Chapter Twenty-Nine. Water for the Parched.
Twenty-Nine
Water for the Parched.
Merc stops in his tracks and sinks down into his thighs, his body collected and ready to pounce.
Through the crack at the jamb, the interior is darker than the moonlit night around us, so nothing is revealed.
When no attack comes, Merc presses forward.
I figure he’ll open the door the rest of the way with the tip of the broadsword.
He doesn’t. He double-fists the hilt of the weapon and punches out his boot, kicking the thing wide.
There is a sharp clap! and he catches the panels on the rebound.
“Be careful,” I whisper as he enters.
In his absence, our horse comes alive, its ears twitching front and back, its tail swishing. There’s no stamping of hooves, but I know that’s from exhaustion. He’d be rearing up if he had the energy, and all because he wants to stick with our protector—
I jerk around. Scan what’s behind us.
The lane that we’ve come through on is marked with our lone hoofprints, the scuffing marks in the soot making me think of the black snow drifting from the Fulcrum. I know that the containment is quite far from here, but if the demons are already around my village?
They have to be here, too.
Merc reemerges with his sword still at attention, but his stance out of that crouch. “Nothing.”
But he’s not at ease as he comes over and offers me his hand. I shake my head and slip down to the ground on my own. My legs immediately protest the weight they’re expected to support, and I think of the animal who’s so faithfully carried us.
Merc and I go for the saddle girth at the same time.
“No,” I tell him. “You need to worry about what’s around us. Let me take care of him.”
I glance at that open door as I free his pack, and let it fall to the ground.
Then I go to work on the buckles under the flaps of leather.
Peeling the saddle and woolen pad off reveals a block of sweat in the horse’s short hair, and the groan of relief and the full-body shake that comes next make me feel both better and worse on his behalf.
We’re just going to have to do more tomorrow.
“Take him inside.” Merc is over at the far corner of the house, looking around it. “I’ll bring the saddle in, but first I’m going to try to find an uncontaminated water source.”
As I glance at the horse, I’m careful to focus only on its muzzle. The last thing I need is to learn that it’s slaughtered by a demon while that sweat stain is still drying. I’ve got enough to be terrified about in this burned husk of a settlement already.
“Come on,” I say, and tug on the reins.
The horse follows me, even though it has to duck its head and the narrow jambs brush its flanks. Then again, it’s probably been brought indoors during very frigid nights on occasion, and after the ordeal of these hours, it’s come to trust us out of necessity.
Or maybe it’s more like attrition.
After I close us in, my eyes adjust, but only to the extent that I’m able to make out the contours of things.
It’s similar to the way the ash cover coated what survived the blaze, no distinct edges on anything, just shapes: a table and a couple of chairs in front of a hearth, a collection of cooking supplies, and then an orderly lineup of heavy coats hanging on hooks.
In the far corner, a set of steep stairs leads to the second level.
I stare at the ceiling, my ears straining. As the horse drops its head to the floorboards and nuzzles around as if hoping to find some hay somewhere, I try to drown out the soft sounds.
We wait. And wait some more.
My anxiety returns with a tingling that starts at the nape of my neck and flows down into my arms. The go-nowhere warning redoubles until my chest feels as if it’s going to explode. I’m so far from home, such as it was, and I miss my hovel under the stairs as if it’s a family member off to war.
Except I’m the one out here in the cold night, aren’t I.
Pacing around, I cross my arms and blow out my breath. I make a circle around the interior. And another. And another—
Merc’s going to need a bucket.
The conviction comes out of nowhere, and is the kind of rescuer I didn’t see coming. I’ve had attacks of panic my entire life, and nothing has ever derailed them. Ever.
In this moment, though, the urge to help Merc gives me …
a job. And as I start to look around for something that we can fill with water, my flare of terror begins to subside: My brain’s focus shifts to something of greater import than the impotent fear that’s been my constant shackle for as long as I can remember.
This is a private triumph that may well have legs. If I can derail the fear now? Maybe I can do it in other situations when I am crippled.
All I evidently have to do is focus on keeping us alive. And fate knows I’ll have plenty of opportunities to practice this between here and the Outpost.
Shaky, but resolved, I go to the hearth area and start patting around a series of wall shelves with my hands.
In the darkness, searching by touch reminds me of my home under the steps, where things were always dim.
I easily recognize cups and plates, rough forks, the sharp blade of a kitchen knife. A pot. A—
The door opens with a creak and I spin around.
Merc is in the doorway and he has two buckets with him. “Found water.”
He goes over to the horse, and puts one of the loads down. As the chestnut drops his head and drinks with abandon, I fumble to find some cups.
“Don’t bother, come here.”
As he holds up the bucket, I go over and lower my lips to the wooden rim. Breathing in, I smell nothing at all, and a test sip reveals a sweet clean taste that makes me whimper. I ape the horse, but force myself to stop before I am satiated so there’s plenty left for—
“Keep going,” Merc says softly. “I had my fill out there to make sure it was safe.”
He always puts me first, I think as I continue to drink.
Before my emotions get too far ahead, I remember what Julion said. As it was a lifetime ago, the golden knight’s concerns seem like they were about two completely different people than my mercenary and me.
Giving my thirst free rein, Merc keeps tilting things forward as I swallow. When I finally straighten, I glance up and stop my gaze at the tail end of one of his braids.
“Thank you.”
He nods and puts the bucket down. Going over to the horse, he strips off the bridle and there’s another good shake, after which the chestnut clops over to a corner and lowers its head. A moment later, one of its back hooves turns up.
“We need to find food for all of us.” Merc starts going through cupboards. “There has to be some around here.”
An offended squeak reminds me that rats are everywhere, and the scurry of small rodent feet depresses me, even though there are bigger and better things to be discouraged about.
Still, even after you lose your leg, a shard of glass in your remaining foot hurts, and sometimes the brain can only process bites of tragedy, as opposed to the whole rancid meal.
I hurry to join him, working the lower level of things.
All we find are rats and food too spoiled or nibbled at to eat—
When I stumble, I don’t even try to right my balance and fall to the floor. With my hip ringing in pain, I just lie where I land, my head happening to fall on my angled arm. Oh, how nice.
Comfort, like beauty, is relative.
“Are you dead or just overjoyed at being off your feet.”
Focusing on the tips of his boots, I marvel at how he keeps going. “A bit of both.”
“Fair enough.” Merc goes over to the door. “I’m going to have a wash-up.”
“What’s in your hand?”
“What I believe to be a bar of soap. Either that or it’s a fragrant rock.”
He departs, leaving me and the horse to ourselves. The idea that Merc is out somewhere behind the house, getting naked and pumping the handle of a well in the moonlight, gives me a burst of energy and I sit back up.
My ears listen for falling water, and so keen are they, the silence around me crackles.
Getting to my feet, I shuffle around, and I swear I catch a whiff of something cedarish.
The horse doesn’t seem to notice me or any scent.
Is it possible to pass out while standing up?
As time spools out, I yawn and wonder if I won’t try that theory myself—
The door opens again and I breathe in deep. “Oh, that soap … smells good.”
“Do you want a go?” Merc shuts things, and puts our saddle down. “It’s cold out there, but I could carry some buckets in so you’re away of the wind.”
I bring my sleeve up to my nose. Whatever that oil of Julion’s was, its scent still lingers. “I think not.”
“I wasn’t going to recommend it. There’s a chill even in here.”
“You’re cold?” I shift around. “Maybe I can start a fire—”
“Let’s try for some sleep.”
“But we could warm ourselves by the hearth? There’s wood set.”
“We can’t risk any smoke coming out of the chimney. I’ll be fine.”
Merc doesn’t lower himself down in front of the door. He throws himself onto the floor as a dog would, all sharp impacts that don’t seem to bother him as he settles himself with his back against the panels and his legs outstretched and his broadsword in his hand.
As he stares across at me, his face seems to glow as if it’s in moonlight, though there’s no illumination inside because all the windows are shuttered.
What’s he thinking of?
“Tomorrow’s another long day.” He crosses his ankles, the heavy blade of his weapon bisecting his thighs. “And we don’t know what the rest of this night brings.”
After he falls silent, I pick a spot by the cold hearth and lower myself down with a groan.
All of my muscles are freezing up, and when they stop cramping, I steal a glance in his direction.
Even though it’s very dim, and I refuse to get anywhere near his eyes, I can tell he’s exhausted.
There are lines carved in those harsh, handsome features that haven’t been there before, evidence of the exhaustion he’s hiding from me.
Maybe hiding from himself.
He’s utterly spent.
My eyes travel to the bucket—the one he held for me to drink from.
“Thank you,” I say softly.
A quiet snore weaves through the still air between us, and I return to staring at him.
His body is powerful, even at rest, and I have no doubt that if anything or anybody tried to come at us, he would spring up and fight to the death to keep us alive.
I also know that he’d hate to think anybody watched him in his repose, and the stolen intimacy warms me in spite of the temperature.
Or maybe that’s the desire I feel for him. Even though I’m also tired beyond measure, I’m acutely aware that we are alone in this house, and I have a thirst for more of what we shared in the tunnel.
On that note, I close my eyes, and breathe deep. But it’s not to relax and try to find repose.
I love the smell of him.