Chapter Twelve: The Chief

  Ean was pulled out of unconsciousness twice, the first time because someone was fumbling for his knives. He roused long enough to grab the hands and get his bearings. The hands were Roarke’s.

  “Relax,” the general said, and pushed him back down.

  Flora pressed something warm and soothing to his side. “You need stitches.”

  That was fine. Ean closed his eyes and slipped back into the comfort of oblivion before she even threaded the needle.

  He woke the second time to a gentle shake on his shoulder, but his mind was lost to exhaustion and muddled dreams. He couldn’t open his eyes. Something was held to his lips.

  “Drink,” a voice said.

  Broth was tipped into his mouth, hot and savory. It was followed by water, cold from the river. A hand pressed against his forehead.

  “Sleep.”

  It was a comforting gesture, and for a moment, Ean thought he was back in Haven with Felix. He blinked open his eyes only to find Roarke leaning over him. The memories snapped into place: his oath, the quest, the Wildmen.

  “Is ev—” he couldn’t manage the full question. He coughed to clear his throat and pain flashed bright in his side. He groaned.

  Roarke patted his shoulder. “Sleep, Ean. All is well.”

  It was the reassurance he’d wanted. He shut his eyes and slept.

  When he woke for the third time, it was slowly and reluctantly. The first sensation to greet him was pain and he retreated from the discomfort, latching onto the tail of a dream and riding it back to sleep. Consciousness returned an hour later, stronger and more persistent this time. He opened his eyes to see the inside of the tent, the canvas backlit by the sun. He could hear the soft murmur of conversation outside.

  He knew instinctively that he had slept through the evening and night. It was morning now, late morning judging by the heat building in the tent. He propped himself up on his elbows to take stock of himself. He was alone, lying on a stack of bedrolls which made for a decently comfortable bed. He was naked underneath the blankets, no clothes, no knives, just a few bandages and a wrap of cloth around his middle. He sat up fully, grimacing at the pain, and pulled back the bandage to peek at the stitches in his side. They were neat and orderly. The skin around them was tender, but he couldn’t see any sign of infection. He checked his other injuries, a couple shallow cuts, a host of bruises, and a general ache across his body that said he should move carefully over the next few days. Maybe even stay in bed as long as possible.

  But there were voices outside, and a Prince to protect. Ean got to his feet with a grunt and a wince. Pain is constant, his mind prompted him. Pain is a companion.

  He carefully pulled on his clothes, not bothering with his boots. He strapped on his wrist knives, left the rest of his weaponry at the foot of the bed, and ducked out of the tent.

  It was a brilliantly sunny day. The tent was pitched on the crest of the hill, overlooking the river below. Flora was at the campfire, stirring a foul-smelling concoction in a small pot. Roarke smoked his pipe, his eyes on the Wildmen chief. He was tied to a post several paces from camp, close to the edge of the cliff. It was a precarious position, no doubt deliberately chosen as a warning to behave. Ean turned, searching for the others, and spotted them at the foot of the hill. They were burning the bodies of the fallen Wildmen.

  “Thought you might sleep the morning away,” Roarke said around his pipe. “You should sit down before you fall over.”

  Ean scowled. He probably looked rough, but he was hardly in danger of toppling over. Still, the wind was brisk, and the fire was warm. Several small logs had been pulled over for seating. He leaned against one, easing his legs out in front of him.

  “How are you feeling?” Flora asked.

  “Better than expected,” Ean said. “Thanks for the stitches.”

  She ladled some of her brew into a tin and held it out. “Here, this will help reduce the inflammation.”

  Ean took the cup. The liquid inside was purplish-brown and concerningly lumpy. It smelled of rotten produce. He had to ask, “Are you trying to poison me?”

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

  She gave an apologetic smile. “I had to get a little creative with the ingredients. But the efficacy won’t be impacted. Just the taste.”

  “She drank it fine,” Roarke told him.

  Ean’s eyes went to her foot. Her left boot was off, and her ankle was wrapped.

  “Sprained it,” Flora said. “The second day after we split the party. Stepped right into a mole hole or something like it.” She shot an embarrassed look at Roarke.

  “Could have happened to any of us,” he said placidly. “No need to keep apologizing.”

  Flora didn’t look comforted, and Ean understood why. She’d slowed their group down, enough that the Wildmen had overtaken them before he, Asali, and Chadwick were supposed to arrive. If they hadn’t moved so quickly, the others would have been killed or captured.

  Flora pointed to the cup. “Drink that, then you can have breakfast.”

  It was a hard bargain, but Ean was hungry. He held his breath as he took the first sip and immediately gagged.

  “I’ll pay you double whatever they’re paying you, Shadow-walker,” a voice called out.

  Ean looked over. The chief of the Wildmen was watching him. His shoulder had been bandaged, but it was apparent that no other treatment had been given to him. His face was tight with pain and there was a sheen of fever about him. Ean looked at the foul drink in his hand and thought it unfair that the chief had been spared this torture.

  “Do you know how much I was promised?” the chief called.

  Ean ignored him and forced down another gulp.

  “I can pay a hundred gold coins, Shadow-walker!”

  The third swallow was even worse than the first two. Ean coughed. Flora passed over a biscuit and he gratefully bit into it.

  “Two hundred gold coins!”

  There was still half the cup to go. Ean wondered if he should just risk the inflammation.

  “Pain’s a fucking constant,” he muttered and downed the rest of it. His stomach lurched; his eyes watered. He shoved the rest of the biscuit into his mouth. Roarke passed over a water skin.

  “I’ll give you five hundred gold, Shadow-walker!”

  Ean wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and gestured to the bandit chief. “We going to shut him up or what?”

  The chief heard him and fell silent. Ean took another drink of water. Flora handed over a plate with breakfast—another biscuit, half of a roasted bird, and a handful of fresh berries. Someone had gone hunting. Ean ate slowly, savoring each bite because the meal was the best they’d had since Northpoint. He finished with a tin of tea and glanced about, wondering how long they’d stay camped. It was a secure position, defended to the east by the tall ridge and to the west by the cliff. And they had line of sight to the north and south. But all the same, he didn’t want to run into anymore Wildmen.

  “We’ll stay here today,” Roarke said, as if reading his thoughts. “Maybe tomorrow too.”

  “Don’t stall on my account.”

  “I think some rest might do us all good,” Roarke said. His eyes skipped to Flora, and Ean realized he was taking her injury into account too.

  Still, he’d like to be travel-ready as soon as possible. He set his tea down and straightened his legs. He slowly folded himself forward.

  “Your stitches!” Flora exclaimed.

  He grunted once, to let her know he’d heard her. He couldn’t quite grip his feet because the stitches pulled. He sat up, twisted to both sides, and felt the stitches catch again. He grimaced, not liking how limited his range of motion was. He rolled onto his back and shifted his weight onto his feet and shoulders, hiking his hips and torso up. The stitches complained but held. He reached back with his hands and lifted his shoulders to form a bridge. The stitches tugged warningly.

  “He looks fine,” Asali commented, coming up to the camp.

  Ean dropped back down. His head spun for a moment, blood-rush from the change of position, but it passed quickly. He reached for his tea. “I’ll be ready to move by tomorrow.”

  “Not if you pull your stitches out.” Flora crossed her arms and sent a scolding look his way.

  Asali pulled off her bow and quiver and sat beside him. “We searched the bodies. We couldn’t find anything that would suggest they were hired by Westenvale. Their weaponry, clothes, all from Bormoor and Eastmere.”

  Roarke frowned, his face pensive.

  “Having nothing from Westenvale suggests they are paid by Westenvale,” Ean countered.

  Flora frowned at him. “How does that make sense?”

  “Look at that necklace on the chief.” Ean pointed and they all turned to look. The chief stiffened at the attention. “That’s a spoil of war, most likely from a pirate. He’s displaying it as a trophy. This group must have come across something from Westenvale, be it a knife or a coat or even a brooch. They would display it like he’s displaying that necklace. The lack of any Westen items is an attempt to distance themselves from that country.”

  Roarke nodded. “The point is sound.”

  “What has he told you?” Ean asked.

  “Nothing,” said Asali. “He’s been frustratingly tight-lipped.”

  Ean quirked an eyebrow at Roarke, sure that the retired general would have other ways of getting information.

  Roarke shrugged. “The group voted against any additional incentives to make him talk.”

  Asali’s mouth went flat. “The rules on the treatment of prisoners are clear, and we travel with the Prince.”

  “Yeah, but he’s not here right now,” Ean said, and got to his feet.

  “Ean, don’t!” Asali moved to grab him, but he ducked under her grasp.

  The chief tugged at his bonds as Ean approached, trying to escape, but he was tied fast. Ean dropped in front of him, whipped out one of his wrist knives, and pressed it to his neck.

  “Who sent you after the Prince?”

  “I never saw his face,” the chief said quickly. “He sent messengers and letters.”

  That seemed to be the truth. Ean pulled the blade back so he could swallow. “Tell me everything.”