“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.
Yet the rest of the caravan seemed to be preparing to move again. Not right away—there was still much to be done—but no one was setting up camp. “How far do you intend to journey today, warrior?”
“To the river.” The response emerged on a grunt, then he hissed before adding, “Beyond that, they travel alone.”
Then he would return to Blackmoor? But the question died on her tongue when she looked behind her.
Though Kavik had refused her help, he apparently wasn’t such a stubborn fool that he would haphazardly slap the salve over his injuries rather than properly attend to them. To better reach the wounds, he’d removed his breastplate, tunic, and loose brocs, leaving only the winter furs belted around his hips to cover his loins, and the leather-wrapped boots hugging his strong calves. With one arm crooked behind his head, he slicked the cream down a slash alongside his ribs, glistening fingers smoothing over taut muscle.
Her own fingers curled against her palms. She’d known he was strong. She hadn’t known that seeing the evidence of his battle upon his flesh would call to hers so forcefully, but her pulse pounded anew.
Hanan be merciful—but that god rarely was. He’d sprayed his seed throughout the world and rocked the earth with his fuckings. Under his influence, she would be rolling in the blood and mud with this warrior.
She thought that Kavik would roll with her. His head suddenly lifted, and his body stilled as his gaze met hers. No pain in his eyes now. Only the same hunger as before, and no madness with it.
Little dragon.
A fire burned in her now. Not for the first time since she’d earned her sword, Mala wished that she wasn’t bound by the obligations of her rank and could seek the same pleasures that her fellow warriors and friends often did.
Still holding her gaze, Kavik covered the pot of salve. “It is finished,” he said gruffly.
No, it wasn’t. “Do not move, warrior.”
She walked slowly toward him, her gaze following the trail of blood over his rippling stomach. His belt hung low on his hips, the line of it bisecting the ridges of muscle that defined his pelvis and the flat plane of his lower abdomen. He’d rubbed salve into a gash on his heavy thigh, smearing the blood around it. He’d had to spread so much on his arms that his skin appeared oiled. His sides had not been spared the revenants’ teeth and claws; only his chest, which the breastplate had guarded.
“Do not move,” she said again. She was close enough to touch him now, and his hands were clenching as if he stopped himself from reaching for her.
She slipped around his broad shoulder—and sighed. Just as she’d thought. He wouldn’t let anyone attend to him, but he couldn’t reach his own back.
Mala held out her hand. “The salve,” she said.
He began to turn. “Don’t risk—”
She jammed her thumb into his torn flesh—a bite wound, already swollen and red. Every muscle in his back went rigid. His breath hissed.
“I am not tending to you,” she said. “If your Lord Barin sees this, then it will be said that I am torturing you. Can you withstand it?”
Mala knew he could, because the evidence on his back told her he’d withstood far worse. Not just the revenants’ claws and teeth, but more old battle wounds, and the pale stripes of a whip. Had he been enslaved? If so, he must have been young. The edges of the scars had softened with age.
From what she could see, it was the only part of him that had softened. The rest was hard. So very hard. “The salve,” she repeated.