Of Gods and Warriors ✓

Chapter 4

After the healer had hurriedly taken Crowder to the infirmary, Farren collared a new recruit named Helmer from the group of soldiers who had rescued Crowder.

When the boy of only fourteen had first arrived at Kinallen a few months ago, very nervous and jumpy, she had taken one look at him before taking him under her wing, or rather, cloak.

"Alright..." She looked Helmer in the eye. "Tell me all you know. From the top."

"Sure, Corporal. We were at the construction site, right, and this guy runs up to us--" he said between heavy breaths from having run all the way up. "And there's blood gushing out of his head. Shouts for help and falls right on his face, this guy."

"Run up to you, you say?" Rendarr frowned. "Somebody chase him?"

Helmer shook his head, blond curls swaying. "He was alone."

✦✧✦✧

"Absolutely not. Doc is now tending to the fellow and wants no trouble; especially not you noisy lot," said Foxward, the healer's young apprentice, as he stood blocking the door to the camp's infirmary. He wouldn't let them pass even though Crowder was heard to have regained consciousness. Farren had half a mind to give his ponytail a yank, but figured it would do much better to take a gentler, more civilized approach.

"Now listen here, Foxy-" she said, but got no further as some of her squad members arrived along with the sergeant. Rendarr and Farren approached their sergeant, Klo Wolturs.

A woman from the Brihurst Isles south of Midaelia, her skin was a deep brown; her tall, strongly built frame towered over the other soldiers.

"Searched the whole village. No sign of this horseman you two speak of," she said, brows knitted.

Rendarr and Farren stared at each other. "But we both saw him," said Rendarr, "I'm pretty sure he's the one who attacked Crowder. No one else was there when we left."

"We passed him on the way," said Farren, "assumed he was just a Dark Saints worker, though."

"Makes sense he would not tarry here long, not after what he's done. No matter, I've reported to Lieutenant Evander. He'll relay that to the nearest stations," said Klo, "we'll catch him. Unless the bastard's gone o'er the hills, into Drisian territory." With a nod, Klo dismissed the other soldiers.

"I get the feeling the damned Drisians sent him," said Farren.

"To murder a carriage driver and fail miserably?" said Klo with a small smile. "There's got to be more to that."

"There is," said Rendarr, holding up the package addressed to Commander Karyk he'd been carrying. "Some vampire historian's sent something to our commander. But of course, he's not around."

Klo examined the package with squinted eyes, before handing it back to him. "Hold onto it. Give it to him as soon as he arrives."

"Aye."

While Rendarr continued to reason with Foxward, Klo took off her leather helm, and sat down on a bench outside the infirmary. Her rust brown hair was piled high in a bun. She looked up at them, her eyes a brilliant black, their radiance worth composing poems about.

Which Farren actually had done, some years past.

Not long after their acquaintance, she'd presented her with a wonderful poem woven with a heartfelt confession-- which Farren's older, wiser self would come to regard as a literary disaster.

Farren's proposal, however, had been turned down by Klo. Not because of the terrible poem, nor the countless spelling mistakes. Romantic relationships had never really interested the sergeant, nor the prospect of a tumble in the hay. Nevertheless, the two had been friends ever since, their bond unaffected by their difference in rank and Farren's questionable past.