Night Shift (Kate Daniels #6.5)(98)

The woman’s renewed gratitude sat uneasily on Mala’s shoulders. If Mala was to tame a demon, and if the salve was not readily available in Blackmoor, she might soon be in dire need of it. But Vela never offered the easy path. If giving the salve to these travelers meant that Mala would soon suffer a revenant’s fever, then she would suffer it—and trust that her own strength and the goddess’s generosity would see her through it.

Wineskin in hand, she retrieved the salve and an oiled cloth from her saddlebag. The warrior didn’t look away as she approached him, but his big body seemed to stiffen with her every step.

Mala stopped an arm’s length away and extended her hand. “Your sword.”

His grip tightened on the weapon. Roughly he said, “I won’t harm you.”

“I didn’t fear you would,” she told him. “Your blade needs to be wiped clean, and you’ve been standing with a saddle on your shoulder for so long that the blood has begun to dry. I suspect that you remain still to avoid tearing open one of your injuries. So give the sword to me, and I’ll see it cleaned.”

His mouth flattened. Without a word, he reached for the saddle and lifted it from his broad shoulder. His gaze never left hers as he held the heavy tack out to his side for one breath, two—then deliberately dropped it.

Stupid, stubborn man. But Mala couldn’t say that her reaction would have been any different, so she offered him the oiled cloth.

He abruptly crouched and slammed his sword hilt-deep into the ground, as if driving in a stake. The muscles in his arms bulged as he ripped the blade to the side through the dirt, then hauled it out again. Aside from a ring of blood and mud near the hilt, the weapon had been scraped clean.

His jaw was tight when he stood again. “It is done.”

She looked to his arms. The gashes were bleeding again, and he stank of revenant. With a sigh, she opened the small pot of salve.

He shook his head. “Don’t tend to me.”

“You will be fevered, warrior.”

“I’ve lived through a revenants’ attack before.”

That was not all he’d lived through. Closer now, she could see the ridged scars that marked his skin. A wide slash on his left cheek, as if from a blade. The pucker of an arrow in his upper biceps. A ragged half moon from some animal’s teeth lay above his elbow—and there were probably far more scars that she couldn’t see beneath the blood, his beard, and his clothing.

She dipped her fingers into the cool salve. “This time you will live through it more easily.”

“No.” His big hand shot out, covering the pot, his bloodied fingers trapping hers. “Do not tend to me. You will pay for your kindness.”

It wasn’t just kindness; it was a warrior’s honor and duty to care for another’s injuries. Even in Blackmoor, it must be. But she only asked, “Why?”

When he didn’t answer, she studied him for a long moment. He wasn’t much to look at—just a huge bloody mess of matted hair and gore. He reeked like a putrid corpse, too, but his eyes were the warm brown of a good beer. That would be reason enough to like him, but Mala appreciated warriors who used their strength well even more than she appreciated her ale.

And she was more aware of his hand on hers than she’d ever been of any man’s touch. Usually she was prying their fingers away or chopping them off. She didn’t mind his.

He must have run afoul of someone, though, if he believed she would regret helping him.

“Are you ill-favored by a god?” she wondered.

“No,” he said bleakly. “Just forsaken.”

If he had been truly forsaken, it might be his own fault—or it might be undeserved, if he suffered from a god’s caprice. It mattered not. Mala was not a god, and she was not in the habit of forsaking warriors who had stood against dozens of revenants in the hope of saving a small group of travelers.

Travelers who were apparently escaping the reach of one man, though their families had been left behind. What name had Telani spoken earlier?

“Should I fear Lord Barin?” When his chest lifted on a sharp breath and his gaze hardened, her guess was confirmed. “What have you done to offend him, that he would punish anyone who helps you?”

Anger tightened his face. But he didn’t offer a reason. He only said, “Don’t risk it.”

“Why? Who will tell him?” She smiled and looked up into the gray sky. “The birds? Or will he read the truth in the revenants’ bones? Or perhaps I will tell him myself, because I have no wish to hide it. I don’t wear this cloak lightly, warrior—and I won’t risk Vela’s wrath by ignoring someone in need.”

She wouldn’t have ignored him even if she hadn’t been wearing the cloak, but he might be less likely to refuse her if he believed it would inspire a goddess’s anger. But old scars were sometimes more sensitive than new wounds, and whatever his reason for denying her—and denying the other woman’s simple gift of water—the pain of his injuries must have paled in comparison to whatever retaliation he thought the kindness would bring.

He shook his head and released her, his fingers skimming the back of her hand. “Give the salve to me, then. I’ll see to the wounds myself.”

That would have to be enough for now. She poured water into a clay bowl, left the wineskin at his feet, and called for Shim. Mala kept her back to Kavik as she rubbed down the stallion’s legs. Shim would watch for any danger from behind, but she didn’t think that the warrior would pose any threat now. Turning her back gave him privacy to feel his pain. By the heaviness of his breath and the long catches between, she suspected that the agony of removing his armor and tending to his wounds had all but immobilized him.