Yarif hadn’t been wearing a cloak or gloves, Jayra said when she’d spied on Illa’s group. How had he not frozen to death? Let Rufe have made it to the cabin with him. Draylon now understood the extra furs Vihaan had insisted they bring.
Draylon found the trail leading from the main road after several moments of searching, marked by slashes cut high into tree trunks. Putting one foot in front of the other, leading the mule, he made his way toward the village.
Rustling caught his attention. Draylon whirled, watching snow fall from a nearby tree's branches.
Then an arrow found his flesh.
Chapter Twenty-three
Athudcame from the direction of a stand of trees.
Draylon took cover behind a snow-covered rock and peered out. Nothing. He gingerly reached up, exploring the wound. Gods that hurt, but not as badly as some past injuries.
The arrow had pierced the leather armor under Draylon’s cloak, so likely had an armor-piercing tip and not a barb, and lodged into the meaty part of his back, just under the right shoulder. He grasped the shaft, took a deep breath, andpulled.
Oh gods! The pain!
The arrow wasn’t deep, and slid out with little trouble.
Draylon’s shoulder burned, but he’d survived worse. Lucky for him, the archer hadn’t been very skilled.
Taking his sword in his left hand, he cautiously approached the pile of cloth lying beneath a tree, taking whatever cover came to hand until he stood close enough for a clear view.
The archer now joined his comrades in death, though he didn’t have the glorious end some religions required for a hero’s afterlife.
May Draylon’s own end be more glorious than falling from a tree. He dropped to his knees, searching through the man’s clothing for some hint of who he might be. Nothing.
Draylon left the man lying. Too many more important matters to see about. He led the mule, following the marked trees. Woodsmoke filled his nostrils. Draylon increased his pace, drawn by the flicker of light through a window.
Please let Yarif be there!
He knocked, holding his blade steady in case someone else answered the door. While he preferred to fight right-handed, he’d practiced with his left for just such an occasion.
One of Jayra’s men answered, holding a blade of his own. The tension on his face relaxed. “It’s you.” He stepped back, letting Draylon into the small cabin.
Yarif lay on his side on a pallet near the fire.
“He’s in bad shape,” the man said. “He needs a healer.”
“Where is Rufe?”
“He returned to the battle.”
Sounded like the stubborn asshole.
“There’s broth over the fire, but I couldn’t get him to eat much.” The mercenary donned his cloak. “I have to get back out there, now that you’re here.”
“Wait! I need your help first.” Draylon shrugged off his cloak, gritted his teeth, and tried to removed his armor and shirt.
“Here. Let me help you.” The man helped Draylon disrobe and then prodded around the wound. “Just needs cleaning and a bandage. Sit.” He pointed to a spot by the fire, then proceeded to clean and bandage the wound with strips of cotton from what looked to have once been a shirt.
The man stood. “There. That should help until we find a healer. I must go now. Jayra is still out there.”
Before Draylon could protest, he swept out the door, sword in hand. A moment later, hooves pounded away.
Draylon settled next to the pallet. Yarif was pale—far too pale, his hand like ice. He’d been through far too much for the last few days. Draylon tucked the furs and blankets more tightly around Yarif’s still form.
They needed to leave this place, but the snow that helped them capture their enemies also trapped them in these mountains. They also needed to know who else in their group survived. Where was Rufe? The stubborn oaf should have stayed at the cabin with Yarif, not gone haring off on some heroic mission.
