Page 1 of The Lost Guard's Healer

Prologue

Galene

The sight of him is a wretched thing.

He is Oathlander all over. From the precise shade of his skin down to the dark shade of his eyes that I’ve seen on the rare occasions they’ve been open.

I wish my father wasn’t foolish enough to ask me to heal him. Even more, I wish he wasn’t cruel enough to make it my Task.

Meaning I have no other option. If I ever want to be valued in this community—if I ever want to be someone or something beyond a whispered name and a stain of shame to my family, I have no choice.

Like clockwork, I rouse the bulky Oathlander from sleep with slow, gentle touches. Anything else and I fear I’ll frighten him into a stupor of an attack. Not that I couldn’t take him—especially with the rotten shape he’s in—but I’d rather he not ruin all my hard work and force me to start over with him again. I’ve already spent far longer in the presence of an Oathlander than I ever intended to.

What would my mother think if she knew I was caring for one of them? What would she think if she knew my father had all but forced me to?

I toss the questions aside. The answers don’t matter. It wouldn’t change anything. I would still be here, mixing tonic into a bowl of soup to keep the Oathlander from starving, mixed with something that I give him to heal him—and to keep him asleep a little longer. I’m not quite ready to face him, as harmless as he may be in his current state.

Not quite ready to look a monster in the eyes.

Chapter one

Rourk

Falling. Darkness. And then nothing.

I jerk awake with a cry, my muscles tense and ready to fight for my life. It takes several long seconds for me to adjust to my surroundings, my vision coming back blurry and dull before eventually clearing.

I’m in a round hut with a campfire simmering in the center, faint wisps of smoke drifting out through a hole in the domed ceiling. At first I think I’m on the ground, but I see I’m lying on a straw bed with a thick, coarse blanket beneath me and a furred blanket over me. My shoulders heave and my heavy breaths sound loud in the quiet air. The strong earthy stench in the air, like mud and feces, makes me think of animal stables and almost makes me gag. But at least I’m alive. It smells like actual shit here, but I’m alive.

Where am I? This is like no place I’ve ever been. Or is it? Maybe I have and I just don’t remember it. My mind feels blurred, like fragments are missing.

I know who I am, though, and that’s something. Rourk Bearon, General Commander of the Oathland’s Military. Second-in-Command to the Grandmaster General Darius Archaeus. I can remember all that, but not where I am or how I got here. I’ve yet to decide whether or not that’s a good thing. Maybe I’m somewhere safe right now—or maybe I’d be better off dead.

I sit up to get a better look at the dimly lit surroundings and hiss out a breath when a flood of pain hits me. My arms give way and I drop back on the rough bedding. My first thought is that I’m injured. Or drugged. I’m too weary to think straight.

The heavy flaps of the hut entranceway shift aside as someone comes in. Bright sunlight streams in momentarily through the shifting flaps, almost blinding me. It’s a woman; tall and slim with long dark hair falling about her broad shoulders. The sight of her heightens my confusion, which immediately shifts to alarm. The worn cream dress she wears has wide sleeves and the long, sleeveless cardigan flowing about her is frail and extremely weathered, with several holes. Her vibrantly bright blue eyes contrast against her tanned complexion. This is no Oathlander. That’s clear enough.

Better off dead might not have been too far off.

I’ve been kidnapped and am being held prisoner.

The woman, who must be in her late twenties, seems vaguely surprised to see me awake. I can’t help but stare into those eyes as I try to gauge her intentions. Friend or threat?

She watches me for a long, quiet moment. Then she turns sharply away. “You should rest,” she says absently as she goes about the hut, no longer interested in me.

“Should I?” I’ve managed to prop myself on one elbow to get a better view of her. My other shoulder flares with pain if I try to move it, but I bite down on the groan that threatens to leave me and ignore it.

“Yes, you should,” she says, her sharper tone brooking no argument. “If you want to get back on your feet.”

“What’s wrong with my feet?”

I can tell from the way she huffs out a breath that she won’t be answering that question. While she collects a pot and pours water from a leather skin into it, I shift my legs under the blanket. Dark discomfort swells through me. I can barely move my legs. They feel like dead weight. I can feel them, though, and can shift them ever so slightly. They certainly won’t support my weight, though.

“How did I get here?” I ask, figuring that bluntness is better than pretending I’m not confused and, honestly, fifteen seconds away from contributing to the smell of shit around me. Her back is to me as she prepares something on a table. The curve of the ceiling almost reaches her head.

“We found you on a riverbank in the East Garlands,” she says with an almost bored air. “You’re lucky to be alive.” Stoicism emanates from every word and every movement. Something tells me she couldn’t care less if I lived or died.

East Garlands. The name is vaguely familiar, but not familiar enough that I could point to it on a map. Someplace north of the Oathlands, perhaps?

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