They look like the kind that would have been made by a switch.
My jaw clenches and I try to swallow the instant rage that pushes at my deep light.
These wounds look old. They’re already scabbed over and the skin around them is yellow. They would have been inflicted days ago—well before whatever altercation put her in that pit.
Was she beaten for days before they threw her in there?
Another careful look tells me there’s healing skin near the new cuts. Older switch marks that indicate beatings over time.
Nearby, Skirra gives a soft whine, padding up to the woman’s back and sniffing at her broken skin. He gives a soft growl, angry in a way I wish I could mimic.
When I check the rest of her torso, there are no welts across her front, although there’s a fist-sized bruise across her midriff. That bruise, like the cut on her forehead, is fresh.
I picture the punch that would have forced the air out of her chest, followed by the blow to her head that would have knocked her out.
My hands are shaking with fury by the time I place her dress at the side of the hearth and wrap her up fully in the fur.
The fire is now at her back, its warmth constant, but her skin remains cold.
I snatch up a few clean cloths to wipe my face before I peel off my shirt, swap my heavier pants for a loincloth, and slip inside the fur with her. Then I pull her close, both of us on our sides, her torso against mine, my upper arm wrapped around her side and back.
Skirra rests down at my back, as if he’s pushing me toward her, his head resting against my side.
The woman’s body is so cold that I shiver.
Even though she’s naked in my arms, I have no thoughts other than a rage that has nowhere to go.
Hers is the not the body of someone who is loved.
Her face is not the face of someone who smiles. There are no laugh lines. Only dark rings under her eyes.
If I could change that…
I shake myself.
She might not survive this. She might not wake up. And even if I can keep her alive, the path ahead will be dangerous.
Without delay, I lift my voice to call quietly to my father, and he appears in the doorway a few moments later.
He lowers a satchel to the floor inside the door before he hurries to the fire. “Any other wounds?”
My voice is tight. “Somebody beat her with a stick. The welts are healing over, but there are older marks that indicate it wasn’t the first time.”
Father pauses at that, his lips pursing before he sinks to the fur. Silently, he sets about boiling water, the flames making his features bright.
I inherited many of his features: his eyes, his jawline, and his physique, but he told me that I have my mother’s heart.
“You have a choice to make now, Son,” he says, speaking quietly as he focuses on the water, using tongs to dip a cloth into it. “The wolves are unsettled. The Blacksmiths have never ventured this far northwest, but the chances of them passing us by without an altercation are slim. We have a few hours at most until they track us here.”
My focus flickers to the satchel my father left at the door. A rolled-up fur rests on top of it and a fresh quiver of arrows sits beside it.
I’ve remained conscious of Thoren where he’s concealed in the turret—and the fact that he hasn’t sounded any sort of alarm—but it’s only a matter of time.
“Life is a series of choices,” my father continues. “Some barely nudge the course of our destiny. Others push us far away from what we want.”
I exhale slowly, trying to stave off the inevitable decision that lies ahead of me.
The only decision that will keep my family safe: to leave them.
