“No’ the stabbing, lass,” the warrior scowled dismissively. “The infection.”
“The what?”
Matthias stepped in, patting the air in a comforting motion.
“Vrogul’s wound is infected and he’s no’ treating it well enough. He’ll no’ die—he just needs to allow us to treat him. His wound needs a good cleaning and this poultice applied. But every time I try, he finds an excuse to avoid me.”
“Which is why ye need to do it,” Maardok announced.
My gaze was swinging back and forth between them, horror growing as I understood what was happening to Vrogul.
“Me? He has been avoiding me for days.”
“Only because ye allow it.” The warrior snatched the packet from Matthias and thrust it toward me. “Corner him, lass, and force this on him. He’ll listen to ye.”
Hesitantly, I took the packet, staring down at it in confusion.
“He keeps telling us he’s too busy to worry about it,” Matthias said more quietly. “He needs a good night’s rest and some healthy food in his belly.”
He nodded to the packet. “Those herbs will draw out the infection.”
Maardok held out a leather flask, waggling it.
“And this will clean it. Pour it over the wound.”
Swallowing, I slid the packet into my belt and reached for the flask.
“I am no healer.”
I was scared, aye, but the thought of Vrogul being in pain…
“I am not the one to manage this.”
“Ye’re theonlyone who can manage this, lass.” The healer smiled in encouragement. “If ye go to him, he cannae avoid ye.”
Maardok nodded firmly and stepped back, then jerked his chin toward the distant training grounds.
“My brother’s there, pushing himself too hard. Come along, I’ll escort ye.”
Numb, I followed, my steps uncertain as I balanced the water bucket and the flask. Were the males right? Would Vrogul listen to me? I remembered the way he’d looked last night across the table, how distracted and drained he’d appeared…and I knew, if there was hope that I might help, I would try.
And at no point did I consider that, as my enemy, I ought to wish for his death.
Battleborn Village was changing me.
Vrogul
I hated appearing weak.
Appearing weak? Yeareweak. Sit yer weak arse down, ye fooking dobber.
Panting, I gave in to the inevitable, saluting Trevik with my weapon and sinking down onto one of the logs which ringed the training grounds.
“Good hit, lad. Go challenge Bogtam.”
My youngest warrior hesitated, looking concerned.
“D’malk, ye dinnae look good?—”
