His Captive Sorceress

Chapter 23: Take off the Sleeves

After an hour of waiting for the ones who set the trap, we break from our ambush positions behind the ridge. It's dark, and I'm freezing again. Marcellus has sunk to the ground. His free hand grips his injured shoulder, the arrow still embedded inside. Blood stains his sleeve red, and his axe now lies in the dirt. He's usually far too proud a warrior to leave his weapon discarded when the enemy could be nearby. He's not well.

Keeping his sword drawn, Trevus kneels beside Marcellus and inspects the arrow in his shoulder. "We must tread west, away from hostility," Trevus says. "Then we shall light a fire and deliver aid."

Marcellus lets out a pained sigh. "I am able."

Trevus raises Marcellus up to his feet by his uninjured arm.

"Salts," Marcellus grunts. Any adjustment to his swollen joint is painful.

Trevus rests Marcellus's good arm over his shoulder and wraps his hand around him for support. "Try restrain your curses for a short time," he says. "We may cross within earshot of them."

I collect the saddlebag that Trevus had to abandon and follow a few steps behind the two of them. The fear of being picked off keeps me close.

Marcellus isn't well, and I dread the thought of his condition worsening. My stomach roils at the possibility of digging a grave.

Who did this to him? I want to ask Trevus, but I abstain over the chance of our enemies overhearing my voice. Could it be the men who attacked us at the trade post – the Versillian army wearing Cerillis emerald stripes?

After walking for a while, we find a clearing with a ditch. Trevus sets Marcellus down on the ground, laying him flat.

He collects dry wood and lights a fire in the ditch. Any flames that rise high enough to flare our position in the dark are quickly smothered with sand. Our little stream of smoke should be indistinguishable from the forest fire's plume. Trevus places a pot over the flames and pours the last of his waterskin inside.

My attention is on Marcellus. He's in pain. I kneel beside him, and his eyes follow me with suspicion. This isn't the usual look I receive. Perhaps playing the role of the less physically capable one makes him uneasy.

I raise his head up and tuck in a rolled sleeping pouch as a pillow, but it doesn't ease the discomfort on his face.

My eyes run up and down his body, lingering on the arrow still in his shoulder – the source of his great pain. There's nothing else I can do, but I stay beside him so that he's not alone.

Trevus sterilizes rags in the boiling water, then joins me with Marcellus.

"Stop wasting time," Marcellus says. "Yank it out already."

"No," Trevus says. "I shall cut it short and wrap your wound, but the arrow's head shall remain."

"The pain is nothing," Marcellus says.

"'Tis the subsequent bleeding that is of concern. A physician must sew your wound closed."

"The arrowhead shall take my life before I reach a physician."

Trevus averts his gaze for a moment. The reality that Marcellus may die weighs heavy on him. I gather they fought side by side for years. "I shall not be the one to take your life," he says.

"I can sew," I say. They both look at me. "I'm not a physician, but I can sew." I don't want to see anyone else die.

Trevus inspects my sewing on the tear on his shirt. "You do the same on skin?" he asks.

"It won't be as fine, and there'll be far fewer stitches." I turn to Marcellus. "If you trust my hands on you, I'll do it."

Marcellus remains still, his face frozen. He's not like Trevus. He's always found my connection frightening after witnessing it on Becky. It's silly. If I wanted him to die, the arrowhead wouldn't need my help.