You ken I shall always be fond of you, Grimarr had told Kesst when he’d ended it, after a particularly humiliating confession on Kesst’s part.But I could never take you as my mate, ach? Not amidst all this.
This. This, with the endless war. With his foul father. With the anger and the plotting, the constant jockeying for power and women and sons. And, too, with the way Grimarr still seemed to crave women with an almost pathetic desperation, despite how disastrous his previous attempts had been.
And Kesst knew that, and why had he even said that, and fired yet more darkness into his best brother’s eyes. Gods, what madness had even come over him these past days, and he inexplicably glanced up at the ever-smaller backs of the party ahead, at the distant sight of the healer’s broad shoulders, bowed low under the weight of his pack.
“And you know I’m just jesting, obviously,” Kesst said, with a painful-feeling attempt at a jocular smile. “Your prick doesn’t even come close to Skald’s. Paltry in comparison, really. Could barely even feel it.”
That was surely relief in Grimarr’s eyes, but with a tinge of ruefulness, too. Because they both knew how much Kesst had loved it, how he’d keened and wailed upon it, and then collapsed into Grimarr’s safe warm arms. And curse him, but was he about to start weeping,again? What thehell?
“Ach, brother, I ken how it is,” Grimarr said now, his head tilting, his breath exhaling — and Kesst was suddenly very aware that they weren’t talking about his prick anymore. “You ken it shall not be much longer, now. With this healer now on our side, we —”
But Kesst never found out what the healer would change, because Grimarr’s nostrils abruptly flared, his head whipping around — and in a strange, jolting flash, he leapt. Tossing the barrel away, lunging toward Kesst, knocking him aside, fear and fury screaming through his scent —
But it was too late, too late, because the crossbow bolt was already here. Sinking its sharpened steel deep into Kesst’s chest, and shattering out pain as he screamed.
4
For the rest of the morning, Kesst was subjected to a highly unpleasant barrage of agony, indignity, and humiliation.
It began with Grimarr shouting at the band ahead, sending half its orcs running back at once, while he himself roughly yanked at Kesst’s hands — which were already losing feeling as they clutched desperately at the steel bolt embedded beneath his collarbone — and pinned them painfully to the side. And then Grimarr alternated between hollering orders at his fighters, who were now pouring into the forest behind them, and barking at Efterar to come at once, faster,now.
And curse the healer but he’d instantly obeyed, he’d rushed back toward them, he was here, looming over Kesst’s shuddering, whimpering body. His ugly face gone stark and pale, his eyes wide, his mouth contorting. While his big hand hovered over the bolt in Kesst’s upper chest, close enough that fresh red blood spurted onto his palm — but wait, the healer was shaking his head, he was saying no, no,no?!
“I shouldn’t touch him,” he breathed at Grimarr, as his mouth clamped into a tight grimace. “He said he couldn’t bear any more of my magic inside him, he —”
“DO IT!” Grimarr roared, straight into the healer’s face, before glancing over his shoulder, and ducking as another bolt soared through the air, just over their heads. “Now!”
And with that, he stood up and kicked off, screaming as he yanked his scimitar from his belt. Leaving Kesst lying there behind him, bleeding out onto the earth, with this damned healer kneeling over him, and looking so pained that Kesst might have thoughthewas the one with the bolt buried beneath his skin.
“Sorry about this,” the healer said, his mouth still grimacing, his hand settling wide and gentle against Kesst’s shoulder — and then his other hand grasped the bolt, and yanked. While more raw, screaming agony tore through Kesst’s destroyed chest, his entire body reflexively writhing, his mouth choking broken at the sky.
But the healer was hurling the bolt away — at least it hadn’t been barbed — and now both his hands were pressed flat to Kesst’s chest, his eyes closed. And Kesst could feel that sweet, sweet magic pouring into him, flooding him full and deep. Not erasing the pain, no — but the blood had already stopped spurting, and Kesst now felt that telltale prickle inside him, seeking, finding, knowing.
“Need to move,” barked Abjorn in Aelakesh as he raced back toward them again. “Back to mountain. I can carry Kesst?”
For an instant, the healer’s magic inside Kesst stuttered, his brow creasing as he glanced up at Abjorn’s frowning, expectant face. And Kesst’s distant thoughts were lurching again, realizing something, something new. The healer didn’t speak his own people’s language. How in the gods’ names had that happened? Hadn’t he grown up among the southern clans? Had he not spent time with any orcs atall?
“Need to move,” Kesst gasped at the healer, his voice someone else’s — but the very fact that he could still breathe and speak meant that maybe his lungs had been spared, maybe. “Abjorn can carry me.”
But that was another hitch in the healer’s magic, suddenly, something that might have been fear. “No,” he snapped back, his eyes again intent on Kesst’s wound, as the feel of the magic working inside him changed, almost as if focusing on something else. “He’ll kill you. I’ll do it.”
He’d do it. And wait, Abjorn wouldkillhim? Gods, was Kesst dying? He hadn’t even made it to thirty damned summers, and now he wasdying?!
And oh, surely he was, with the way the agony jolted and wailed as the healer’s strong arms slid beneath his knees and his shoulders, and hoisted him bodily up against his broad chest. The movement undoubtedly careful, but still so horrifying that Kesst’s writhing body retched, and nearly vomited up onto the healer’s tunic.
But somehow —impossibly— he could feel the healer’s magic swiftly flipping to his stomach, his throat, that touch briefly soothing it, calming it, before flicking back to his wounded chest. All this, despite the way his arms were still tightly trapped beneath Kesst’s body, and his gaze was now straight ahead, his legs taking slow, deliberate steps.
And even through the agony, Kesst found himself distantly wondering at how the hell the healer could possibly be doing all this. How anyone’s magic could possibly be strong enough to manage this. Carrying him, and assessing how he felt, and instantly addressing it, fixing it — and wait, now Kesst could feel that magic briefly flicking to his head, while the ongoing screeching pain abruptly faded. Sinking off and away into the distance, until it was almost negligible. And in response, Kesst felt his body suddenly relaxing into the healer’s capable arms, his relieved breath exhaling in a sound much like a sob.
This was… impossible. This wasn’t just magic. This was a… a gift.A great, great gift, Grimarr had said.
“Am I going to die?” Kesst heard himself croak, because despite the healer’s clearly spectacular competence, that fear was still shouting, still here. So powerful he might have retched again, if not for yet another soft brush of the healer’s magic against his churning stomach.
“No, you’re not dying,” the healer replied, his voice firm, his gaze still straight ahead. “Not if I can help it.”
Oh. And he sounded so… certain. So stubborn. And blinking up at the healer’s set face, his taut jaw, while that magic kept furiously working inside him, Kesst felt himself relaxing even deeper, sinking into the strength of those strong arms. Into this… safety.
And somehow, in that moment, everything else seemed to wash away, too. Not only the pain, but the shock, the fear, the distant sounds of battle, the barked voices and orders. And instead there was just this, this healer’s warm steady body against him, this unthinkable magic inside him, that grim determination all over his hard, scarred face.
