Stranger (The Aevyanthis Chronicles, Book One)

Chapter Thirteen

Thomm could hear voices. At first it sounded like they were miles away, but the more he strained his ears, the louder they became.

"Your eyes are playin' tricks on you, boy. He's deader than me aunt."

"Shut it, Oric! I saw 'em breathe, I swear!"

He felt something prod his arm, and he winced.

"Look, look! His fingers are moving! I told you he was alive, see!"

"Bloody hell, he is moving isn't he? Quick, we need to get him to Wren."

Thomm faintly felt his body lift off the ground, swaying to and fro, his head lolling back. His body didn't feel like his own; it was too heavy, too numb to move or fight against the hands that held him. It felt like he was dreaming, and paid no attention.

"Faedrielle have mercy," a woman gasped once he was placed down again. Her breath smelled like blackberries as it brushed against his skin.

Thomm finally opened his eyes. Through the blur, he could recognize the outline of a caravan to his right. It was covered in a festive cloth canvas and decorated with brightly colored bunting, the words "TRAVELLER'S MARKET" painted on the side in red and yellow paint. Two more were parked behind it, both just as bright and eye-catching as the first. Nearby, he could hear horses whinnying.

On his left, two men were looming over him. One was stretching his back and the other had his hands on his knees. Both were out of breath. A third person – a pretty woman with silver bells in her hair – was knelt down beside him, touching at his chest with gentle fingers.

"Oww," he mumbled, trying to bat her hand away.

The first man laughed. "You lucky son of a bitch. You must've held onto life like you ain't done with it."

"You shouldn't be alive," the woman said. "You sustained a mortal injury, yet your soul refused to depart. The Lady of Mercy smiles upon you this day."

"You're lucky we came across you like we did," the second man added. "It looks like you're the only one who made it."

"The others... some escaped." Thomm had to think hard. "They took to the forest and the river... Women and children. Only the men stayed to fight."

The second man gave the others a troubled glance, running a hand over his stubbly chin.

"Let Wren heal you up, first. Then we'll talk," he said. "The names Oric and this here's my brother Jak. We're merchants who travel all around Agon."

"Agon..."

Lord Torr flickered across Thomm's mind, and a flash of fire and shadow made him cry out. Pain coursed its way through his veins as memories of that night flooded his senses, the night his whole world burned.

I am the death of Agon.

Wren held him down as he jerked from side to side, keeping his arms from thrashing wildly about him.

"Bring him into my caravan," she ordered. "And then leave us. I need to work."

Thomm spent the day in and out of consciousness. There were times when he'd awake to see Wren whispering prayers over him, her hands pressed against his chest. Other times he would wake to find her sleeping in a chair beside him, the color drained from her face and the shadows under her eyes making her seem older than she was.

When the sun was low, he awoke to a bowl of broth beside his pillow. Wren was wrapping his chest with fresh silk bandages, fastening them with a silver pin that was adorned with the sigil of Faedrielle.