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“He’s breathing. The bleeding seems to have stopped,” Clay rasped, looking down at Jon’s leg.
A cloth that used to be white but now looked as if it had been used to wipe up a barrel of red wine, was tied around Jon’s thigh. The skin from hip to knee had been flayed, muscles and ligaments a mangled mess. But it was the wound from a spear that once belonged to Hargo that refused to mend. The wound was festering, no doubt, by the fever that had taken over Jon’s consciousness. The bleeding Fadon had been so concerned with that first day had slowed its flow, and now seemed to have stopped, Ongar be thanked. Still, the men that had barely lived from that terrible night of the rut and needed to be seen by the healer and fast.
For himself, Fadon had some injuries, sure. But they had long healed. It was the mental pain that tore at him more than anything. The loss of his men. The loss of the watcher woman. The loss of Sierra. The Ongahri’s loss of Omega.
He closed his eyes, seeing it all over again. So much blood in the snow. The storm that never seemed to stop screaming. The wildness that had taken over the minds of his men, and almost himself.
He’d lost five men that night, two by his own hand: Young Mallis and Darius. Only Yorkus, Varia, and Clay remained. Jon, who had barely survived, made the envoy coming home a total of five, himself included. Half of what it was when they’d left Goth Mor Helle for Providence weeks and weeks ago.
When the storm had passed the next day, after that horrible night Demos had taken Sierra to safety, Fadon and Clay burned their fellow warriors’ bodies, singing their souls to Ongar. The poor watcher, Lucinda, he had buried the next day, once the ground allowed for it. It was the death of the woman that hurt Fadon the most.
He shook himself. He couldn’t afford to think about any of that right then. He had a camp to set up, men and horses to feed and see to.
Ongar willing, the night would pass quickly, and tomorrow would see them home, where he’d wait as long as it took for word to come from the Servant of the Owl, Demos.
Just thinking of the man had Fadon growling.
“Captain?” Clay asked, his voice hoarse. He was still recovering from the night Hargo had choked him. No doubt damage had been done. The warrior might not ever recover his voice, Fadon thought.
Sighing, Fadon dismounted. “We’ll camp here. I’ll help you with Jon.”
They got to work, the four Ongahri silent. Yorkus stoked a fire, while Varia dragged his own mangled leg in search of more firewood. They placed Jon on a bedroll, covered him with a blanket, and then unhooked the cart that still held all those belongings from Providence. Fadon checked on Sierra’s pigeons, then covered the top of the cage with the cloak they’d given her as a Fealty gift.
He needed to get his mind back in control. He looked around the camp for some kind of distraction.
This side of the mountain was stark, the ground wet from the light dusting of snow the envoy had encountered earlier today. The sky above them was clear and blue, though, and Fadon at least had that to be thankful for. He never again wanted to be in a snowstorm.
He lost himself in the small boring task of gathering food, then in preparing it.
Fadon and his men ate little. Along with their morale, their appetites were low. After that night when everything had gone wrong, none of them had spoken of it. Whether it was shock or shame or grief, Fadon knew this stage would pass, that there’d come a time when a conversation had to be had. But for now, he was content just sitting by the fire, knowing they’d be home soon.
And finally, this journey would be over.
He wished he could get a message to the Mor, let them know the situation. But their arrival was expected by this time in the journey, regardless of the situation.
Another conversation had to be had, this time with the court. That of Sierra. He had no idea how that would play out. There was so much to consider, and not just for House Trajan, but all the Ongahri in Titus.
He wasn’t looking forward to that. Not a bit.
“Fadon.”
He sat up and looked over at his Second. A profound relief swept over Fadon. It was then that he realized how worried he had been about his friend’s survival.
“Jon, you old goat. How are you feeling?” Fadon placed a hand to Jon’s forehead, feeling for fever. To Fadon’s surprise, the skin there was cool. He snapped his fingers and Clay passed over a flask of water. “Here, drink.” He guided Jon’s head, holding the flask to his lips. “Easy. Sip slowly.”
“Ongar, I feel like my leg’s inside a desertum dragon’s ass,” Jon said weakly after drinking a good amount.
“And it looks like it’s been in one, too.” Fadon leaned on his haunches and capped the flask.
Jon eyed him. “I like the beard, Captain.”
Fadon grunted and rubbed the scruff on his jaw. It had been too long since he’d seen his own face.
His Second sobered. “Will I live?” Jon’s eyes were sunken into the sockets. He looked awful.
“You look like shit but, yeah, you’ll live.” He set the flask next to Jon’s hand. “You keep this. Just go easy on it. We’ll be home tomorrow, Ongar willing.”
“Thank the gods. That’s the best news I’ve heard in weeks.” Jon closed his eyes but then opened them again. “Any word?”
