For the first time since visiting Vela’s new temple and receiving her quest, real unease stalked Mala’s heart. She expected pain. She expected to be driven to the edge of her endurance. But she’d also expected to find an animal in Blackmoor, not an abomination.
Why hadn’t the goddess asked her to slay the demon? Such a dangerous and laborious task was well worthy of any quest. But to tame a demon? It would be easier to tame one of the thunder lizards in the southern jungles—if such a thing was possible at all.
But it must be, or Vela wouldn’t have sent her here. The goddess wouldn’t have given her a task that couldn’t be completed. Only those who doubted her or who proved unworthy failed their quests.
Mala wouldn’t fail. If she had to tame a demon, then she would tame a demon. “How long has it plagued these lands?”
“It is said that the demon was imprisoned beneath the fiery mountains to the north until the Destroyer released it from that prison and helped it possess the tusker’s flesh.”
Many evils were said to be the Destroyer’s doing. Often, it was truth. But that sorcerer was not responsible for every evil laid at his feet. “‘It is said’? You don’t remember?”
The lines in the old butcher’s face deepened, and his voice hollowed. “When so many evils come to your home at once, where they hailed from ceases to matter. It only matters when they leave.”
The demon tusker hadn’t left. But if Mala tamed it, perhaps she could send it away.
With renewed determination, she continued past the caravan, to where a brown horse lay thrashing on the wet earth. Another swing of her axe finished the grisly task. The rain was subsiding when she returned to the wagons. Those travelers who were not grieving or tending the wounded had begun to restore order to the train, and she felt their gazes upon her. Some appeared curious. Most were wary and wore an air of resignation—as if they wouldn’t have been surprised if Mala had only helped save them from the revenants so that she could destroy the caravan herself.
As if they had learned never to trust those with strength, or those who were supposed to protect them.
Including the warrior who had risked his life for theirs? But at least one person seemed to trust him. Mala paused at the edge of the barricade. Still on his feet, he was wading through the heap of revenants, a gore-covered saddle slung over his shoulder. So he’d gone in after his horse—and his sword. With a blue scarf now covering her yellow hair and a sling supporting her arm, the woman who had chased after the boy was offering him a large wineskin, but the warrior didn’t take it.
The woman thrust it toward him again. Her voice rose with frustration. “You will soon need this more than we will, Kavik.”
Kavik. He knew Mala stood watching; he’d spotted her the moment she’d come around the wagon. His gaze rested on her face for an instant before he shook his head and responded to the woman. Mala could hear the deep gravel of his voice, but couldn’t make out his reply.
But he’d clearly refused the wineskin again. When the warrior walked stiffly past the woman, striding across the thickening pools of blood toward the wagons, she determinedly stalked after him. “What harm will come to me? Lord Barin’s reach doesn’t extend past the river.”
This time he was close enough for Mala to hear his answer. “And your family? Your husband’s family? Even after you have gone, they will still reside in this land.”
All at once, the fight seemed to leave the woman. Despair and helplessness darkened her expression as she turned her face away, her jaw working as if she could taste the words she wanted to say, but knew uttering them wouldn’t make any difference.
The warrior looked to Mala again, but he came no nearer. With a heavy sigh, the woman brushed past him. Tears glittered in her eyes when she stopped in front of Mala and bowed her covered head.
“I am Telani, and I stand forever in your debt.” Her voice was thick. “My boy only lives because you helped us.”
All of these people lived only because of the man behind her, but Mala would not be so quick to reject the woman’s offering.
“My mount needs to quench his thirst,” she said, then gestured to the wineskin. “What do you carry?”
“Water.” With renewed irritation, the woman shot a glance at the warrior, whose dark gaze had not left Mala’s face. As a stranger to them, she expected to be watched. Unlike the travelers, however, Kavik didn’t appear wary. Instead he looked at her with an expression both haunted and fervid, as if he saw his death approaching, yet could not bear to glance away from it.
“Water will do.” And she wanted to know why this woman had told the warrior that he would soon need it, but only asked, “How fares the boy?”
“We will know when the fever passes.” With dirty fingers, Telani touched her injured shoulder. “Several of us will.”
Though humans couldn’t be transformed into revenants, the creatures’ poison produced a dangerous fever. There were remedies for it, but Mala supposed that few of Nemek’s healers journeyed to Blackmoor to sell their wares—or if they had, their bones were littered beside the river. Fortunately she had encountered several during her travels.
“Go and tend to him, then,” Mala told her. “I will see to my horse and this man, then come to you with a salve to draw out the venom.”
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.”