And beside him, Alys fell to hers. “Oh no,” she whispered. She stared at the man. “Oh, oh, no. I—I’m sorry, I—”
“He was going to kill you,” Mal said firmly, though he tried to keep his voice gentle. “I saw the whole thing, and you had no choice.” He sighed, and the noise came out closer to sympathy than impatience, which was a relief. Sympathy didn’t come easy for him. “Look, Alys, I know how you feel about killing, but … it was bound to happen one day, our line of work.” After checking to make sure the man with the knife really wasn’t breathing, he rubbed a hand across Alys’s back for a few moments and then said, “Will you be okay right here? I need to go get Griff.”
She nodded resolutely.
But Mal had gone only a few paces toward the darting mule with his old friend attached when Alys gagged and threw up beside the body.
Mal winced but kept going, because Griff needed him more, making steady progress across the plain toward the mule. It seemed the beast wasn’t used to dragging the weight of a grown man and it was finally tiring, perhaps even calming in the absence of so much noise and swearing and clashing blades.
At some point, Griff’s scarf had come loose. Mal picked it up, draping it over his shoulder on his way over to the exhausted mule.
He grabbed the creature’s lead rope, working it gently from Griff’s stiff hand.
The other man answered him with a groan.
“Is this what you thought I meant by making bad decisions?” Mal asked, letting the worry in his gaze shine undisguised as he pulled off his scarf at last and crouched where Griff lay prone in the grass, dirt and scratches streaked across his pale, sweaty face. “Or is it that you just don’t give a damn about yourself?”
“I—” Griff panted and seemed to fumble for words, which was understandable, given how short of breath he was.
Mal’s stomach churned unpleasantly. He hated seeing Griff like this. Hated Griff for being such an idiot, for nearly getting himself killed and making him watch. He had asked him on this trip to keep him safe, but here he was, nearly finding a means to die anyway and complicating whatever hope they had of securing the treasure in time.
He shouldn’t care like this.
Griff had made it clear, on a long-ago day when he was just seventeen, that they were nothing to each other anymore.
It shouldn’t matter if Griff lived or died, especially if Mal didn’t have a hand in it.
But it did.
Griff’s eyes shone clearer as he gazed at something past Mal’s shoulder, lifting his head a little. “What’s wrong with Alys?”
Mal turned. She was making her way toward them at a shambling gait, her face almost as pale as Griff’s, a bit of spit clinging to her lower lip.
“She just killed someone. One of the travelers, the guy with the rocks,” Mal explained to Griff, who now looked confused in addition to weak and dizzy. Maybe he didn’t know yet, despite his renewed friendship with Alys, that her reputation was only for show.
Mal was used to walking away from the bodies he’d put down without a second glance. Someone had to do the dirty work, and it had been years since his first kill. Like all things, it got easier with practice. It was a harsh world. He’d been a victim himself many times before he’d learned how to fight and make something of himself, and if he lost sleep over every enemy who would have stabbed him first if given half a chance, he wouldn’t have made it very far in this life. But Alys was different. She had always tried to avoid killing, even if she wasn’t bothered by him and Wynnie doing what had to be done.
“The Warg of the West,” Griff rasped, pushing himself up onto his elbows to get a better look at Alys. He definitely didn’t know, if he was using that name when no one was around to hear but the three of them. “That’s what they call you. There are songs about—”
“I know,” Alys said softly as she knelt beside them, her eyes glistening as she thrust a hand out as if to feel what warmth remained in Griff’s cheek. “Please don’t tell Wynnie. Promise me, Griff. I’m so sorry. It’s my fault you’re hurt—I didn’t wake up until there was already so much shouting—the mushrooms, you know, they can help me sleep through anything.”
Even Mal’s brows lifted slightly at that. Alys wasn’t in the habit of making apologies, so she must really mean this one. Herfirst kill had put an uncertainty in her gaze he rarely glimpsed there, a raw vulnerability she must work hard to keep concealed most days.
Griff put his hand over hers. “Doesn’t hurt that much,” he insisted with a wan smile. “Not like it’s going to hurt when you and Mal have to take out that arrow. But I don’t understand—don’t tell Wynniewhat?”
Alys withdrew her hand and wiped at the tracks of tears on her cheeks. “That that was my first. My first … murder.”
“She can fight, though,” Mal added, his tone firm as he let his admiration show on his face. “She’s a technical genius with that sword, and she can take a hit as well as I can. She’s bloodied plenty of people. That’s not a lie.”
Alys finally wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and nodded, seeming not to trust herself to speak just yet.
“So the Warg of the West? All the stories and songs?” Griff asked, plainly still lost.
As Mal looked back at her, Alys dropped her gaze to the mule’s hooves. It tapped a restless foot. “I paid a bard to write those songs. And later, Mal paid some people to say that stuff about who I’d killed and how. As a favor to me, because he’s a good friend,” she added to Griff before casting a small smile in Mal’s direction. “I got busy with the kids, and I didn’t want Wynnie to think that meant I’d slacked on my training or that I didn’t have half her nerve. It was just easier this way.”
“I won’t tell a soul,” Griff vowed solemnly, his gaze softening as he studied her. “Far as I’m concerned, you killed all these men yourself. I could even write a new song for you sometime. Keep up the legend—”
“You’re stalling,” Mal cut in, his eyes still on Griff’s and glinting with understanding. “You’re going to have to tell us how to get that arrow out without permanently damaging your leg.” He waited for Griff’s resigned nod (and accompanying grimace)before asking Alys, “Help me get him up on the mule? We might as well warm up by the fire while we do this. I want their packs too—smelled like they had good food.”
