Page 4 of The Lost Guard's Healer

“I told you to reserve your strength,” she hisses. Her angry scowl tells me she means business. “I’m not dragging you around. You got yourself into this, you get yourself out of it. Now, back on your bed.” She throws an arm out and points at the bedding like she’s scolding a child.

“Just a minute,” I say, rolling onto my back and catching my breath.

Her eyes flash with something dark and she looks like she’s about to yell. I nod wearily and begin my long trek back to the bedding. I notice my legs shift as I twist around, but don’t bring attention to them. Maybe I’m not so weak after all.

“Why do you want me… to get better?” I ask between heavy breaths as I climb onto the bedding. I feel like an animal crawling through the dirt. “You’re just going to kill me, anyway.” I don’t mention the being eaten part.

She gives me a quizzical look, tilting her head. I hate how hard she is to read. I can usually guess what someone is thinking or feeling. But this woman is a rock.

“You are not a prisoner, and your life is not in danger. I promise you this,” she says with mild annoyance, like the idea of me being murdered in the Wildlands is so obnoxiously far fetched.

“Then I demand to go outside. I want some air, and to see my surroundings. If I’m not a prisoner, you will permit me this.”

She crosses her arms over her chest and eyes me, as if judging my character. “How will you go outside? I’m not carrying you.” There’s a childish stubbornness in her tone. Like she’s used to being given everything she wants.

“So I am imprisoned here?” I say. Without waiting for a response, I add, “You have made a big mistake bringing me here. You will have the full might of the Oathlands on your backs, and they will rain down hellfire if you harm me.” I do my best to sound fierce, despite my position laying on the bedding.

The woman almost looks like she’s about to laugh, which irritates me. “You don’t listen very well. I’ve told you. You are not a prisoner. You would be dead were it not for us.” She begins preparing things on the table again. Another tea?

I allow myself a moment to master my breathing and collect my thoughts. “Who are you? What is your name?”

Beyond the hut, conversational voices become a little louder, although I still can’t make out the words. I think I hear a burst of children’s laughter, but then I wonder if that was a trick of the wind.

“What do you want from me?” I ask. After more silence, I add, “What’s in that tea?”

All of my questions go ignored as she sparks another fire and sets the pot over it.

Gods, why is this woman so frustrating? “I don’t know what your customs are,” I say through my teeth, “but where I’m from, it’s rude to ignore someone.”

That gets no reaction from her. I broke her cool exterior before, but it seems she’s honed it with steel now. I drop my head back and have no choice but to rest. Weariness is seeping into my bones and making my eyelids heavy.

The woman prepares the tea and places another clay mug beside my bedding. She leaves without another word. Steam wafts from the mug and dissipates in the air.

I consider searching for another weapon, but my thoughts drift away as exhaustion overwhelms me. Sleep embraces me. Sweet, sweet rest.

I snap awake at the sound of heavy boots approaching the hut. Judging by the sun still streaming in through the hut flaps, and the steam coming off the tea, I don’t think I’ve been out for long.

A bearded man in a fur cloak enters. He appears middle-aged, though it’s hard to be certain from his full beard and weathered look. A faded green tunic and dusty pants speak of a life mostly spent outdoors. His thick boots look made for cross-country travel and are caked in mud. His salt-and-pepper beard matches his heavy eyebrows and thick hair that’s tied in a loose tail.

“How is our guest?” the man asks, his voice deep and softly booming. A corner of his mouth rises, shifting his beard.

“Where I’m from, we treat our guests a little differently,” I say as I shift myself onto my elbows.

“I’m sure you do a great many things differently,” the man says with humor. There is something familiar in his deep, dark-blue eyes. He steps further inside and checks the full mug of tea beside me. “I apologize for my daughter. She… has a temperament. Her mother was the same.”

“Who are you?” I ask.

“My name is Aldus Tavaris. Some know me as a keeper of books. Others know me as a drinker of ale.” He gives me a crooked, humor-filled smile and clears a few things from a stool and sits with a heavy sigh.

“You are a Wildman?” I ask.

He grins at me, his dark eyes gleaming with mischief. “There is a lot for you to learn, Oathlander. Now that we can talk, might I ask your name?”

I consider that for a moment. “Tarin.” I give the name of one of my soldiers. I don’t want them to know my status. “I had requested to go outside and see my surroundings, but your daughter was more interested in ignoring me.”

Aldus rolls his eyes. “Yes. I apologize for that as well. Well, you going outside won’t be easy. I’m not a young man anymore, and you don’t seem the type to be comfortable being carried out like a babe. However, I believe I can make it work.”

He stands up with a grunt and eyes the tea beside me. “I suggest you drink that while it’s still warm. It has a nasty aftertaste once cooled. And if there’s one thing my daughter knows how to do, it’s make a good mug of tea.”

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