Page 7 of Bound By Blood
I stare at the glowing liquid, my healer's training screaming warnings about unknown substances offered by potential enemies.
"What is it?"
"A test," Drokhan says simply. "And perhaps the beginning of understanding."
2
DROKHAN
The war-horns echo as we return, their deep voices carrying news of victory tinged with loss. Twelve of my warriors limp through the gates, and three more ride draped across their saddles, never to see another dawn. The price of raiding grows steeper each season, but the borderlands demand blood tribute from all who dwell there.
I dismount before the great hall, my muscles protesting after hours in the saddle. The wound across my ribs, courtesy of a Thorne knight's desperate thrust, has reopened during the ride home. Fresh blood seeps through the crude field dressing Koreth applied with battlefield efficiency.
"Chief." Grimjaw approaches, my war-leader's scarred face grim even by his standards. "The prisoner?"
"Secure?"
"In the lower chambers, as ordered. Marek stands guard."
Good. The human woman's courage on the battlefield earned her life, but courage alone doesn't guarantee wisdom. Too many variables remain unknown, too many questions demand answers before I can judge her true worth.
"Summon the healers for our wounded," I command. "And send word to the clan mothers. We feast tonight for the fallen."
Grimjaw nods and moves away, barking orders to the warriors dispersing through the courtyard. I watch them go, these brothers-in-arms who follow me into fire because I've never led them astray. Each bears wounds from this day's work, and some carry scars that will never fully heal.
The stronghold rises around us in terraced stone, carved from living mountain over generations of patient work. Our ancestors built well. These walls have turned aside siege engines and storms alike, offering sanctuary to the Stoneborn when the world grew hostile.
But sanctuary means nothing if we cannot heal our people's hurts.
I climb the winding stairs to my chambers, each step sending fresh fire through my injured ribs. The wound needs attention, but first I must cleanse the battlefield's stench from my skin and clear the day's chaos from my thoughts.
The stone basin waits where I left it, filled with mountain water cold enough to shock the senses clean. I strip away armor and clothing methodically, noting each cut and bruise acquired during the fighting. My reflection in the water shows a warrior growing older, gray threading through black hair, new lines etched around amber eyes that have seen too much death.
The water runs red when I wash away the battle's residue,my blood, my enemies' blood, the blood of those who fell under my protection. All of it spirals down the drain carved into living rock, returning to the mountain's heart.
I dress in clean leather and examine the rib wound properly. Deep enough to need stitching, but the blade missed anything vital. A small price for the day's work, though it throbs with each breath.
Sleep comes fitfully, haunted by familiar ghosts. I see Vorgrim's face as the crossbow bolt takes him, watch Thakka fall beneath a Thorne knight's hammer, feel the decisions that cost lives. Command means carrying the dead with you, their voices whispering accusations in the dark hours before dawn.
But dawn always comes, indifferent to mortal sorrows.
I wake to gray light filtering through narrow windows cut deep into stone. The mountain's silence surrounds me, broken only by wind singing through the peaks and the sound of the stronghold stirring to life.
The prisoner. Time to take her measure properly.
I dress with care, leather and mail, the ceremonial torque that marks my rank, weapons' belt heavy with iron authority. First impressions matter, and this human woman has already proven herself more formidable than most.
The lower chamber smells of damp stone and old fears. These rooms served as dungeons in my grandfather's time, when the clans warred among themselves and prisoners meant political leverage. Now they house only the occasional drunk warrior sleeping off ale-poisoning or the rare border-crosser who needs persuasion to share information.
Marek straightens as I approach, his massive frame filling the narrow corridor. "Chief. She's been quiet all night. Refused food and water, but hasn't tried to escape."
"Smart woman. Escape would mean death in these mountains."
"What are your orders?"
I consider. Standard protocol demands interrogation, harsh questioning to extract useful intelligence about Thorne's defenses, troop movements, supply lines. But this prisoner represents something more valuable than military secrets.
"Bring her to the healing grotto. Shackled, but comfortable. Post guards, but keep them discrete."
