“She’s blade master for our under tens classes.”
“You set Wilton up.” Talac accused, though there was slight amusement edging his tone.
“I did no such thing. Wilton’s choices are all on him.”
“You guided and walked him into a trap of his own making.”
“I wouldn’t be much of a hunter if I didn’t know how to build a trap, would I?”
“Will he die out there, in the woods? Why not just make it quick and clean now?”
“He’s a brute and a lazy idiot, but I don’t think that is deserving of a death sentence. If he sticks to the marked roads, he should be fine. We hang acrid balls of damp rags along the roads created by our tanners. The smell keeps the majority of animals away from the main throughfares unless they are injured or old. And Wilton will have his sword.”
“Ah, clever, I was wondering how you kept all those pilgrims making the trek on foot through the woods safe. Although they don’t know that at the time.”
“No, of course not. Those that commit to the walk through the wild woods to seek out the Lair, they’re not looking for easy, or handouts. They’re willing to risk everything… their very lives to find the answers they seek.”
“Do you get many of Wilton’s ilk?”
“Surprisingly, no. Those that incur such a grievance injury usually cannot imagine ever picking up a blade, spear or a crossbow again. They think they will be content with a new trade such as blacksmithing, baking or tanning. But once they have settled in and we start their defence training, specific to their new limitations, the knowledge that they can defend themselves goes a long way to helping heal their… souls. And once more they discover they have options, to move on, or to go back if they so wish to some semblance of their old life.” Alia gestured towards the exit. “Let’s get this tour over with that you have been harping on about so that I can return you to your injured friend’s bedside speedily.”
“Oh, I have faith Brandth is fine. He has a talent for making friends where ever he goes. Especially the ladies… no doubt there’s a flock of them entertaining him right now, plumping his pillows and fetching him warmed mead.”
“So, your exact opposite in nature then?” Alia observed, a slight acerbic edge to her words.
“Just so. Now, to this tour, I have many, many questions…”
“I’m sure you do.”
Talac bit back a smile as Alia huffed out a small exasperated sigh, but dutifully led the way outside. The prospect of spending the day with this woman had brought out Talac’s rare playful side. He couldn’t help himself, there was just something about Alia that made him want to poke and prod at her. Her every reaction; frowns, fleeting smiles, sarcasm… he found himself fascinated.
His strange response, it had him recalling her words, about what an excellent hunter she was. Was he walking into a carefully laid trap? Perhaps. Yet, Talac found himself unable to dredge up any real concern. Instead, his curiosity was aroused, because if this was a trap, he couldn’t help but be intrigued by what exactly Alia would do with him once she had him ensnared.
Chapter Nine
Healing was boring, uncomfortable, exhausting, and at times, downright painful. Despite the elixir healer harridan had slipped Brandth, he’d spent a restless night. His broken leg slamming him back to consciousness every time he so much as thought about moving the limb.
And furthermore, despite the hushed air that hung heavily over the infirmary chamber, it was a surprisingly noisy place. Throughout the interminable night his healing compatriots moaned, groaned, asked for water, requested chamber pots and one man, thankfully situated a ways from Brandth, farted seemingly every quarter of the hour like he was on a rigid schedule.
And the Deities above only knew why, but the patients were awoken the moment the sun knocked on the horizon. Brandth barely had time to swap greetings with a man who stopped at his bedside, introducing himself as Alange, before the blankets and sheets were thrown back, his shirt unbuttoned and discarded, a damp but thankfully warm rag run over all Brandth’s extremities and torso.
It was disheartening to discover that within a day he’d become as weak as a sea sponge. Alange sitting Brandth upright as easily as a rag doll in order to clean his back. Before proceeding to lay him back down, with much appreciated gentleness.
Daring to crack open his eyes for a moment, Brandth caught a glimpse of a wiry man, a patch over one eye, the cheek beneath it pock marked with scars. A split second later he slammed his eyes shut, his head beginning to throb. Crud, seemed like he was still sensitive to the light this morning. Keeping his eyes firmly closed as a warm damp rag was settled over the lower half of his face, and after Alange had wrestled him into a fresh long tunic, the man set about shaving Brandth. The orderly was no Raschion, but he’d do in a pinch.
Finally, Alange moved onto another patient, leaving Brandth behind to catch his breath. How could using the chamber pot, receiving a rag bath, and having the sheets and his tunic changed be so utterly exhausting? He felt as if he’d waged war against a battalion… and lost.
He must have dozed, next thing he knew a firm hand was resting against his forehead, and an aged roughened voice was in his ear. “And how are you feeling today, young Lordling?”
Opening his eyes, squinting, Brandth stared into a well lived face. She was bent with age, so it was a little hard to tell how tall she was, but those eyes, they sparkled with energy and amusement, flecked hazel, they emoted a brisk caring. Once, many years ago, this woman would have been stunning. Now she was impressively imperious and so very wrinkled.
“Ouch.” Brandth winced at the sudden spiking pain, having forgotten, closing his eyes, reaching up to rub his temples. “That damn light.”
There followed an amused soft chuckle as his head was lifted suddenly, a thick soft bandage fitted over his eyes. “Give it another day or two. Heads are hard, but they don’t like to be landed on. Now. What about this leg?”
Brandth felt the sheet lift and tensed, but the hands that moved down his leg, trapped between two stiff boards to keep it immobile, were knowledgeable and thankfully gentle.
“It… hurts.” He conceded. “If I try to move it.”
