“None taken,” Tristan said. “I think it is actually best she does it. That way, she gets the arrow out and then I can apply the poultice and moss immediately.” He reached for a bandage. “But first, you need a tourniquet.”
Inari remained silent, watching Tristan tie the strip of cloth around his upper arm.
“Do you agree with this plan, Inari?”
He gave a curt nod. “Just do it.”
“All right, Lis,” Tristan said, holding the shaman’s arm down. “On the count of three. One, two—”
Aloisia didn’t wait for three. She pushed the stub of the arrow as hard as she could, sending it sliding through Inari’s wrist, where she pulled it from the other side. Inari slammed his fist on the tabletop and let out a groan of agony. With the arrow out, the wound bled far more, even with the tourniquet in place. Inari ran a shaky hand down his face.
“There you go.” She smiled. “All done.”
“By the Damned, woman!”
“You’re welcome.”
Tristan applied the poultice, as Inari had told him, before packing it with the moss-like substance. Inari muttered some words under his breath, hushed enough Aloisia could not catch them. Dipping a finger in a dark coloured ointment, the shaman traced runic patterns upon his forearm and on his palm. Once Inari finished, Tristan instructed Aloisia to hold the moss in place as he bandaged up the wound.
“Have any whiskey?” Tristan asked. “Brandy? Rum? Any strong liquor would do.”
Inari chuckled. “In the top left cabinet.” He gestured towards the small kitchen – if the narrow counter and pair of cabinets could be called as much.
“Something for the shock.”
Tristan strode to it, easily finding a glass bottle of whiskey as it was one of only a few things within the cabinet. He grabbed one of the wooden cups there, too. Pouring a small measure, he passed it to Inari, who downed it in one. Tristan poured another, larger measure, which the shaman took his time with.
“Since you seem in good spirits now that’s done,” Aloisia said, leaning back against the worktable, “and since we so graciously helped you…”
“Gracious, was it?” Inari sipped at his whiskey.
“Yes, very gracious considering you were going to kill Tristan.”
Inari raised a brow. “Ro kietöilpää,” he muttered.
Aloisia ignored his murmurings. “So, since we did you a favour—”
“I remember our deal. You want answers. I promised them. And you will get them.”
“Now is as good a time as any.”
“What is it you want to know?”
“First, what are those shadow monsters? Where do they come from? What do they want?”
Inari waved a hand, halting her questions. “Slow down, little wolf. I am in a lot of pain right now. Allow me a moment to think.”
Aloisia held her tongue.
“Those things you call ‘shadow monsters’ are known as Dusk Dwellers. At least, they are where I am from. By the legends, these beings are the Forgotten Gods, cast aside to live in those spaces between light and dark, between day and night. Dormant, they have lain for many generations. And now they have, seemingly, awoken.”
“Why now? Why here?”
“Those are questions I cannot answer.”
Aloisia sighed. “Then what else can you tell me about them?”
“I can tell you more of our legends. How these Forgotten Gods were cursed to roam the realms of man – unseen, unknown, unable to be worshipped as they once were. How they longed for a time when one, just one, would remember, would call for them, would break their curse and allow them to exist once more. It was foretold their return would bring about the End of Days.”
