“My mount needs to quench his thirst,” she said, then gestured to the wineskin. “What do you carry?”
“Water.” With renewed irritation, the woman shot a glance at the warrior, whose dark gaze had not left Mala’s face. As a stranger to them, she expected to be watched. Unlike the travelers, however, Kavik didn’t appear wary. Instead he looked at her with an expression both haunted and fervid, as if he saw his death approaching, yet could not bear to glance away from it.
“Water will do.” And she wanted to know why this woman had told the warrior that he would soon need it, but only asked, “How fares the boy?”
“We will know when the fever passes.” With dirty fingers, Telani touched her injured shoulder. “Several of us will.”
Though humans couldn’t be transformed into revenants, the creatures’ poison produced a dangerous fever. There were remedies for it, but Mala supposed that few of Nemek’s healers journeyed to Blackmoor to sell their wares—or if they had, their bones were littered beside the river. Fortunately she had encountered several during her travels.
“Go and tend to him, then,” Mala told her. “I will see to my horse and this man, then come to you with a salve to draw out the venom.”
The woman’s renewed gratitude sat uneasily on Mala’s shoulders. If Mala was to tame a demon, and if the salve was not readily available in Blackmoor, she might soon be in dire need of it. But Vela never offered the easy path. If giving the salve to these travelers meant that Mala would soon suffer a revenant’s fever, then she would suffer it—and trust that her own strength and the goddess’s generosity would see her through it.
Wineskin in hand, she retrieved the salve and an oiled cloth from her saddlebag. The warrior didn’t look away as she approached him, but his big body seemed to stiffen with her every step.
Mala stopped an arm’s length away and extended her hand. “Your sword.”
His grip tightened on the weapon. Roughly he said, “I won’t harm you.”
“I didn’t fear you would,” she told him. “Your blade needs to be wiped clean, and you’ve been standing with a saddle on your shoulder for so long that the blood has begun to dry. I suspect that you remain still to avoid tearing open one of your injuries. So give the sword to me, and I’ll see it cleaned.”
His mouth flattened. Without a word, he reached for the saddle and lifted it from his broad shoulder. His gaze never left hers as he held the heavy tack out to his side for one breath, two—then deliberately dropped it.
Stupid, stubborn man. But Mala couldn’t say that her reaction would have been any different, so she offered him the oiled cloth.
He abruptly crouched and slammed his sword hilt-deep into the ground, as if driving in a stake. The muscles in his arms bulged as he ripped the blade to the side through the dirt, then hauled it out again. Aside from a ring of blood and mud near the hilt, the weapon had been scraped clean.
His jaw was tight when he stood again. “It is done.”
She looked to his arms. The gashes were bleeding again, and he stank of revenant. With a sigh, she opened the small pot of salve.
He shook his head. “Don’t tend to me.”
“You will be fevered, warrior.”
“I’ve lived through a revenants’ attack before.”
That was not all he’d lived through. Closer now, she could see the ridged scars that marked his skin. A wide slash on his left cheek, as if from a blade. The pucker of an arrow in his upper biceps. A ragged half moon from some animal’s teeth lay above his elbow—and there were probably far more scars that she couldn’t see beneath the blood, his beard, and his clothing.
She dipped her fingers into the cool salve. “This time you will live through it more easily.”
“No.” His big hand shot out, covering the pot, his bloodied fingers trapping hers. “Do not tend to me. You will pay for your kindness.”
It wasn’t just kindness; it was a warrior’s honor and duty to care for another’s injuries. Even in Blackmoor, it must be. But she only asked, “Why?”
When he didn’t answer, she studied him for a long moment. He wasn’t much to look at—just a huge bloody mess of matted hair and gore. He reeked like a putrid corpse, too, but his eyes were the warm brown of a good beer. That would be reason enough to like him, but Mala appreciated warriors who used their strength well even more than she appreciated her ale.
And she was more aware of his hand on hers than she’d ever been of any man’s touch. Usually she was prying their fingers away or chopping them off. She didn’t mind his.
He must have run afoul of someone, though, if he believed she would regret helping him.
“Are you ill-favored by a god?” she wondered.
“No,” he said bleakly. “Just forsaken.”