Suddenly someone slipped beneath the circle of razing steel, taking out Patrick’s legs. He continued to twirl even as he fell, and panic took him completely as Winterbone flew from his grasp and disappeared into the grass once more. Patrick hit the ground hard, and he heard what sounded like cracking bone. He teetered on his side, his vision swimming, his legs in agony.
The one who’d tripped him jumped atop him, and before he could react, blows began to land hard on his face, without rest. There was another piercing stab, this time on his massive forearm, and he snapped his arm up and away from the sensation, clobbering his attacker on the side of the head in the process. For a moment he could breath again. Salty liquid dripped over his distended brow, down his cheeks, and into his mouth. He sucked on it while he rolled over and tried to stand.
While braced on one knee, his knuckles plunged into the ground for balance, Patrick’s vision finally stopped swirling. Six men were standing now. Many of them were bleeding. The one he’d killed lay atop his bloody heap of insides a few feet away. They were furious now, shouting at one another. Patrick frantically scanned left and right, but found no trace of Nessa.
Thank Ashhur, he thought. Let her get away from here; let her escape back home. I don’t care if I die, as long as she remains safe.…
One man went to charge, but Candry held him back, obviously wanting to finish Patrick off himself. When Candry snarled and reared back with his sword arm, Patrick closed his eyes, prepared for the strike to come, prepared for an end to his never-ending life. It never came. Instead, several people screamed at once, followed by a strange sluicing sound and the ringing of steel on steel.
Patrick opened his eyes to see three human shadows bouncing around the group of bandits, moving so quickly their bodies were mere blurs beneath the afternoon sun. One bandit after another was taken down, their bodies geysers of blood. Candry hopped around in a circle as his men fell around him, thrusting and hacking with his sword, never able to make contact. When all his men were dead, he flung his sword aside and tried to flee. He received two sabers through the chest for his troubles. He collapsed to the road and bled out, a pathetic moan piercing his lips.
Patrick gawked at the scene in wonder, incapable of understanding what was happening.
“All is fine, you can come out now,” said an unfamiliar feminine voice. Patrick watched as Nessa emerged from the grass on the other side of the road, dirty and frightened, but very much alive. Her eyes met his, and she gasped. Tears filled his eyes, and he wished he could tell her how happy he was that she was safe.
One of the shadows approached Nessa, wrapping an arm around her and leading her away, while the other two cautiously approached him. They held out their hands as if he were a wild beast they should be wary of, which he found amusing. The throbbing behind his temples, mixed with his body’s violent aches and various stab wounds, left him equipped for little more than lying on the ground and bleeding. He couldn’t have hurt anyone if he wanted to.
Growing weak and sleepy from loss of blood, Patrick slid down from his knuckles to his shoulders until he finally fell face first into the dirt and rocks. Nessa screamed, and then hands were on him, rolling him over so that the sun shone brightly in his fading vision. One of the shadows bent over him. The figure touched the side of his face with one gloved hand and lifted the hood from its head with the other. A woman gazed down at him, one of the most beautiful women he had ever seen, with bronzed skin and piercing green eyes. Her hair was dark, with two or three pale streaks, wavy almost to the point of curls, and when one of her locks drooped near his nose he smelled a combination of sweat and peppermint. It was a delicious scent.
“I think I’m in love,” Patrick whispered, just before losing consciousness.
Patrick awoke on a comfortable bed-by far the most comfortable bed on which he had ever laid-in a lavishly decorated room. Artwork hung from the walls; flower arrangements sprouted from within skillfully crafted vases; and the air was infused with the sweet scent of lilac. A man sat by his bedside. Without a word he handed Patrick a waterskin, which the latter downed in half a heartbeat.
While Patrick wiped water from his chin, everything came back to him. He remembered the attack on Nessa, his defense of her, the loss of Winterbone, and the blessed arrival of the three black-cloaked figures. He patted his stomach and rubbed his forearm, where he had been stabbed, but it seemed as though his wounds had been healed. His body felt free of aches, and it didn’t hurt to look into the light. In fact, the headache that had tormented him for days had diminished to a tiny fragment that lingered in the back of his skull like a mischievous mouse. He glanced up at the bearded man beside him, who nodded as if some silent message had passed between them.
“Pardon my rudeness,” Patrick said finally, “but who are you?”
The man offered his hand, which Patrick shook.
“Deacon Coldmine,” the man said, his smile revealing a set of crooked yet well cared for teeth. “Some here call me the Lord of Haven, but please, just call me Deacon.”
Patrick sat up, his jaw dropping open. This was the man he’d been sent to find? Well, find him he had…though it had been more of the other way around.
“I take it that this is your house?” he asked. “I must say, it’s wonderful.”
“No, no, not mine,” replied Deacon, shaking his head and grinning. “My abode is much more…unpretentious than this. This place is a little extravagant for my tastes, not to mention my means.”
“Is that so? Then who should I honor for housing me?”
“That would be Lady Gemcroft. She brought you here three days ago.”
Patrick whistled, his eyes widening. “Three days?”
“Yes. You were in rough shape when you were discovered-lost a lot of blood. I was called here immediately to assist in your care, but your injuries were beyond my abilities as an herbalist, so…other means were necessary.”
“What other means?”
Deacon reached out and rapped three times on the table beside him. The door cracked open, and when Deacon nodded, swung fully inward. Four people entered the room in rapid succession, Nessa in the lead. His sister was beaming, and the moment she spied him she broke into a run, leaping into his lap with every inch of force her tiny frame could muster. Patrick caught her, the air blasting from his lungs, and gave her a tight squeeze.
“Thank Ashhur, you’re all right,” she whispered into his ear.
“Yes, thank Ashhur indeed,” a second woman spoke.
Nessa slid off his lap and fell into place beside him, and Patrick looked up at the sound of that familiar, feminine voice. There she was, the woman he had dreamed of, the one who had saved him. She was as near to perfect as a human could be, every curve of her body faultless, every angle of her face exquisite in its brilliance. She wore a pair of tight, calf-length breeches and a green satin chemise that perfectly matched her green eyes.
Patrick was so focused on her that it took him a moment realize that others were there too-a young woman with silver hair and eyes like azure gemstones, who held the splendid woman’s hand in a curiously intimate manner, and an old and frail, dark-skinned man with a thick white beard, who looked strangely familiar.