Quickburned

Dragon

Five years and a day or so ago...

His Ma was well away, his gang was all together: it was time to find Sainen and his crew and do what they came here for.

Sainen found him first.

"Raith!"

Caleb's head snapped to that rough-edged voice like a needle to a lodestone. Half a dozen Rattlers nearby followed his motion.

Sainen skidded down the curved edge of a roof, caught the support pole and dropped a story to the ground, stumbling. Caleb was there in the next heartbeat, catching him before he hit the ground. Sainen sagged into him with uncharacteristic weakness.

He looked like someone had used him for target practice.

Broken-off crossbow bolts stuck out of his left shoulder, side, thigh—he'd been shot at while he fled. The worst, though, was the way the warrior had curled in around his belly, his arm tight to his body, and his short yukata there alarmingly red. Gut wound. Sainen was a dead man walking.

"Luck! Somebody go get Luck—" Caleb hollered, and his Rattlers scattered.

As soon as they were gone, Sainen's legs buckled and Caleb sank down with him, into the dirt of the alleyway. Sainen's voice was strained and thin, more of the gravel in it than usual. "Raith. Raith, they were waiting for us."

"Ssh, hold on now, Luck'll be here in a moment—" Caleb fumbled at his belt for his canteen and offered it, but Sai waved it away with a short, terse flick.

"Shut up and listen, Caleb," Sainen said in a voice closer to his usual clipped, business-like tones. His face was a stony mask, hiding away the pain he must surely be in—as usual. Sainen never admitted to pain. "Where's Shade. She ought to hear it too."

"Right here, bonco," Shade appeared, leaning over with a hand on Caleb's shoulder. "Luck's a step behind."

Sainen jerked his chin in what might have been a nod, and Caleb felt Sai's fingers tighten on his arm. Every breath made the red stain grow larger. "Listen. They were waiting for us, Boss. I don't know how they knew. But Mezir's got half his army garrisoned on the north end of town, the other half camped outside in a wide half-circle. My men—"

"We'll get 'em back, no worries Sai, we won't let Mezir keep 'em—"

"Caleb. My men are dead. They died so I would have a chance to come back and tell you." He made a grab for Caleb's collar and dragged his face closer, glaring from beneath dark brows. "Do not let them have spent their lives in vain."

All of them turned to look as Luck slid to his knees beside the trio, his kit already half-open and nearly spilling supplies of bandages, ointments and salves in dark glass jars, and protective amulets across the dirt. "Hey Sai, pal, wowee you got yourself messed up, don't worry I'll have you patched up in no time..."

Caleb tried to move out of the way, to give the dreadlocked sawbones room to work, but Sainen's arm was iron on his. Luck just gave him a brilliantly sunny smile and worked around him, checking Sainen's injuries with light-fingered care. He sucked in a breath when he got the gut wound.

"I know," Sainen said. His voice had gone scraped thin again. "It is fatal."

Caleb looked, and immediately regretted it. It was worse than he'd expected. And clearly fatal.

"Ah. Naw, naw, man. You'll be... we'll be fiiine." But Luck's eyes were wide and wild when he flinched away from Caleb's searching gaze. He fumbled in his kit, came up with needles and silk thread. His voice broke a little. "Just a coupla stitches, alright, some holy tincture from—you'll be back in saddle in no time—I need water, y'all, somebody—"