Chosen (The Warrior Chronicles #1)(39)

Uh oh. “You would know the bodies I killed—they had sword marks, or knives sticking out of them.”

“Yes. Excellent knife throwing. If what I hear is true, you made extremely hard shots and never missed. Impressive. I’ve always said, however, that women tend to have better aim, where men tend to throw harder. I enjoy being right. Regardless, that doesn’t answer my question.”

Shanti struggled for breath around her tight throat. She really wanted to lie back down—her ribs were killing her. “What were you doing wandering among dead bodies? Just what kind of a doctor are you? Should I be worried that you were planning to dress me, put makeup on me, and close me in a box?”

“Your evasive conversational techniques need work. However, I will answer, since it is still on track with my questioning. I was asked to survey a few bodies before they were incinerated. Some did not look like the Mugdock, and a great many had no obvious signs of death. Add that to a pair of glowing violet eyes and a fainting woman, and you have need of a doctor’s opinion.”

“And what is your expert diagnosis based on this folklore?”

“Well, that you are impossible to work with and the Captain will have to sort you out because I cannot.”

“Defeatist.” Shanti smirked.

“Yes, it would seem. Now, lie back, because I can see that you are suffering merely to prove a point—point proven, decidedly—and get some rest. You will need it when the Captain gets around to visiting. He is not as…patient as I.”

Shanti lay back with a grimace. It would hurt less to be dead.

As the doctor moved to leave, she thought back to what he said. Cayan would be bursting through in an awful temper any time, she had no doubt. The question was, why was she so apprehensive?

Chapter 21

“Sanders, with me.”

Sanders internally cringed. The hard gravel in that voice slid along his bones and pounded at his nerves. The Captain had not been in a great mood since he returned bloody and wild from the middle of a horde of Mugdock with a limp woman in his arms. Since then everyone had been afraid to be in his sights, especially his commanders.

It was three days after the battle. Daniels and Sterling were leaning against the wall in front of the pyre, watching as the last of the smoldering bodies were transferred into a huge pit.

“Yes, my liege,” Sanders said meekly, stepping in behind the long stride.

They walked back into the city where every person they met gave some signal of thanks to the Captain. Enlisted men gave a salute. Civilian men gave a nod so deep it was almost a bow. The civilian women looked at him with love-sick eyes.

The Captain was heading toward the hospital. Oh no.

Panic started to crawl up Sanders’ spine. He looked in earnest for an escape, for a reason he had to be somewhere else. He almost wished they were being attacked again. It was the last meeting in the world he wanted to attend. Anyone wanted to attend.

They walked in through the door. More nods. More smiles and sparkling eyes. More salutes. A few uncontrollable grunts that Sanders let slip. If these idle bodies loitering in the halls could read his mind, they would realize those low guttural noises he couldn’t help were actually calls for aid. Why was no one helping him? Did they not see where he was headed? And with whom?

Instead of turning right at the crossroads, though, they went straight ahead. Down a large white corridor. They were going to the badly injured ward.

Sanders gave a huge sigh of relief.

The Captain stopped in front of a closed door and paused. After a deep breath Sanders probably wasn’t supposed to notice, he knocked quietly before stepping inside. He motioned Sanders in after him.

Sanders stepped into the sterilized space and immediately winced. It was a well-known fact that fighting men of Sanders’ caliber did not enjoy that overly clean lemon smell of the hospital ward. If you smelled it, you were either attending the sick or dying, or one of them. All bad things.

Lucius was in his bed lying flat on his back, no color in his face. He had a bandage around his head, white squares of gauze around his neck, and a mending broken nose. Sanders was sure there were more bandages beneath the sheet.

“Captain, Commander Sanders,” Lucius said by way of greeting. His voice was shaky and weak. Being that the man had been near death when he was brought in, the fact that he was conscious and talking was a great stride.

“Lieutenant.” Sanders gave a stiff nod. “Good to see you are on the mend.”

“Yes, sir.”

The Captain took a chair from the corner and pulled it close to Lucius’ head. “I thank you for your valor, Lieutenant. I would’ve hated to lose you.”

Lucius and the Captain had grown up together. It was said that the Captain trusted no one in the world as much as he trusted this childhood friend. And that was a nice sentiment, but why did Sanders need to sit in on this? He didn’t want to see any of the Captain’s vulnerability. That wasn’t what men did. That should be saved for the wives.

“However, I was under the impression you were given strict orders to take the foreign woman to the hold?” the Captain went on.

Oh. That’s why. Somehow this, too, was Sanders’ fault. Great.

“I was, sir.” Lucius didn’t lower his eyes. “She did not want to go.”

“Often women do not want to do what is in their best interest. It is why we have to subtly help them see reason.”