow. "Arrow to the thigh. Hurt like hell."
"You can recall it now, because I brought it up. Do you think about it any other time?"
Berk shrugged. "Not normally."
"That's how you do it."
Which would have been more likely if that were all he needed to bury, if he could look at Ciara without shame and disgust rippling through him. Even thinking about it twisted his stomach into a tight knot.
"There's something else," Sully said, not making it a question. "I'm not prying, but if you need to be out with it, I'm listening."
And Berk wanted to be out with it, but confessing an act that would have gotten him run through had anyone witnessed it--that still would find him on the back end of a blade if the wrong man heard of it--didn't come easy. It wouldn't pass any further than Sully. He didn't need to worry on that score.
"Look, the Commander said you can stay behind if you need," Sully said. "Sergeant Evan wouldn't argue the point. He's not much faith in magical healers, it seems. He'd just as soon see you lying in a bed for a few weeks, mending in 'the usual way' as he put it."
"I don't need to be laying in a bed," Berk said. "I don't even need this sling, but he wouldn't let me out of the infirmary without it. I feel fine. Sore, yet. Muscles are stiff, and my range of motion isn't quite back. But whatever Ciara did--" And why had she done anything to help him when she should hate him?
Berk closed his eyes and shook his head, trying to rid himself of the turmoil of images and emotions. A short, hard laugh escaped him when he thought how much pleasure the marauder chieftain would be getting right now if she knew the hell she'd sunk him into. He owed her. Blood for blood. Not just for himself, but for the messenger and countless other Imperial soldiers that had very likely suffered at her hands. Damn the thousand hells.
"You've just gone round the bend to angry," Sully said, his voice low. "Don't let it take you."
Berk's fingers clenched around his empty mug, and his muscles twitched as he resisted the urge to throw it. "She drugged me. Their chieftain. Something she put on the knife blade. Damn near ripped me apart, but she enjoyed herself." The words came hard and bitter. "When she had her fill, she threw me at Ciara and I tried--" He couldn't look at Sully. "I tried to force myself on her."
Berk felt Sully go still. Down the wall the watch laughed at some shared joke. Further out, the hollow clinking of a cow bell signaled a farmer moving his stock. From the city behind them, a myriad of noises rose with the morning bustle.
"That's not you, Berk."
He scoffed. "Apparently it is."
"Whatever she put on that blade--"
"Wasn't entirely to blame."
Sully let that hang.
"I know you, Berk," he said at last. "A lot of years lay between us. You're one of the most honorable men I know, so I can guess how deep this cuts, but you weren't acting on your own. Not from what you're telling me. And I've not seen that Ciara holds anything against you so I'd say my assumption is right. No matter how you feel about the woman, any woman, you'd never take her against her will. It's just not in you."
"I would have."
"Damnit, Berk, you can't live on what could have happened." Sully's voice sharpened. "It didn't. There's no harm been done, am I right? Suffer some embarrassment, talk to the woman if need be, but don't let it get hold of today. It's not here. It's done."
"Easy to say, Sul."
"Then maybe you ought to stay here for a bit. Come to Nisair when you're feeling better."
Berk narrowed a look at his friend. "Is that what you're going to suggest to the Commander?"
"Not unless you give me cause," Sully said. He rubbed a hand along his jaw. "We're not in the clear until we ride through Nisair's gates, you know that. All of us need to be sharp until then. If that's going to be a problem for you, I've got to say something. If you tell me it's all good, everything gets left up here on the wall. By both of us. Your choice."
"It's all good," Berk said, with more conviction than he felt, but damn the unholies if he'd be left behind like some raw-nerved recruit.
Sully studied him a moment longer, then took Berk's empty mug and gestured toward the stairs. "Then I'm supposed to get you back to Sergeant Evan so he can ass
ure himself you're physically further on the mend than he suspects."
"When are we on the road?"
"Commander says tomorrow morning." Sully put a hand on Berk's shoulder. "You're a better man than you think you are. Stop trying to convince yourself otherwise."
***
Captain Rothel's scouts had spotted a marauder band coming up a shallow draw that ran parallel to the road less than three leagues from Broadhead. A staccato bird call rose above the others, and Bolin glanced to his right. Garek held up five fingers, curled them, five again, curled, then three, followed with a sharp gesture to the left. Thirteen against ten. They had both faced worse odds but rarely with a group of men they didn't know. Of the eight Rothel had suggested for the hunting party, only three were veterans. The other five may have seen a skirmish or two in their escort duties, but he doubted their blades had ever been bloodied.
He started to raise his hand to signal the archers when a familiar tingle slithered up his arm. He waved Garek off and scrambled from his vantage point.
"They're not alone," he said, when the Commander joined him.
"Donovan?"
Bolin shook his head. "His witch."
"Can you handle her?"
"If I know she's here, then she's definitely aware of me," Bolin said.
"Meaning?"
"Our element of surprise no longer exists."
"That's a given, but that's not what I asked."
Bolin stared into the distance. He had the pendant, but using it meant stirring Ciara's power. Even from this distance she'd likely feel it, and he had no idea what the repercussions of that might be. Maybe nothing. Worse case, the total destruction of Broadhead.
"Your failure to answer isn't inciting my confidence."
"I'll keep her busy," Bolin said. "Get a bit of a lead on them again. Get your archers placed. Take them when you see your opening."
"And you?"
"Like I said, I'll keep her busy."
Garek pursed his lips. "Is it wise? Perhaps would be better if we let this opportunity pass."
"Why? So they can meet us somewhere between Broadhead and Nisair?" Bolin shook his head. "We can't risk it. Not with that witch in their midst."
Garek ran a hand through his whiskers. He looked about to say something else, then changed his mind, nodded, and went to join Rothel's two lieutenants. Bolin waited until the men moved off, then climbed back to the ridge where he'd been watching the marauder's progression. He rubbed his arm, and scanned the surrounding trees.
"All right, witch," he muttered under his breath, "where are you?"
A movement on the far side of the draw to the rear of the marauder column caught his eye. A rider moved within the trees half-way up the hill. As soon as Bolin spotted her she stopped and turned his way. The pain in his arm flared, but this time he was ready for it, and used a bit of the pendant's magic like a tourniquet to keep it from overwhelming him as it had done that night on the road. The witch called down to the marauders and they stopped. Someone called back, their tone harsh, the words undecipherable. Bolin expected the band to scatter into the trees, but after a moment they started back on their way up the draw, and the witch turned her horse and crossed behind them, heading toward Bolin.
She left her mount at the bottom of the ridge and made her way up through the trees, moving cautiously. Bolin held his ground.
"Has your master found you of so little value that he's sold you to the likes of them?" he asked, when she got within earshot. "I think you'll find them more honorable than him in most regards."
"Honor is an interesting word," she said. "I find each man has his own definition."
The hair rose on the back of his neck, and Bolin dropped instinctively to a crouch, a fistful of claws whistling through the air where his head had been a breath before. He rolled, kicking out a foot and catching his attacker in the legs. Something large and cumbersome crashed headlong down the side of the ridge toward the witch. Before Bolin could get his feet under him, another creature rushed forward: something that looked like a cross between a man and a beast. Bolin sucked in his guts to avoid taking the curved falchion across his stomach. He slapped the blade to the side, ducked under the shield, and wrapped his arms around the creature's waist. They fell and rolled in a tangle of limbs and weapons. Lights erupted behind Bolin's eyes as something hard connected with the back of his skull. His fingers brushed a grip on his attacker's belt, and Bolin yanked the weapon free as they tumbled again.
He drove the blade into the beast's side, up under the leather armor it wore, twisting until the hilt jammed against flesh. A deafening roar accentuated the pounding in his head. Good to know the witch's pets could be injured by cold steel. Bolin rolled out from under the beast and staggered to his feet, ripping the knife free and switching it to his left hand to draw his sword. The creature had dropped the shield to press a hand against its side in an attempt to stem the flow of blood. Bolin feinted to the left, pivoted and attacked on the weak side. The creature brought its sword across its body, but it merely skittered off Bolin's and did nothing to slow it. The beast's strangled cry vanished with its body and Bolin's stroke passed through as though cutting smoke. He fought to keep his balance, the sudden lack of resistance catching him off guard.
The air trembled, and Bolin caught a glimpse of the witch just cresting the ridge, flanked by two more of her grotesque pets. Both were armed and attacked together as soon as they saw him. Bolin sidestepped to avoid the first, and took the second one's thrust with the flat of his sword. He moved in tight, steel screeching on steel, flipped his sword and smashed the pommel up under the creature's jaw as hard as he could. The huge fangs snapped together with a spray of blood and shattered teeth. Bolin's hand flashed up, driving the knife through the thick throat.
His breath exploded from his lungs, and he went sprawling. The ground came up fast--faster still with a weight on his back driving him down. Jaws locked around his shoulder in a vise grip, crushing the links of his mail and driving them through his tunic. Bolin twisted in vain to dislodge the creature. The jaws unclenched to get a better grip--specifically on Bolin's neck--and he took advantage of it to snap his elbow back. The beast grunted, and Bolin continued battering at it until it gave just enough that he could shove it off balance.
Claws tore at him, trying to get a grip as Bolin rolled over the top of it. He got as far as his knees, and jerked his sword up at a sharp angle. The beast took it in the guts, falling forward onto Bolin and crushing him back. He cried out, his leg twisting painfully beneath him as the witch's pet pinned him and then, like the others, it dissolved into nothing.
Bolin struggled to his feet, scanning for the next attack, but the witch had vanished along with her beasts.
***
The patrol returned with one casualty and two injuries, not counting the gash on Garek's head which he claimed to be a mere scratch. And though Bolin's tabard hung off him in shreds, he assured Ciara he suffered nothing worse than bruises and sore muscles. She frowned after him as he limped out of the infirmary favoring his right leg, then turned back to Sergeant Evan. The Sergeant gave Ciara a long, thoughtful stare as though not quite sure how he should take her offer of assistance.
"I'm a trained healer," Ciara said. "I know how to set bones, call fevers--"
"Magic healer."
"Yes."
His brows met in a sharp line. "Well, I--not meaning any disrespect, misstress--never had much call for your type."
Ciara tilted her head. "My...type?"
Evan rubbed the back of his neck. "Well, that is to say--"
Garek leaned in close to the Sergeant's ear. "Best just stop there and take the lass up on her offer. I don't much care for all that spooky stuff either, but she's a fair hand at healing, and I'm sure the lads will appreciate the softer touch."
"Aye, sir. If you say so." But the sergeant looked unconvinced.
Garek winked at Ciara. "That I do, Sergeant. That I do."
His frown deepened,
but he showed Ciara where to find supplies, and put her in charge of cleaning and stitching a leg wound while he went to deal with a broken arm. The man with the leg wound lay on his back, one arm twisted behind his head, his mouth a tight line, his fingers clutching a handful of blanket so hard his knuckles went white. He looked about Garek's age, but clean-shaven and not nearly as large as the Commander. He slid his gaze toward Ciara when she settled beside the cot, then turned his eyes back toward the ceiling.
Ciara called up a bit of her earth magic, and used it to help ease his pain as she cut away his leggings, and began to clean the gash across his thigh. The lines on his face softened, and he loosened his grip on the blankets. Her aunt Meriol would be chatting up a storm with him by now if he'd been her patient. She'd know his name, if he had ever married, how many children he had, how long he'd been in the guard--Helps them feel at ease, she'd told Ciara. Takes their mind off what you're doing. It's what had made her aunt such an excellent healer, but Ciara had never been any good at that aspect of her craft.
And now, as she worked, she felt Andrakaos watching over her shoulder.
Why do you help this one? he asked.
Ciara darted a look at the man as though afraid he might have heard. I'm a healer, Ciara answered silently. It's what healers do.
He has done nothing for you. You do not even know him.
That doesn't matter.
You did not offer to help the men you killed.
Ciara gasped.
The man jerked his head up. "Something wrong?"
"No, sorry."
Andrakaos circled her, watching the wisps of earth magic Ciara wove through the wound to stave off infection. He will owe you his life now. Will you take it?
Ciara bit her lip. "What's your name?" she asked the soldier, ignoring Andrakaos and willing him back into his cavern. But he lingered, just at the fringes of her vision.
"Sanders," he said. "You're very good at this. Which guildhall did you train with?"
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