Chapter 5 #3
I could handle skinned wrists.
And I would handle them well because Harthon already thought I was a weakling. Here I was, afraid to wrap my own wrists while he walked into and out of battle for fun.
I chewed on my lip as he uncapped the canteen, grabbed a vial of milky liquid, and knelt before me. Forcing a bored expression onto my face, I held out a hand. His hands swallowed mine, the tanned, rough skin dusted with dark hair. His fingernails were remarkably short and clean.
It was an utterly ridiculous thing to notice.
I tilted my gaze up to find his eyes on me, an almost soft look on his features. No—not soft. Harthon didn’t do soft. Just…softer than the livid expression he’d worn seconds ago.
“Water first, then this,” he uncorked the vial, “to stop infection.”
There he was, explaining things to his captive again.
“I can do it myself.”
The look he gave me was doubtful. “Just like you did last night?” He tipped the canteen, and water fell onto my skin.
I gritted my teeth and looked away, stifling the sound in my throat with all I had. The wounds hurt just as much as last night, but I’d already embarrassed myself by crying out before. I wasn’t going to sob in front of him now.
The water blessedly stopped, and then a thick liquid landed on the skin. This one didn’t hurt nearly as much, but my wrists still burned at the contact.
“Earlier, when I grabbed you,” Harthon said, drawing my attention away from the discomfort, “I was rougher than intended. I thought you were going to run.”
I swung my head back to him. His focus was on my wrist, which he began to wrap with linen.
Was Harthon…apologizing? Princeps Harthon? The one who easily stole lives and ruthlessly killed a Princeps to take his seat?
“I wasn’t going to run,” I said as he tied off the bandage and reached for my other hand.
“Seemed like it to me.” He picked up the canteen to begin the process again.
“I was just look—” I took a deep breath as the water poured. This wrist was worse. Definitely worse.
“Nearly done,” he murmured, not stopping.
Again, he offered another almost-apology. A completely unnecessary one, too, because he was only doing what needed to be done. It didn’t make any sense coming from him.
Confusion settled as I tried to remember what I was saying. “I, um, I was just looking for a spot to relieve myself. If I had been trying to run, that would have been a pathetic attempt.”
The corner of his lips lifted. “Yes, that would have been an incredibly pathetic escape attempt.”
“If you thought I was running, you clearly think I’m a fool,” I said—rather foolishly. If Harthon thought I was brainless, he’d drop his guard, making for an easier escape. And here I was, spoiling that.
He emptied the remainder of the vial’s contents on my skin. “It’s been one day. I’m still unsure what to think of you.”
His honesty must have loosened my tongue because I replied, “Likewise.”
He paused in the middle of wrapping, his eyes meeting mine. I watched as they turned to stone, his smile gone. “I’m not a good man, Etarla, but I’m trying to do good things for the people in my Territory and hopefully others. That’s all you need to think.”
“I’d never mistake you for a good man.” Then I thought about his words. “You know, what you said is a conflicting statement. What do you do, walk the line between good and bad?”
He was quiet for a moment, then, “I fell from that tightrope a long time ago.”
The question wasn’t intended to strike him, but it did. I knew this when he resumed wrapping, tied the linen off, and packed up the supplies without another word. The bandages were surprisingly neat, just as they had been yesterday. Harthon was good at this.
Gear in hand, he stood. “Use the privacy. You have two minutes before North looks for you,” he said, and then he left me in the privacy of the trees.
I hurried to do my business. If North stalked over and found me with my trousers at my ankles, I’d launch myself into the next monstrous river I saw.
When I returned to Harthon’s horse, he was deep in conversation with the bearded man, eating something from a pouch.
“Fish Eyes.”
I whirled around, spotting Callen waltzing toward me. “It’s Etarla.”
He held up a canteen and a pouch identical to Harthon’s. “Sure. Well, I have food and water here for Fish Eyes, but if that’s not you, I’ll just go.”
I rolled my eyes, but then he started to turn around. “Hey! Wait! Fine.”
He turned, a satisfied grin pasted on his face.
I was too hungry to be defiant. Last night’s dinner had been filling, but I had some catching up to do before I ate back all my body had spent in the past week.
Callen handed me the items, and I dug into the pouch.
It was a mix of cheese and dried meat. Nothing exciting, but it was substantial.
“What, no ‘thank you’?” Callen asked as I chewed a piece of meat.
“Etarla is thankful, but I’m not her, so…” I tossed a square of cheese in my mouth.
His brows shot up. “You…that was well-played,” he said, pointing a finger at me as he retreated. “Turns out there’s more to you than those fancy eyes.” With that, he spun on his heel and made his way back to his horse.
I frowned.
If that nickname caught on, there would be a serious problem.
You won’t be with them long enough for it to become a problem.
Around me, the men chatted and ate, in no apparent rush to leave.
With nothing to do but eat and drink, I sat on the ground, studying the group.
They generally looked similar to Koerlyn’s men.
Rugged, well-built, a mix of slightly young and slightly old, weapons strapped here and there.
But they smiled now, while Koerlyn’s men never did.
Their comradery was apparent. Whether that came from them or Harthon’s leadership, I wasn’t sure.
If the attack in Third was any indication, they were also deadlier in battle than Koerlyn’s men.
Again, whether the people of Fourth Territory were built differently or Harthon trained them to be that way, I didn’t know.
But there was a good chance the latter was true.
While I’d only been with them for a day, it was clear how much the group respected their leader—a leader who went to battle with them.
A short time later, North called out in that deep, guttural voice, indicating our departure.
I rose as Harthon returned. He took the empty pouch and canteen from my hands and tucked it in a saddlebag.
I eyed the seat. The stirrup was low enough that my foot could catch it.
Until now, I’d been placed on and removed from saddles by someone else.
I was getting sick of it, and with my hands free, there was no reason I couldn’t do it on my own.
Granted, I’d never mounted a horse before, but if I could lift a heavy ax over my head to split wood, how hard could this be?
I lightly laid a palm over the saddle, watching the horse’s reaction. When he didn’t so much as twitch, I wedged my left foot in the stirrup. He chuffed, but remained still.
I’d take that as permission.
Most of the men I’d watched used the pommel as a handhold, but with this horse’s size, it was just out of my reach.
Settling for a small ridge in the saddle instead, I pushed off the ground.
I hardly made it inches before my fingertips slipped from the ridge and my foot slammed down.
I jammed my fingers in the little divot again and tried once more.
Frustration sparked as I got the same result.
“When you step up, throw yourself toward the pommel, then grab it and use it to pull yourself over,” Harthon offered. He leaned against a tree just past the horse’s flank, watching me struggle.
My face flamed, but I pictured what he said. I would figure this out.
Eying the pommel, I launched off the ground and just barely grasped it with one hand.
With a tug, I straightened my leg and swung myself onto the saddle.
A satisfied grin leapt to my lips, but I quickly stifled it when Harthon approached, his presence a sobering reminder of my captivity.
He swung up far too easily behind me and reached for the reins.
I felt his thighs tense against the backs of my legs, and the horse began to move. “Does tensing your legs tell him to start walking?” I asked as we delved into the patch of woods.
“It’s less about tensing and more about gently squeezing the horse with your legs.”
With the size of Harthon’s legs, his “gentle squeeze” was probably equivalent to a crushing hug. “How does he know you’re asking him to walk?” It was amazing a horse would allow that, never mind understand what it meant.
“He learns it during training.”
He made it sound so simple. I wasn’t convinced. “And how do you even teach that during training? He’s an animal.”
“It’s a long, complicated process. It requires patience, calm, and a fair share of accidents. But horses are smart. They pick up on lessons quickly, particularly when rewards are involved.”
“Rewards as in food?”
“For fuck’s sake, have you never even seen a horse?” The aggravated remark came from beside us. From North, who’d apparently been listening to our conversation. He sneered, and I may have leaned a little closer to the man behind me.
Harthon’s presence emboldened me to answer. “Obviously. But I’m not a bloodthirsty soldier, so I’ve never ridden.”
It was a disrespectful thing to say to a second-in-command. I needed to watch myself.
North snorted. It sounded like a disgruntled bear. Not that I knew what bears sounded like, given they all died years ago, but it was easy enough to imagine.
“You never left your village, did you?”
“I trapped animals in the woods outside the village walls.”
He chuckled, the sound mean. “We are so fucked.”
“North,” Harthon barked. Authority rang in the sharp word, and I would have stepped away if I could.
Silence hung heavy as Harthon’s command echoed, and the scowl that deformed North’s face made his feelings very, very clear. He was furious. By the terrifying glare he shot me a moment before falling behind us, he was furious at me.
Well he could go disappear into the Domus for all I cared.
“They usually respond to food and sometimes praise,” Harthon casually resumed, as if he hadn’t just scared every living creature around us.
“Right,” was all I said in response. After North’s degrading reaction, I no longer felt like asking questions.
“It’s hard at first, learning to ride. You can be strong and competent on the battlefield, but riding takes different muscles and skills. It requires hours of practice, but eventually, it’s as easy as walking on your own legs.”
I didn’t say anything as we came to another grassy field.
Harthon continued. “It’s also important to choose the right horse. Not all horses will agree with all riders. Styles and temperaments need to align. Force the wrong horse to work for you, and you’ll meet some hooves. Just ask Cal.”
“Hey, it was a dare. I had to do it,” Callen protested from behind us.
Surprise filtered through my sourness as I realized what Harthon was doing. He was answering all of the questions he knew I had. Not with condescension or annoyance, but with patience.
“Have you really never ridden a horse?” he asked.
He wouldn’t do all that for me, just to ridicule my response. Still taken aback, I answered honestly. “There was never a need or an opportunity. My first time on a horse was with Koerlyn’s men.”
“Do you want to learn?”
My breath caught. To learn to ride a horse…
I’d never even considered it. There was no point when I would never have a horse to ride.
When I eventually returned home, it would be a completely useless skill.
But to be able to ride on my own horse while I traveled with Harthon and his men…
well, that would be a gift, which is why I said, “Yes.”
“Then you’ll learn.” In that low timbre, it was like a vow.
As thrilling as the possibility was, it didn’t make any sense. Escape would be much easier on horseback. He’d be equipping me with the skills to run. Surely, he knew that, so I didn’t swallow my question. “Why would you offer that?”
“Because you being able to ride is more important than the possibility that you might run off. If you run, I’ll catch you, but your ability to ride could decide whether you live or die in battle,” he answered.
My excitement instantly vanished. Speaking of my potential death had a way of doing that. “Do you plan on encountering many battles?”
“They’re a common occurrence in my world.”
As if he’d spoken it into existence, the patter of racing hooves suddenly sounded in the distance. They quickly got louder. Harthon pulled us to a sharp stop, whirling the horse around to face the man who was flying toward us at full speed. The scout’s eyes were wide, face flushed with sweat.
“Twenty-five men, not three minutes behind,” he called out in a panicked rush as soon he was within range.
Harthon jolted us into action, rearing the horse back around as he yelled, “Get to the tree line! Scatter, surround, kill.”
Then Harthon’s heavy bulk pressed me forward and down as we raced across the terribly long field. I ducked my head, heart lurching into my throat. I could hardly hold onto the pommel. Only Harthon’s suffocating weight kept me from sliding off as the horse bolted.
Unless Harthon had other enemies angry enough to trespass on his land, these were Koerlyn’s men. If there were twenty-five of them, we were outnumbered by ten.