Chronicler moved his head a bit and felt suddenly dizzy and nauseous. “What happened?”
“I might have broken a couple of your ribs,” the man said. “One of them was all over you. I didn’t have a lot of options.” He shrugged. “I’m sorry, for whatever that’s worth. I’ve already stitched up the cuts on your arms. They should heal up nicely.”
“They’re gone?”
The hood nodded once. “The scrael don’t retreat. They’re like wasps from a hive. They keep attacking until they die.”
A horrified look spread over Chronicler’s face. “There’s a hive of these things?”
“Dear God, no. There were just these five. Still, we have to burn and bury them, just to be sure. I already cut the wood we’ll need: ash and rowan.”
Chronicler gave a laugh that sounded slightly hysterical. “Just like the children’s song:
“Let me tell you what to do.
Dig a pit that’s ten by two.
Ash and elm and rowan too—”
“Yes indeed,” the bundled man said dryly. “You’d be surprised at the sorts of things hidden away in children’s songs. But while I don’t think we need to dig the entire ten feet down, I wouldn’t refuse a little help….” He trailed off meaningfully.
Chronicler moved one hand to feel the back of his head gingerly, then looked at his fingers, surprised that they weren’t covered in blood. “I think I’m fine,” he said as he cautiously levered himself up onto one elbow and from there into a sitting position. “Is there any—” His eyes flickered and he went limp, falling bonelessly backward. His head struck the ground, bounced once, and came to rest tilted slightly to one side.
Kote sat patiently for a few long moments, watching the unconscious man. When there was no movement other than the chest slowly rising and falling, he came stiffly to his feet and knelt at Chronicler’s side. Kote lifted one eyelid, then the other and grunted at what he saw, not seeming particularly surprised.
“I don’t suppose there’s any chance of you waking up again?” he asked without much hope in his voice. He tapped Chronicler’s pale cheek lightly. “No chance at—” A drop of blood spotted Chronicler’s forehead, followed quickly by another.
Kote straightened up so that he was no longer leaning over the unconscious man and wiped the blood away as best he could, which wasn’t very well, as his hands were covered in blood themselves. “Sorry,” he said absently.
He gave a deep sigh and pushed back his hood. His red hair was matted down against his head, and half his face was smeared with drying blood. Slowly he began to peel away the tattered remains of his cloak. Underneath was a leather blacksmith’s apron, wildly scored with cuts. He removed that as well, revealing a plain grey shirt of homespun. Both his shoulders and his left arm were dark and wet with blood.
Kote fingered the buttons of his shirt for a moment, then decided against removing it. Climbing gingerly to his feet, he picked up the spade and slowly, painfully, began to dig.
CHAPTER FIVE
Notes
IT WAS WELL PAST midnight by the time Kote made it back to Newarre with Chronicler’s limp body slung across his lacerated shoulders. The town’s houses and shops were dark and silent, but the Waystone Inn was full of light.
Bast stood in the doorway, practically dancing with irritation. When he spotted the approaching figure he rushed down the street, waving a piece of paper angrily. “A note? You sneak out and leave me a note?” He hissed angrily. “What am I, some dockside whore?”
Kote turned around and shrugged Chronicler’s limp body into Bast’s arms. “I knew you would just argue with me, Bast.”
Bast held Chronicler easily in front of him. “It wasn’t even a good note. ‘If you are reading this I am probably dead.’ What sort of a note is that?”
“You weren’t supposed to find it till morning,” Kote said tiredly as they began to walk down the street to the inn.
Bast looked down at the man he was carrying, as if noticing him for the first time. “Who is this?” He shook him a little, eyeing him curiously before slinging him easily over one shoulder like a burlap sack.
“Some unlucky sod who happened to be on the road at the wrong time,” Kote said dismissively. “Don’t shake him too much. His head might be on a little loose.”
“What the hell did you sneak off for, anyway?” Bast demanded as they entered the inn. “If you’re going to leave a note it should at least tell me what—” Bast’s eyes widened as he saw Kote in the light of the inn, pale and streaked with blood and dirt.
“You can go ahead and worry if you want,” Kote said dryly. “It’s every bit as bad as it looks.”
“You went out hunting for them, didn’t you?” Bast hissed, then his eyes widened. “No. You kept a piece of the one Carter killed. I can’t believe you. You lied to me. To me!”
Kote sighed as he trudged up the stairs. “Are you upset by the lie, or the fact that you didn’t catch me at it?” he asked as he began to climb.
Bast spluttered. “I’m upset that you thought you couldn’t trust me.”
They let their conversation lapse as they opened one of the many empty rooms on the second floor, undressed Chronicler, and tucked him snugly into bed. Kote left the man’s satchel and travelsack on the floor nearby.
Closing the door to the room behind him, Kote said, “I trust you Bast, but I wanted you safe. I knew I could handle it.”
“I could have helped, Reshi.” Bast’s tone was injured. “You know I would have.”
“You can still help, Bast,” Kote said as he made his way to his room and sat heavily on the edge of his narrow bed. “I need some stitching done.” He began to unbutton his shirt. “I could do it myself. But the tops of my shoulders and my back are hard to reach.”
“Nonsense, Reshi. I’ll do it.”
Kote made a gesture to the door. “My supplies are down in the basement.”
Bast sniffed disdainfully. “I will use my own needles, thank you very much. Good honest bone. None of your nasty jagged iron things, stabbing you like little slivers of hate.” He shivered. “Stream and stone, it’s frightening how primitive you people are.” Bast bustled out of the room, leaving the door open behind him.
Kote slowly removed his shirt, grimacing and sucking his breath through his teeth as the dried blood stuck and tugged against the wounds. His face went stoic again when Bast came back into the room with a basin of water and began to clean him off.
As the dried blood was washed away a wild scoring of long, straight cuts became clear. They gaped redly against the innkeeper’s fair skin, as if he had been slashed with a barber’s razor or a piece of broken glass. There were perhaps a dozen cuts in all, most of them on the tops of his shoulders, a few across his back and along his arms. One started on the top of his head and ran down his scalp to behind his ear.
“I thought you weren’t supposed to bleed, Reshi,” Bast said. “Bloodless and all that.”