“For what?”
“For coming to get me.”
On impulse, Draylon brought their joined hands to his mouth, brushing his lips over Yarif’s knuckles. The gesture felt too natural. “I’ll always come for you. You’re mine.” They’d only enjoyed one surprising night together. If given a chance, Draylon would make similar nights routine for them.
He’d never know what they might become together if he didn’t try. While he balked at the conniving, Father had bestowed a gift on Draylon in the form of Yarif.
Yarif drifted back to sleep.
Squelching footsteps sounded outside. Draylon grasped his sword hilt, though he could do little if the enemy tried to burn them out.
Three sharp raps came at the door. “It’s me, Rufe.”
Draylon closed his eyes briefly. “Thank you, God of War.” He heaved a relieved sigh, then rose and unbarred the door.
A bloodied Rufe nearly fell into the cabin, hurrying for the hearth. “I… I’m glad to see you w… w… well,” he stammered, warming his hands before the fire.
“Report,” Draylon replied.
Rufe braced one hand on the mantel, shoulders slumped. “We’re all that’s left. Jayra and our last two mercenaries were caught in an avalanche, but I managed to save three mules.”
Jayra. Jayra was dead. So was the man who’d tended Draylon’s wounds. He closed his eyes, letting out a long breath. Both had died saving Yarif, and deserved better than to draw their last breaths in the snow. Draylon didn’t know much about the burial rites of Jayra’s home country, or where the man called home.
Rufe scowled. “A few of Illa’s fighters may have escaped.”
“They were paid and not very loyal, I think. Without Illa, they’re more likely worried about their own lives than us.” Or so Draylon hoped. Still, the mercenaries’ best bet was finding shelter, and this cabin might be the difference between life and death. Would they surrender or try to kill Draylon, Rufe, and Yarif to take the cabin if they made their way here?
Or would they recapture Yarif and continue whatever mission Illa had laid out for them? Draylon must find better shelter. “Our guide said the keep lies to the east. Yarif is feverish and needs a healer.”
“Not to mention the makeshift bandage on your shoulder.” Rufe circled Draylon, inspecting the damage and letting out a low whistle. “How badly hurt are you?”
“Just a flesh wound. I’ll be fine.”
Rufe snorted. “Seems to me you said the same when that Craician tried to gut you.”
“It was just as true then as now.” They’d lost Jayra and all her mercenaries. While they’d managed to overpower a larger force in unfamiliar fighting conditions, in the end, the weather proved a more formidable foe than Illa’s forces. “We have no choice but to head for the keep at daylight.”
“I agree.” Rufe squatted in front of the fire, rubbing his hand briskly over his shoulders, then removed his hood. Flecks of snow remained in his hair. “We’re not wearing anything to show we’re military. How’s your Delletinian? I know enough to order ale at a tavern and invite a willing partner to bed but nothing more.”
“Passable, but I’ll never be mistaken for a local.”
“I’m fluent,” Yarif croaked from his pallet in Delletinian.
Draylon and Rufe both turned toward the pallet. Yarif was fluent. Further proof of Renvalle’s conspiracy with Delletina?
No. No thinking like that. Yarif could have hidden this information, but instead, he freely volunteered. “That might prove useful.” Draylon kept any hint of accusation from his voice. What choice did they have but to hope someone at the keep would help? There they could make plans for returning to Renvalle.
Currently, some of the drifts around the cabin came up to Draylon’s knees. “Get some sleep, both of you,” he ordered. “You’re going to need it.”
Rufe stood. “I’ll check the mules and use the privy first.” He threw his hood back over his head and slipped out into the night. He returned a moment later, eyes wide. “We have company.”
Draylon struggled back into his armor, enlisting Rufe’s help. “How far away are they?”
“I spotted two coming through the trees, but there could be others.” Rufe shoved a gauntlet onto Draylon’s hand.
Draylon turned to Yarif. “Can you ride if you have to?”
With Rufe and Draylon’s help, Yarif slowly stood, reeling a bit and bracing a hand on the wall. He glanced down at his threadbare clothing. “Yes, but I have no clothes.” The remains of his tunic lay balled up in a pile near the hearth, and his thin boots offered no barrier against the cold, nor did the trousers. Yarif had worn his wedding attire all this time.
