Chapter 5 #2
There was absolutely no way I was bandaging my wrists now. The last thing they needed was the touch of more fabric.
I sniffled as I carefully threaded my arms into the vest and secured the cloak over my shoulders. I’d hardly flung my hair into a knot when the door swung open. I jerked my wrists beneath the cloak, hiding them from view.
“Let’s go.” Callen stood at the entrance.
I wiped my eyes once more, desperately hoping any redness was gone as I approached him.
He didn’t move from the doorway. “No blindfold right now. Few are awake, and it’s dark enough out that your hood,” he reached out and tugged the mentioned fabric over my head, “should cover them enough. Keep your head down.”
The edge of the hood draped just to my eyes, shadowing my skin. Any evidence of my tears was definitely hidden now.
I quietly followed him down the hallway and steps, eventually stepping out into the early morning.
Harthon’s men stood about, silently readying their horses.
I shadowed Callen’s path as he weaved through the crowd until Harthon came into view.
He was wearing a thick black cloak over his shoulders, and the top half of his hair was again pulled behind his head.
The dark whiskers shadowing that square jaw were shorter and cleaner than yesterday. He’d shaved.
Even with his scarred arms covered and his hair tamed, he gave off the impression of a barely-restrained predator.
It would be a wondrous joy to ride with him again today. Not.
“Thanks, Cal,” Harthon said, dismissing his third-in-command.
I stood there awkwardly, watching as he secured the saddle. Like yesterday, a heavy sword lay across his back, the hilt sticking out from beneath the cloak. I saw a glimpse of knives hugged to his torso, and I allowed myself to fantasize for a moment about getting my hands on one.
Callen hadn’t bound me, but Harthon very well might.
He finished his task and, resting an arm over the saddle, set his gaze on me. “Come here.” His breath ghosted through the cool air.
Well, good morning to you, too.
Deciding not to delay the inevitable, I trudged toward him. He didn’t move to lift me. I peered up at him from beneath the hood.
“I’m not tying your hands today,” he informed me.
“Why?”
“I know more about you now, and I don’t think it’s necessary.”
As in, he didn’t view me as a threat. That was fine by me. With my hands freed, I was mobile, and if I was mobile, I could escape.
“Be sure not to mistake this as an invitation to run. You’re too valuable to let go, and you wouldn’t make it very far.” It was a dangerous promise coming from him.
Escape wouldn’t be easy, and I had no idea how I would manage it, but I would find a way. It would require time, strategy, and knowledge, but I would do my best to obtain all three as quickly as possible.
Keeping that to myself, I spoke the next response that naturally formed.
“And here I thought you were inviting me to run. Thank you for the clarification,” I snarked to the formidable Princeps of Fourth Territory.
Between Callen’s easy demeanor and my luxurious room, I’d apparently lost some of my timidness. Or brains. Maybe both.
Harthon was silent for a moment, likely contemplating whether or not he should retaliate. Then he lightly grunted—in anger or surprise, I couldn’t tell—and reached for my waist. Self-preservation had me stepping back, but he caught me easily. A second later, I was planted on the saddle.
No retaliation, then.
I’d just swung a leg over when the seat shifted and heat swamped me from behind, curbing the chill that hammered my cloak. I slid back into his lap, despising the contact as I sat ramrod straight. When we entered the city yesterday, I may have leaned into his body, but that brief reliance was over.
Harthon whistled, the sound like that of a bird, and the group began moving. A hand reached around and tugged the front of my hood down even more before returning to the reins.
I could have done that, you oaf.
No townspeople appeared as we left the small city, and as the gray sky lightened, we trekked into the wilderness.
I kept the hood up for warmth as the breeze quickened, dropping the temperature.
The tree-studded earth slowly gave way to expansive fields of long, yellow grass that turned back into woods before appearing again.
Some of the fields contained small villages filled with thatched-roof homes that breathed smoke from early morning fires.
They were the same type of small towns that Koerlyn had terrorized, the same type that I was from.
Where Merelda was.
A band of pressure cinched around my chest as I thought of her, of what she was thinking and how she fared.
I’d been gone for nearly a week. She probably thought I was dead.
She might even be grieving. Marsik would be helping her, sure, but he didn’t care for her in the way I did.
Merelda was old, having found me when she was far past child-bearing age, and daily tasks pained her more than she’d ever admit.
She needed a loving caretaker, not a drunken brother. She needed me. But I was so, so far away, and getting home—it would take at least a week, and likely much longer than that. I’d have to not only escape Harthon and his men but evade Koerlyn, too.
Heartache clogged my throat as the hours passed.
I did my best to catalog our surroundings and track our direction.
Each village we passed was a potential shelter for when I did finally run.
I studied each field of yellow grass and every patch of wooded terrain, mentally marking odd formations and memorable landmarks.
With so much monotony, it was difficult.
We crossed from yet another field into the shelter of the woods, and Harthon pulled us to a stop. “We’ll take a short rest here. Drink and eat. After this, we ride until we’re at the edge of the valley,” he announced to his men.
He dropped to the ground as I brought my right leg over the saddle. His hands found the space beneath my ribs and set me on my feet with surprising care. When he reached for his saddlebag, I turned, searching for a private place to relieve myself. I stepped away from the horse and toward the trees—
A hand seized my wrist in a firm grip.
My cry was instantaneous as I whirled around, white-hot pain radiating up my arm.
Harthon’s eyes widened. He immediately released me. I snatched the throbbing limb back, cradling it to my chest. Tears burned my eyes as I gasped.
Understanding registered on his face, quickly followed by a flash of anger. “Why are those not covered?” he demanded, taking a heavy step forward.
“I meant to—”
“You meant to? Meaning to do something doesn’t stop infection. You know that, right?” In his low voice, the words were nearly a growl.
Instinct had me moving back. Harthon caught me easily, grabbing my bicep and hauling me toward him. I threw my weight back. His hold didn’t waver. The grip wasn’t bruising, but restrained power vibrated in those fingers that held my limb.
I stilled as his other hand locked onto my forearm and lifted, bringing the inflamed wound into view. His eyes lowered as he examined it, and an insane part of me noted how long his eyelashes were. It was a strange thing, for such a brutal man to have lovely eyelashes.
A muscle jumped in his jaw. “You didn’t wash them, either one, did you?”
“No,” I answered on a breath.
“Why?” His attention left my wrist to focus on me.
The truth made me sound like a coward, but I couldn’t think of any excuse. “It was too raw. I meant to do it another time.”
He didn’t scoff like I thought he would. “Why didn’t you ask Callen to help you?”
I yanked back again, but he still held fast. Stupid muscles. “Callen isn’t my friend to ask favors from.”
“Friend or not, he’s capable of bandaging these.”
It was then that I noticed the quiet in the air. Harthon’s men weren’t necessarily watching, but they were certainly listening.
Screw being respectful. “Why should I trust him or any of your men to help me?”
He released my forearm but kept his hold on my upper arm. “You have a point,” he admitted, stunning the temper right out of me.
“I do?”
His fury didn’t abate, but he exhaled long and hard. “I haven’t given you a reason, and I still can’t give you a reason until we reach the Citadel and have some privacy. But trust or not, you should have enough damned self-preservation to take care of yourself.”
“I have plenty of self-preservation. That’s why I didn’t seek help from the armed men who ambushed and murdered a troop of soldiers in front of me.”
Harthon ignored that and turned to his men. “Joris, give me your kit and some water. The rest of you, stop eavesdropping and do what you actually need to do.”
I watched silently as the men started talking amongst themselves. An older man with gray-speckled hair emerged from the group and handed Harthon a thick bundle and canteen.
Harthon thanked him and turned back to me. “I’m cleaning these. Hate me all you want, but you know it’s foolish to leave them like this.”
It was also foolish to have a deadly warrior bandage my wounds when he was angry.
Not giving me a choice, Harthon led me to a cluster of trees just over a small ridge, out of the sight of his men. Finally, he released my arm. My stomach jumped with nerves as he opened the bundle, revealing pockets filled with draughts, knives, scalpels, and heaps of white linen.
“It’s easier if you sit.”
“I know that,” I muttered, forcing myself to take a seat before I ran away like a baby.
They were just wrists, for goodness’ sake.
I’d had plenty of similar injuries in my lifetime.
When I was new to setting traps, rocks and roots would trip me often, and I would return home with gouges in my knees.
Chopping wood had given me more splinters than I could count, and just last year, a thick, sharp piece had lodged into my thigh so deeply I’d needed stitches.