Kian eased her onto her back. Her eyes fluttered and showed the whites. “Stay awake,” he said. He had to stop the bleeding, quickly.
She mumbled something, but he did not hear. He drew her dagger and sawed at the hem of her robes, cutting off a broad swath to use as a bandage. He hesitated only a moment, then loosened her belt and pushed the robes open, noted her feminine curves, then studiously focused on her wounds-a man he may be, but this was no time to act the lecher. The arrow had passed through the flesh covering her ribs, and the gash was bleeding profusely. The good of it was that the wound was not deadly, unless corruption sank in.
“By the gods good and wise,” Hazad blurted from behind. “What are you doing, having your way with the poor girl?”
“Give me some jagdah!” Kian snapped.
Coming closer, Hazad grunted when he saw her wounds, and quickly handed over a skin of the Izutarian spirits. Kian wrenched the cork free and poured a liberal amount of the clear liquid over the wound. As blood sluiced away, the woman sat up with scream, flailing her hands at what surely felt like fire sinking into her flesh. Kian cursed only half as loud as Hazad when a wild blow sent the skin of jagdah flying, squirting the precious spirits onto the ground.
As softly as he could, Kian leaned his weight on the woman, forcing her back down. “I must stop the bleeding,” he said, trying for a gentle tone, but failing. He was used to dealing with wounded men. If a man lost his wits to pain, you could always backhand him to silence.
She ceased her struggles and closed her eyes, breathing hard.
Taking the long swath he had cut from her robes, he tore off a large square, folded it several times, soaked it with jagdah snatched from Hazad’s protective hand, and pressed it against her side. Next, he draped the remaining length of material over her belly and tucked it far under her back. Urging her to arch up, he grasped the end under her back and pulled it out the other side. Keeping the folded bandage firmly against her skin, he wrapped the swath tight, tied a knot, and tucked away the loose ends.
With the crisis seemingly averted, he pulled the edges of her robe together, covering her nakedness, careful to keep his eyes on her face. Gods good and wise, he thought distractedly, she is beautiful. “This will have to do, until we get you to Oratz,” he said aloud.
She murmured something indistinct, forcing him to lean in close. She spoke again, but he still could not hear her. He bent over until her lips were against his ear. “What did you say?”
Her breath was warm against his skin, but her halting words chilled his veins. When she stopped speaking, he sat up. Absently, he reaffixed her belt.
“What is it?” Hazad asked, noting the disturbed look on Kian’s face.
The mercenary captain looked out over the darkness to the south, his mind seeking answers to questions that seemingly had no rational response.
What is happening? Is this all because of what one misguided youth has done … or something more?
“Kian,” Hazad said, looking uneasy, “what did she say?”
“She has come from Fortress Krevar,” Kian said, voice hollow. He did not know the exact numbers, but he knew there were several thousand folk living along Aradan’s western border. They were a tough people, hardened by desert life and the constant worry over defending against Bashye and Tureecian raiders. “From Yuzzika to Oratz, she said, all along the road between, everyone has been … slaughtered,” he finished, using her word.
If not for what he’d seen with his own eyes at El’hadar, he would have disbelieved. Even still, he did not want to believe, but until the sister spoke more, he had no choice but to accept that the western border folk of Aradan had been all but eradicated.
Chapter 21
Though the night had been one long ride followed by a short, violent battle, Kian awoke before dawn was fully born, having scarcely slept. The desert was cold at night, and the bed it provided was all stone and grit.
Uncomfortable as he was, Kian remained on his back, thinking that he had not felt so out of sorts since he had been a child alone on the Falsethian streets of Marso. In length of years, surviving those dangerous coastal streets and alleys had not been all that long ago, but he had lived three lifetimes in experience since that first lost and lonely day. He had not enjoyed feeling adrift and frightened then, and he liked it less now, all the more because he did not know what caused his present uncertainty. It seemed as if some part of his mind was coming awake and trying to warn him of some lurking danger in a language he did not understand.
He abruptly sat up and scanned the desert, unconsciously searching for threats. All was quiet and still. He noted with approval that three Asra a’Shah formed the points of a broad triangle around the crude camp. He had no doubt that each man on watch had stood so with their fullest attention. While an Asra a’Shah was the worth of any three men, the Bashye were crafty, ruthless, and fearless fighters who commonly bested their foes with inferior numbers and weapons. That aside, they would face their greatest foe, should they ever think to attack Kian’s company while he had Asra a’Shah in his employ.
To the east the sky was a deep, muddy crimson that he was rapidly becoming used to. It seemed the smoke of the Qaharadin’s burning would never clear. To the still dark west, the fires raging in the swamp cast a dull orange glow skyward. Without question, the breadth of those fires was growing larger by the day. As to any unexpected menace, there was no sign, though the sensation of trouble had not lessened.
He turned his head on a stiff neck and found the Sister of Najihar looking at him with eyes as dark and cool as a pond in a midnight forest. Despite himself, he swallowed. He could not conceive what peril she might pose, but he suddenly felt sure she was the source of his strange anxiety, at least in part.
Telling himself he was acting the fool, he studied her features. Though the morning light was weak, her normal dark coloring was back, which had to be a good sign. That was where his scrutiny fell apart. He simply could not watch her watching him. She was not the first Sister of Najihar he had ever come across, and she was hardly the first pretty woman he’d had contact with, but there was something about her, a quality that made him want to saddle his mount and ride away, as if from an approaching storm. At the same instant, he wanted to take her in his arms and….
“How are you feeling?” he asked brusquely, pushing aside amorous thoughts.
“Better,” she said, her voice slightly raspy. “Do you have water?”
He tossed his dusty blanket aside and retrieved a waterskin. As he was holding it to her lips, it struck him that he was behaving like a servant, which would simply not do. Sisters of Najihar might hold sway in Aradan, but elsewhere they were thought to be more spies than scholars, which was why they tended to remain anonymous, posing as healers and the like. They were not hated, for their healing ways and insights were almost magical, but neither were they entirely trusted in lands outside of Aradan-or even in Aradan, for that matter. At any rate, he did not want to set a precedent by fetching and carrying for her.
“Take it,” he said gruffly, tossing the skin into her lap.
She gave him a bemused look, and he walked a few paces away, showing her his back.
Without question, she was attractive, but he’d be damned if he was about to start bowing and scraping to a comely face. If he wanted to make an idiot of himself over a woman, he could just as easily get well and drunk in some bawdy winehouse, toss a few bits of silver at a wench, and behave as he would without regret.