Page 2 of The Lost Guard's Healer

The woman brushes her hands together and steps away from the table, then surveys the tent with a calculating eye before taking a few quick steps to the diminishing flames across the room. She squats by the dying fire and strikes two stones together. On the second strike, a spark flies out and ignites the twigs and clumps of weeds she just added. She expertly blows into the glowing embers until flames begin to lick and crack, slowly gathering in strength. I’m actually impressed at how effortless that was for her. I know less than a dozen people who could light a fire like that so easily.

“Who are you?” I ask.

“That is none of your concern,” she says, ignoring me once again as she collects a pot from the table and sets it over the fire. Something dark swishes within the pot.

“I beg to differ,” I say, in a challenging mood. “I should know my captor.”

“I am not your captor,” she snaps, and leaves it at that. She doesn’t seem to be very talkative and I get the sense of annoyance every time she speaks. Although there is no outright hostility. Yet.

She kneels by the fire and crushes a few leaves and flowers into the pot. As she does so, the split of her skirt unfolds to reveal a shapely, smooth, toned thigh.

Has she intentionally revealed her thigh and is pretending not to have noticed? What game is she playing? I gaze over the room, not wanting to stare.

Every item in the tent looks worn and weathered. It’s a simple way of living with the bare basics: a table with two stools as chairs, a large trunk with a pile of furred blankets on top, and a bucket containing some clutter that looks like hunting tools and weapons. Two rabbit hides are on hooks on the curved walls. A fishing pole is in the corner. A familiar dark blue jacket is hanging over a high-backed chair. My military jacket.

I’m no longer wearing my full uniform, I notice. My armor is missing, as are my shirt and vest. I’m in a dingy white vest that has several small holes and is far too big for me. They kept my military pants on, which is some comfort. My boots and socks must be somewhere in the hut as well. I guess it’s too much to ask to have kept my sword nearby.

“Is where I am none of my concern also?” I ask.

She half-suppresses a sigh as she goes back to the table. “You’re a long way from home, Oathlander. I suggest you rest and get your strength back if you want to return home.”

While her voice is light and youthful, there is something dark in her tone. Something almost threatening, and she says Oathland as if it is an insult. I can’t place her clipped accent. It’s certainly not a local one.

I don’t think I’m anywhere in the Kingdom either. Kingdom folk would not have called me an Oathlander. They have more colorful terms and curses for their sworn enemies. And no one in the Kingdom would keep me alive. Besides, Kingdom folk love nothing more than to tell people who they are and where they’re from. So maybe I’m not as bad off as I originally thought.

One other thing makes me think I’m clearly not anywhere near the Kingdom, which some consider the beacon of civilization and say it is like coins flow through the streets, is that it would be nowhere as homely and simple as this hut. The air, despite its harsh earthy odors, feels fresh and open.

We found you on a riverbank in the East Garlands.

Her words spark a flash of a memory. Then a flood of vivid images hit me hard.

The Oathlands had been under attack from the Kingdom. I was on a bridge, and it had snapped. I’d fallen into the darkness below. I must have fallen into a river and washed up somewhere. Yes, I remember my last moments, thinking I was going to die as I fell.

I feel like I had just been dreaming of falling. Like I’d been having those flashes during my sleep. The thought of all that pain and fear makes me feel even weaker, and my head throbs.

“How long have I been here?” I ask.

The smell of mint and something like damp soil drifts through the hut, coming from the steaming pot over the fire.

The woman clears a few things from the table, stoppering vials and wrapping leaves in a parcel. The lack of responsiveness from her irks me.

“Two weeks,” she finally says as she takes a mug and a ladle to the pot. “You’ve been in and out of consciousness. This isn’t the first time you’ve been awake, but it’s the first you’ve spoken since you arrived.”

Two weeks? And I’ve been awake before? I don’t remember any of it. The thought fills me with dread. I need to get back to May. To Arthur. I don’t even know what state the Oathlands are in. Did Clio survive the attack? Are any of them still alive? My heart hammers in my chest as thoughts race through my brain. I shouldn’t be here. I should be home.

I try to rise but don’t get very far before I collapse back onto the straw bed, completely exhausted and gasping for breath.

It takes me a moment to realize the woman is standing beside me. She leans down to hand me a mug of the concoction that had been brewing in the pot. It smells like foul tea.

“Drink this for now,” she says, her voice not entirely without care. “I will be back later.”

I glance at the drink and curl my lips. “I’m not thirsty,” I lie.

She gives me a flat look that tells me she wasn’t asking. “It will help you get better.”

I remain firm, intent on not backing down. I don’t like how much she’s insisting on me drinking it. I don’t like being forced to do something. Especially when that something is a suspicious and unnamed drink from a suspicious and unnamed girl.

“You should drink it while it is hot,” she says.

---