"Paien of Allerdale," the other man said, taking Miach's hand and shaking it firmly. "The resemblance truly is strong between you and Adhémar."
"To my everlasting shame," Miach said with a smile.
"Your brother is not completely without virtues."
"So it is rumored, but I rarely believe it," Miach said. He looked at Morgan. She was pale, but she did not look ill beyond saving. He looked at the lad Fletcher, who on the other hand did not look well at all.
"Arrow wound," Paien said with a nod. "From a band of unwholesome creatures. I was going to look for someone to sew it up for him."
"I can see to it," Miach said.
Paien considered only briefly before he stepped back and waved Miach inside. "Your brother apparently has no judgment when it comes to herbs, so I hope you'll acquit yourself in a more promising fashion. Do you require anything?"
"A mug of hot water," Miach said, producing a small purse from beneath his shirt. "And Iama better judge of herbs than my brother."
"Morgan will certainly appreciate that," Paien said. He propped her sword up against the wall. "I'll return quickly. That's Fletcher of Harding, by the way. He's on a quest."
Miach would have asked him what he meant by that, but he was already gone. Miach turned to Fletcher, who looked simply terrible. He pulled up another stool, sat down, and smiled at the young man.
"How did you earn this?" he asked.
The boy, who couldn't have been ten-and-eight though he was struggling to look as if he were, shivered miserably. "I was shot unawares. I should have been looking about me to check for enemies."
"You know," Miach said, unwrapping the bloody rag covering the wound, "many seasoned warriors are caught unawares. "
"Not Morgan. Not any of the men with her."
"Well, perhaps they are especially canny. I wouldn't worry. You're young, yet."
"Not too young for an important quest," Fletcher said importantly. Then he seemed to reconsider. "At least I had hoped for an important quest. It was either that or remain on Melksham Island to till my father's fields and fade into obscurity."
"Many notable quests are begun with much less reason than that," Miach said. He looked at the wound and maintained a neutral expression. It was not so much that it was deep, nor that it looked as if the arrow had been ripped out without care; it was that it stank of a vile magic.
Interesting.
"A fierce battle, was it?" Miach asked conversationally.
Fletcher shivered. "I've never seen anything like it. The creatures?" He shivered again. "Never seen anything like it."
"Hmmm," Miach murmured noncommittally. He hadn't seen anything like that magic either, not on this side of the northern border. Was Lothar sending his creatures so far south?
If so, how were they crossing the border without Miach sensing their presence? And it they were circumventing the kingdom of Neroche, then why were they coming so far south? Istaur was nothing but a port town and there was nothing else in the area worth a visit. Why would Lothar care about it?
Unless that wasn't what Lothar had been seeking.
"If Morgan hadn't made the sword light up," Fletcher said faintly, "I think we would have been all overcome."
Miach froze. He turned slowly and looked at Fletcher full in the face. "What did you say?"
Fletcher looked rather frightened, so Miach softened his expression.
"Go on, Fletcher. What sword?"
"Adhémar's sword," Fletcher said, relaxing visibly. "I didn't feel very well, so I might have imagined it, but I'm almost certain I saw that sword flash red." He paused. "I began puking soon thereafter, so perhaps I was just seeing things."
Miach smiled. "Perhaps, It is easy to imagine things when you're ill, and that was no simple wound you earned. Perhaps you were momentarily overcome."
Or not.
