Chokeberry, Pistachio and malt
Author: ellis12
Story: Threads ( Background | Index)
Rating: R
Challenge: Pistachio #7 (bath), Chokeberry #21 (you make the old things fun again)
Extras/Toppings: malt (Summer Challenge #182 - Someone gets lost and needs rescuing)
Word count: 3,011
Summary: Nevara’s journey to Haverig proves to be more eventful than expected
A/N: Warning for sexual assault and some bloody death too. Many thanks to bookblather for pointing out to me I had forgotten the rightful warnings.
“You’d think a man married only three days ago would look more content.” Lyr feigned indifference, but Yann could hear the insufferable smirk in his voice. He gritted his teeth, resolving not to let himself drawn into that trap.
The true source of his frustration sat in the cart just a few steps away from him, staring straight ahead. She wore pale green and made a little sight on her own, despite the rough fabric and the dull cut of the dress. He would have to do something about that, Yann thought idly, his wife couldn’t walk around in such clothing. As if on a cue, she turned her head around and their eyes met for the briefest of seconds. She looked away immediately, the corner of her lips twitching. It had been like that since they left the Glen, and the constant silence, doubled with those accusation-laden glances had slowly started to wear his nerves.
Besides, he’d done more than “sleep rough”. When he had slept at all. The mattress was narrow enough that he couldn’t put any real distance between them. Her weight pressed against his body, all warm, soft curves, an uncomfortable reminder that he had barely looked after a woman since Aislinn’s death. And then, in the mornings, she had the nerve to glare at him, as soon as she stood up. At least she’d stopped crying after the first night. He didn’t think he would have been able to endure that on top of the growing frustration.
You needed a wife, he reminded himself, not another woman in your bed. Haederan custom drew a welcome distinction between the two, one he hadn’t cared to think about since the first night with Aislinn... Something within him stirred at that memory. He remembered all too vividly the moment, three days before when he’d looked down at the woman whose hand he held, almost expecting to see Aislinn, and the stab of pain when he met Nevara’s startled eyes had stolen his breath for a moment, leaving him cold inside, and drained.
“I would have thought you had better things to concern yourself with,” he drawled. “Like finding a place to set camp for the night.” They rode with the sun at their backs now, shadows lengthening across the ground with each passing moment, and from the soreness of his muscles Yann guessed it was high time they stopped.
“There,” Lyr pointed, towards a small copse of trees jutting out in the sunset, almost ahead of them. Beyond, he could make up the familiar highlights of the Maljen Woods. They were only a day’s ride from Haverig, and he ached to be back home and see his children again.
“As good as anywhere else,” Yann nodded his approval. “As long as we can sit and have a drink.”
Wine wasn’t going to do, he thought. Despite liking to keep a clear head, he almost regretted they hadn’t brought with them something stronger. He could have used it right then.
***
“Are you fine?”
The question, in that crisp Haederan accent, pulled Nevara out of her absent minded contemplation of the forest nearby.
“Yes,” she said and tried to sound amenable about it. For one, that was the fifth time she received the question, in as many hours, the accompanying tone and the look always the same. Not cold, not really concerned either.
Nothing “fine” about being rattled in a cart, or seeing the gentle sloping hills she had grown with ebb into the distance, until only an endless expanse of hills remained, under a dark, clouded sky. Nothing “fine” about her father’s haggard look when they had parted. He still seemed at a loss for words, as if some hidden mechanism within him had broken, leaving him unhinged. Nothing “fine” about the people she knew and cared for avoiding to meet her eyes when they rode through the village, past orchards and pastures and the bridge over the brook. A storm was coming when they left, and the last memory of her home would always be that, of dark brooding clouds hanging low over the trees.
The Haederans were a quiet bunch, all fifteen of them riding with their eyes on the forests that surrounded the road, as if expecting to be attacked at anytime, even though the land was quiet. The journey south would take almost two weeks, Yann had told her, and, some ten days later, Nevara contemplated with apprehension the remaining time.
The cart came to a halt and she noticed they had left the road to their left for a shadowed meadow, lined by trees and a tangle of dried bushes. The men wasted no time in unsaddling the horses and putting up shelters for the night. They talked and laughed as they worked and a few peered back at her over their shoulder. From their smirks, and Yann’s expression Nevara figured she should have been glad she didn’t understand the Haederan dialect just yet.
For ten days it had been the same: they would stop early at sunset and strike camp before dawn. And each one of those nights she had slept poorly, waiting for Yann to say or do something other than kick his boots off, fold his shirt and lay by her side in silence. In the narrow space of their shelter it was hard not to be aware of his warm, strong body touching hers.
Listening to his breathing in the darkness, she had been tempted more than once to reach out and touch him, maybe weave her fingers through that smooth-looking hair, just to see how it felt. However, the notion that he might wake up and what she was supposed to do if that happened stopped her every time.
She reckoned she ought to be grateful to him, for simply letting her be. Except that she wasn’t. Things weren’t supposed to go that way. For a while after they had left, anger had been the only thing holding her together. If he had been harsh to her, enforced his rights as a husband, it would have been so much easier to hate him. But Yann had done nothing of that and, despite her best judgement she felt her resentment start to fade.
“Don’t wander out of the camp,” he told her, as she jumped down from the cart, ignoring his outstretched hand. He frowned, but only for a moment, and then brought it back on the sword hilt. It was hard to figure whether her constant rejection, bordering on outright offensive at times, bothered him in anyway. For the most part he seemed content to ignore her, and that irked her too, in a manner she could not define. “There might be some wild beasts out there.”
Nevara nodded without a word, glad to be away at last from the jarring movement she had come to hate. The carts and the half-raised tents formed a half-circle, with the opening towards the road, and the back at the curtain of trees that lined the clearing. Beyond that the land sloped gently in what she imagined to be a small valley. The wind carried a humid scent, of weeds and stagnant water.
Despite Yann’s warning not to stray, she decided a bath would be in order. She could feel the road’s dust clinging to her like a gritty second skin.
Seeing that he didn’t pay her attention anymore and had started to lend a hand to raising a tent, Nevara sneaked to the back of the cart. Her meagre possessions had fit into a single coffer, and even that was half empty. She pushed the lid back and rummaged inside for a bar of soap, a clean shirt and a length of towelling. This far south it had rained more than back at home, and, despite the early autumn, the leaves of the willows were still green and vigorous. There was indeed a lake hidden behind the trees and the tangle of wild growth, with a tiny, half-dried creek on its northern edge.
Back in the direction she had come from, she could hear the horses nickering as they were unsaddled and let to graze freely in the tall grass. A hint of smoke sneaked through the low curtain of branches. Some tea would do when she returned, Nevara decided, while she unbuttoned her dress and hung it on a tree branch.
She missed a tub and a real bath, but for then she would have to content with scrubbing herself with a washcloth. She hummed as she did, letting her mind drift for a while, away from the sinking anxiety of the last days.
She was stretching to pick up her dress again when she heard the sound of footfalls.
It wasn’t coming from the camp, she realized, just as she turned her head. Two strange men had come into view not far from where she stood. There was an odd, famished air about them that made her wary. She pulled the dress down, suddenly aware of her - almost -nakedness and took a step back.
“What’s a pretty thing like ya doin’ ere alone?” one of the men drawled. They both looked haggard and unwashed, clothes torn and stained with dirt. Nevara felt a shiver run up her spine, which turned the next moment, into the cold certainty of danger.
She backed away, holding the dress tucked to her chest and wishing she had listened to Yann’s warning and not gone away from the safety of the camp. She doubted those men would have dared to come close to the fires.
Everything afterwards happened too fast.
Despite their ragged looks, the men were swift enough that she didn’t have the time to run. One of them lunged forward and took hold of her arm, yanking her backwards.
“Now”, he leered, “no need to be frightened of us, girl.”
Nevara twisted, trying to wrestle her arm free, but he held fast, pulling her towards him and bringing his arm up, against her throat. “Be nice and sit still,” he demanded, as his companion stepped closer, reaching out with a calloused, dirty hand. Nevara struggled to breathe under the pressure on her windpipe, feeling that she would pass out. Never before had she met people that wanted to hurt her. Yet looking in the man’s dulled eyes as he cupped her chin and tilted her head back, she knew that was exactly what would happen. And then she the little air she still had to do the only logical thing under the circumstances. Scream.
***
The sound made Yann’s blood curdle. He bound to his feet, and spun around, trying to figure where it had come from. The rustle of weapons being drawn told him his men did the same, casting down plates and mugs to make ready for a fight.
“The creek”, Lyr said in a terse whisper. He stood a few meters away, sword in hand, listening intently. A second cry split the air. Yann let out a vicious curse - addressed to the spirits and the damned woman altogether, and started to make his way through the tangle of bushes that lined their camp site. Branches and thorns tugged at his clothing, like fingers trying to delay his advance. He was barely aware of the others following yarely, heavy booted feet making the dried twigs underneath crunch. All he could focus on was the unsteady rhythm of his heart - that and the churning fear coiled in the pit of his stomach, that, whatever had happened, he would be there too late.
***
She could taste dust - and blood, from her split lip. Her cheek pressed against the solid surface of the ground, head still reeling from the blows. Above her the gruff voices of the men argued over who got to go first -
- and then, they were not there anymore.
Shouts followed, the sound of metal hit on metal and a cry of pain, the worst Nevara had ever heard.
She struggled to push herself up, but only got half-way before she was hauled into an embrace that was far from gentle. It felt more like a death-grip, suffocating yet safe. Glancing over Yann’s arm she saw one of the attackers collapsed on the ground, not two steps away. Blood leaked from his side, from a vicious cut that had split his chest open. The other one knelt with Lyr’s sword against his throat and she could make out the beads of sweat running down his cheeks.
“Please,” he begged, his eyes frantic. “Let me go...I swear on my life, I’ll never-“
“Yann?” Lyr called. He looked up from the tip of his sword and some sort of unspoken understanding seemed to pass between the two men.
“Do it,” Yann said. Nevara’s head jerked up and she opened her mouth to protest, but, before she could utter anything, the blade came down, in an arc that caught the last rays of sun, taking off the man’s head. She couldn’t hold back the cry, unable to look away from the spurts of crimson blood, as the lifeless body toppled to the side. The reality of everything that had just happened hit her like a blow in the stomach. She slid from Yann’s grasp, went to her knees and vomited in the grass, beside the corpse.
“Easy now,” Yann whispered in a soothing tone, bending to hold her shoulders as she retched. “Breathe.” She couldn’t. Darkness filled her vision, despite the warm glow of the setting sun. Her body felt numb, the surface beneath her palms an eerie, far off sensation. Even Yann’s face became distant, like she was looking at him through a misted glass - colourless and dim...
“Breathe,” she heard him urge again. He knelt by her side and pulled her to him, until her forehead came to rest on his shoulder. “It’s over. Just keep breathing.” Her instincts urged her to pull back, but her limbs would not obey and his embrace felt warm and comforting in a way she had not experienced since she was a child. She realized she was crying, and could do nothing to stop the tears rolling down her face.
“You’re fine,” he said but there was an edge to his tone. He lifted her chin and peered into her eyes, then wiped the blood trickling from the corner of her mouth with his thumb. “Nothing happened. You’re fine.”
“Take her back,” Lyr offered. “I’ll see to this.” He was wiping his sword on the fallen man’s coat. The sight made Neve nauseous again.
Two men had just died, because of her. Because she had been stupid enough not to listen to a simple warning. Because she hadn’t been able to say “no.” She’d never imagined death to strike in such a brutal and efficient manner. All Avor Demin’s warning about the ruthless ways of the Haederans came back to her, mixed, for the first time, with a little fear. These weren’t just strangers come to trade anymore. As much as she resented it, they were her people now. God have mercy, what had she gotten herself into?
“You could’ve just stopped them,” she whispered, as Yann helped her to her feet. Her knees wobbled and her head swam but she was glad she could at least think straight. “There was no need for...this.”
He frowned down at her, his expression hard in a way she hadn’t noticed earlier, and then glanced back at the two corpses sprawled in the grass.
“They didn’t deserve any better.”
“Surely they didn’t deserve to die either.”
His fingers grazed slightly the side of her face and Nevara winced in pain, remembered of the sickening sound as the man’s fist had connected with her cheekbone. Yann traced the contours of the swell, his frown deepening.
“It doesn’t look like a great loss to me,” he muttered. “Let’s go back to the camp.”
***
“We found a campsite,” Lyr said, seating himself by the fire. “Scattered ashes, mostly, but they must have been around for a while. No idea where they came from though.” He had that dark look that spoke of danger, and despite his apparent calmness Yann knew the unexpected presence of those strangers irked his friend as well. The Maljen Woods were tangled and stretched for miles in all direction, and in winter wolves came to the roads as well, and he could not start to imagine what could have possessed anyone to set camp in that wilderness.
And they were not Haderans, he thought. No man of the clans would try to harm a woman so. It was a crime, as terrible as stabbing someone from behind, one that warranted the most dishonourable of deaths.
“This draught and the famine must have made many people leave their homes...turn into brigands...” Yann said half-heartedly. It bothered him to find them there, so close to Haverig though.
“I’d still set a double watch,” Lyr said, echoing his thoughts. He glanced towards the tent where Nevara lay. “How’s she?”
“Scared.” He wished he could comfort her, but she bolted from his touch, and he had contented with tucking her under the blankets and telling her to rest. Neve’s frightened, uneasy expression was like a bitter, lingering aftertaste. Try as he might, the image of those men, holding her down, knives in their hands, was stuck in his mind and he doubted he would be able to sleep that night. It reminded him too sharply of seeing Aislinn die. Except this time he could see the enemies and fight them with steel, and that had to count for something.
“I haven’t seen you so troubled in a while now,” Lyr said softly, and it took Yann a heartbeat to understand what he meant. “I guess she has a way of getting under your skin.”
“Maybe I just don’t fancy losing a second wife so soon,” Yann said wryly, but then, despite himself, stole a glance towards the tent as well. “I guess she does.”
Story: Threads ( Background | Index)
Rating: R
Challenge: Pistachio #7 (bath), Chokeberry #21 (you make the old things fun again)
Extras/Toppings: malt (Summer Challenge #182 - Someone gets lost and needs rescuing)
Word count: 3,011
Summary: Nevara’s journey to Haverig proves to be more eventful than expected
A/N: Warning for sexual assault and some bloody death too. Many thanks to bookblather for pointing out to me I had forgotten the rightful warnings.
“You’d think a man married only three days ago would look more content.” Lyr feigned indifference, but Yann could hear the insufferable smirk in his voice. He gritted his teeth, resolving not to let himself drawn into that trap.
The true source of his frustration sat in the cart just a few steps away from him, staring straight ahead. She wore pale green and made a little sight on her own, despite the rough fabric and the dull cut of the dress. He would have to do something about that, Yann thought idly, his wife couldn’t walk around in such clothing. As if on a cue, she turned her head around and their eyes met for the briefest of seconds. She looked away immediately, the corner of her lips twitching. It had been like that since they left the Glen, and the constant silence, doubled with those accusation-laden glances had slowly started to wear his nerves.
Besides, he’d done more than “sleep rough”. When he had slept at all. The mattress was narrow enough that he couldn’t put any real distance between them. Her weight pressed against his body, all warm, soft curves, an uncomfortable reminder that he had barely looked after a woman since Aislinn’s death. And then, in the mornings, she had the nerve to glare at him, as soon as she stood up. At least she’d stopped crying after the first night. He didn’t think he would have been able to endure that on top of the growing frustration.
You needed a wife, he reminded himself, not another woman in your bed. Haederan custom drew a welcome distinction between the two, one he hadn’t cared to think about since the first night with Aislinn... Something within him stirred at that memory. He remembered all too vividly the moment, three days before when he’d looked down at the woman whose hand he held, almost expecting to see Aislinn, and the stab of pain when he met Nevara’s startled eyes had stolen his breath for a moment, leaving him cold inside, and drained.
“I would have thought you had better things to concern yourself with,” he drawled. “Like finding a place to set camp for the night.” They rode with the sun at their backs now, shadows lengthening across the ground with each passing moment, and from the soreness of his muscles Yann guessed it was high time they stopped.
“There,” Lyr pointed, towards a small copse of trees jutting out in the sunset, almost ahead of them. Beyond, he could make up the familiar highlights of the Maljen Woods. They were only a day’s ride from Haverig, and he ached to be back home and see his children again.
“As good as anywhere else,” Yann nodded his approval. “As long as we can sit and have a drink.”
Wine wasn’t going to do, he thought. Despite liking to keep a clear head, he almost regretted they hadn’t brought with them something stronger. He could have used it right then.
***
“Are you fine?”
The question, in that crisp Haederan accent, pulled Nevara out of her absent minded contemplation of the forest nearby.
“Yes,” she said and tried to sound amenable about it. For one, that was the fifth time she received the question, in as many hours, the accompanying tone and the look always the same. Not cold, not really concerned either.
Nothing “fine” about being rattled in a cart, or seeing the gentle sloping hills she had grown with ebb into the distance, until only an endless expanse of hills remained, under a dark, clouded sky. Nothing “fine” about her father’s haggard look when they had parted. He still seemed at a loss for words, as if some hidden mechanism within him had broken, leaving him unhinged. Nothing “fine” about the people she knew and cared for avoiding to meet her eyes when they rode through the village, past orchards and pastures and the bridge over the brook. A storm was coming when they left, and the last memory of her home would always be that, of dark brooding clouds hanging low over the trees.
The Haederans were a quiet bunch, all fifteen of them riding with their eyes on the forests that surrounded the road, as if expecting to be attacked at anytime, even though the land was quiet. The journey south would take almost two weeks, Yann had told her, and, some ten days later, Nevara contemplated with apprehension the remaining time.
The cart came to a halt and she noticed they had left the road to their left for a shadowed meadow, lined by trees and a tangle of dried bushes. The men wasted no time in unsaddling the horses and putting up shelters for the night. They talked and laughed as they worked and a few peered back at her over their shoulder. From their smirks, and Yann’s expression Nevara figured she should have been glad she didn’t understand the Haederan dialect just yet.
For ten days it had been the same: they would stop early at sunset and strike camp before dawn. And each one of those nights she had slept poorly, waiting for Yann to say or do something other than kick his boots off, fold his shirt and lay by her side in silence. In the narrow space of their shelter it was hard not to be aware of his warm, strong body touching hers.
Listening to his breathing in the darkness, she had been tempted more than once to reach out and touch him, maybe weave her fingers through that smooth-looking hair, just to see how it felt. However, the notion that he might wake up and what she was supposed to do if that happened stopped her every time.
She reckoned she ought to be grateful to him, for simply letting her be. Except that she wasn’t. Things weren’t supposed to go that way. For a while after they had left, anger had been the only thing holding her together. If he had been harsh to her, enforced his rights as a husband, it would have been so much easier to hate him. But Yann had done nothing of that and, despite her best judgement she felt her resentment start to fade.
“Don’t wander out of the camp,” he told her, as she jumped down from the cart, ignoring his outstretched hand. He frowned, but only for a moment, and then brought it back on the sword hilt. It was hard to figure whether her constant rejection, bordering on outright offensive at times, bothered him in anyway. For the most part he seemed content to ignore her, and that irked her too, in a manner she could not define. “There might be some wild beasts out there.”
Nevara nodded without a word, glad to be away at last from the jarring movement she had come to hate. The carts and the half-raised tents formed a half-circle, with the opening towards the road, and the back at the curtain of trees that lined the clearing. Beyond that the land sloped gently in what she imagined to be a small valley. The wind carried a humid scent, of weeds and stagnant water.
Despite Yann’s warning not to stray, she decided a bath would be in order. She could feel the road’s dust clinging to her like a gritty second skin.
Seeing that he didn’t pay her attention anymore and had started to lend a hand to raising a tent, Nevara sneaked to the back of the cart. Her meagre possessions had fit into a single coffer, and even that was half empty. She pushed the lid back and rummaged inside for a bar of soap, a clean shirt and a length of towelling. This far south it had rained more than back at home, and, despite the early autumn, the leaves of the willows were still green and vigorous. There was indeed a lake hidden behind the trees and the tangle of wild growth, with a tiny, half-dried creek on its northern edge.
Back in the direction she had come from, she could hear the horses nickering as they were unsaddled and let to graze freely in the tall grass. A hint of smoke sneaked through the low curtain of branches. Some tea would do when she returned, Nevara decided, while she unbuttoned her dress and hung it on a tree branch.
She missed a tub and a real bath, but for then she would have to content with scrubbing herself with a washcloth. She hummed as she did, letting her mind drift for a while, away from the sinking anxiety of the last days.
She was stretching to pick up her dress again when she heard the sound of footfalls.
It wasn’t coming from the camp, she realized, just as she turned her head. Two strange men had come into view not far from where she stood. There was an odd, famished air about them that made her wary. She pulled the dress down, suddenly aware of her - almost -nakedness and took a step back.
“What’s a pretty thing like ya doin’ ere alone?” one of the men drawled. They both looked haggard and unwashed, clothes torn and stained with dirt. Nevara felt a shiver run up her spine, which turned the next moment, into the cold certainty of danger.
She backed away, holding the dress tucked to her chest and wishing she had listened to Yann’s warning and not gone away from the safety of the camp. She doubted those men would have dared to come close to the fires.
Everything afterwards happened too fast.
Despite their ragged looks, the men were swift enough that she didn’t have the time to run. One of them lunged forward and took hold of her arm, yanking her backwards.
“Now”, he leered, “no need to be frightened of us, girl.”
Nevara twisted, trying to wrestle her arm free, but he held fast, pulling her towards him and bringing his arm up, against her throat. “Be nice and sit still,” he demanded, as his companion stepped closer, reaching out with a calloused, dirty hand. Nevara struggled to breathe under the pressure on her windpipe, feeling that she would pass out. Never before had she met people that wanted to hurt her. Yet looking in the man’s dulled eyes as he cupped her chin and tilted her head back, she knew that was exactly what would happen. And then she the little air she still had to do the only logical thing under the circumstances. Scream.
***
The sound made Yann’s blood curdle. He bound to his feet, and spun around, trying to figure where it had come from. The rustle of weapons being drawn told him his men did the same, casting down plates and mugs to make ready for a fight.
“The creek”, Lyr said in a terse whisper. He stood a few meters away, sword in hand, listening intently. A second cry split the air. Yann let out a vicious curse - addressed to the spirits and the damned woman altogether, and started to make his way through the tangle of bushes that lined their camp site. Branches and thorns tugged at his clothing, like fingers trying to delay his advance. He was barely aware of the others following yarely, heavy booted feet making the dried twigs underneath crunch. All he could focus on was the unsteady rhythm of his heart - that and the churning fear coiled in the pit of his stomach, that, whatever had happened, he would be there too late.
***
She could taste dust - and blood, from her split lip. Her cheek pressed against the solid surface of the ground, head still reeling from the blows. Above her the gruff voices of the men argued over who got to go first -
- and then, they were not there anymore.
Shouts followed, the sound of metal hit on metal and a cry of pain, the worst Nevara had ever heard.
She struggled to push herself up, but only got half-way before she was hauled into an embrace that was far from gentle. It felt more like a death-grip, suffocating yet safe. Glancing over Yann’s arm she saw one of the attackers collapsed on the ground, not two steps away. Blood leaked from his side, from a vicious cut that had split his chest open. The other one knelt with Lyr’s sword against his throat and she could make out the beads of sweat running down his cheeks.
“Please,” he begged, his eyes frantic. “Let me go...I swear on my life, I’ll never-“
“Yann?” Lyr called. He looked up from the tip of his sword and some sort of unspoken understanding seemed to pass between the two men.
“Do it,” Yann said. Nevara’s head jerked up and she opened her mouth to protest, but, before she could utter anything, the blade came down, in an arc that caught the last rays of sun, taking off the man’s head. She couldn’t hold back the cry, unable to look away from the spurts of crimson blood, as the lifeless body toppled to the side. The reality of everything that had just happened hit her like a blow in the stomach. She slid from Yann’s grasp, went to her knees and vomited in the grass, beside the corpse.
“Easy now,” Yann whispered in a soothing tone, bending to hold her shoulders as she retched. “Breathe.” She couldn’t. Darkness filled her vision, despite the warm glow of the setting sun. Her body felt numb, the surface beneath her palms an eerie, far off sensation. Even Yann’s face became distant, like she was looking at him through a misted glass - colourless and dim...
“Breathe,” she heard him urge again. He knelt by her side and pulled her to him, until her forehead came to rest on his shoulder. “It’s over. Just keep breathing.” Her instincts urged her to pull back, but her limbs would not obey and his embrace felt warm and comforting in a way she had not experienced since she was a child. She realized she was crying, and could do nothing to stop the tears rolling down her face.
“You’re fine,” he said but there was an edge to his tone. He lifted her chin and peered into her eyes, then wiped the blood trickling from the corner of her mouth with his thumb. “Nothing happened. You’re fine.”
“Take her back,” Lyr offered. “I’ll see to this.” He was wiping his sword on the fallen man’s coat. The sight made Neve nauseous again.
Two men had just died, because of her. Because she had been stupid enough not to listen to a simple warning. Because she hadn’t been able to say “no.” She’d never imagined death to strike in such a brutal and efficient manner. All Avor Demin’s warning about the ruthless ways of the Haederans came back to her, mixed, for the first time, with a little fear. These weren’t just strangers come to trade anymore. As much as she resented it, they were her people now. God have mercy, what had she gotten herself into?
“You could’ve just stopped them,” she whispered, as Yann helped her to her feet. Her knees wobbled and her head swam but she was glad she could at least think straight. “There was no need for...this.”
He frowned down at her, his expression hard in a way she hadn’t noticed earlier, and then glanced back at the two corpses sprawled in the grass.
“They didn’t deserve any better.”
“Surely they didn’t deserve to die either.”
His fingers grazed slightly the side of her face and Nevara winced in pain, remembered of the sickening sound as the man’s fist had connected with her cheekbone. Yann traced the contours of the swell, his frown deepening.
“It doesn’t look like a great loss to me,” he muttered. “Let’s go back to the camp.”
***
“We found a campsite,” Lyr said, seating himself by the fire. “Scattered ashes, mostly, but they must have been around for a while. No idea where they came from though.” He had that dark look that spoke of danger, and despite his apparent calmness Yann knew the unexpected presence of those strangers irked his friend as well. The Maljen Woods were tangled and stretched for miles in all direction, and in winter wolves came to the roads as well, and he could not start to imagine what could have possessed anyone to set camp in that wilderness.
And they were not Haderans, he thought. No man of the clans would try to harm a woman so. It was a crime, as terrible as stabbing someone from behind, one that warranted the most dishonourable of deaths.
“This draught and the famine must have made many people leave their homes...turn into brigands...” Yann said half-heartedly. It bothered him to find them there, so close to Haverig though.
“I’d still set a double watch,” Lyr said, echoing his thoughts. He glanced towards the tent where Nevara lay. “How’s she?”
“Scared.” He wished he could comfort her, but she bolted from his touch, and he had contented with tucking her under the blankets and telling her to rest. Neve’s frightened, uneasy expression was like a bitter, lingering aftertaste. Try as he might, the image of those men, holding her down, knives in their hands, was stuck in his mind and he doubted he would be able to sleep that night. It reminded him too sharply of seeing Aislinn die. Except this time he could see the enemies and fight them with steel, and that had to count for something.
“I haven’t seen you so troubled in a while now,” Lyr said softly, and it took Yann a heartbeat to understand what he meant. “I guess she has a way of getting under your skin.”
“Maybe I just don’t fancy losing a second wife so soon,” Yann said wryly, but then, despite himself, stole a glance towards the tent as well. “I guess she does.”