Chapter 9 #2
"Should've minded your own business," the scarred man snarls, and there's a glint of metal in his hand now. He has a knife of his own, longer and more wicked than Evran's small blade.
Evran backs up, but his foot catches on something—a basket or a tool—and he goes down hard, the breath knocked from his lungs. The scarred man looms over him, knife raised, and for a horrible moment Evran is certain this is how it ends.
Then a voice cuts through the chaos like a whip crack: "Drop your weapons!"
Guards. Finally. Two of them come running down the path from the stronghold, weapons drawn, and behind them Evran can see more coming. The travelers see them too, and calculation crosses the scarred man's face.
"This isn't over," he spits at Evran, then he and his companions are scrambling for their horses.
The guards reach Evran as the travelers mount up and spur their horses toward the northern pass, clearly deciding that fleeing is better than facing Drakarri warriors. Two guards peel off in pursuit while the other two kneel beside Evran.
"Are you hurt?" one of them asks—a woman with kind eyes and gray-threaded hair. "Can you stand?"
Evran tries to take stock of himself. His head throbs where he was hit, his ribs ache from the punch to his stomach, and his wrist burns where it was twisted. But he's alive, and more importantly—
"Eira," he gasps. "Is she—"
"I'm here," Eira's voice comes from nearby, shaking but whole. "I'm alright. You protected me."
Relief floods through him so intensely it makes him dizzy. She's safe. That's all that matters.
"Let's get you back to the stronghold," the guard says gently. "You're bleeding."
Evran touches his head where he was hit and his fingers come away red. He stares at the blood for a moment, everything catching up with him at once. The adrenaline that kept him moving is draining away, leaving behind pain and exhaustion.
"Can you walk?" the other guard asks.
"I think so," Evran says, though when he tries to stand his legs feel unsteady. The guards help him up, supporting him on either side, and they begin the slow walk back to the stronghold.
Eira stays close, her face pale and her eyes wide with shock and what might be admiration. "You fought them off," she says, her voice full of wonder. "You fought three men to protect me."
"Couldn't let them hurt you," Evran manages, though talking makes his head throb worse. "You're my friend."
The simple declaration makes her eyes fill with tears, but she blinks them back and nods firmly.
Word of the attack has apparently spread quickly, because by the time they reach the stronghold, people are gathering. Leona appears from somewhere, her expression shifting from concern to determination as she sees Evran's condition.
"Get him to his quarters," she orders the guards. "I'll fetch the physician. And someone find the Warlord—he'll want to know about this immediately."
Vaike. Evran's heart clenches at the thought. The Warlord will hear that he's been in a fight, that he's injured. Will he think Evran was reckless? That he should have run with Eira instead of standing his ground?
But there's no time to worry about that now. The guards are helping him up the stairs, each step sending jolts of pain through his battered body. His head is swimming, vision blurring at the edges, and he has to focus all his remaining energy on putting one foot in front of the other.
His room, when they finally reach it, looks like a sanctuary. The guards help him to the bed, and he sits heavily on the edge, his hands trembling now that the fight is over.
"The physician will be here soon," one guard assures him. "You did well, defending her like that. Took real courage."
Evran just nods, not trusting himself to speak. Now that the immediate danger has passed, the reality of what just happened is crashing over him. He'd been in a real fight. He'd used a blade on another person, drawn blood, hurt people in self-defense and defense of another.
His hands are shaking. There's blood on them—some his, some theirs—and he stares at them like they belong to a stranger.
The door opens and an elderly woman enters, carrying a leather bag that marks her as the physician. She has sharp eyes and gentle hands, and she begins examining him with brisk efficiency.
"Head wound first," she mutters, probing gently at his scalp. "Not too deep, but you'll have a nasty bruise. Your wrist—twisted, maybe sprained. Ribs are likely bruised but not broken, from the way you're breathing. You're lucky, young man."
Lucky. Evran supposes he is. It could have been much worse. If the guards had been even a minute later...
He doesn't want to think about that.
The physician cleans his wounds, her touch expert and efficient. The head wound stings fiercely as she applies some kind of salve, and his wrist protests when she wraps it in clean linen. She gives him something to drink—a bitter tea that she says will help with the pain and help him rest.
"You'll be sore for several days," she informs him. "Keep that wrist wrapped and don't use it if you can help it. Someone will check on you this evening. For now, rest. Your body needs time to recover."
She leaves, and Evran is alone with his thoughts and his aching body. He lies back carefully, every movement sending new complaints through various parts of his anatomy. The tea is already making him feel fuzzy at the edges, warm and disconnected.
His last coherent thought before sleep claims him is a question: what will Vaike say when he hears about this?
Then darkness pulls him under, and he knows nothing more.