Of Gods and Warriors ✓

Chapter 5

Waking up, the first thing Marinus Crowder had asked for was his hat.

Sadly, it had been left behind back where his carriage was perhaps still stuck in the woods, which worried him very much. He had not only botched many deliveries; but also lost an article of The Dark Saints issued uniform, not to mention the several breaches of the ethical code of conduct. He could not face his boss.

He wondered whether to ask for a piece of parchment and start writing his resignation letter already; or perhaps he could ask the healer, a very kindly looking elderly lady now tying a bandage on his forehead, for an apprenticeship. Or maybe, he should pack up and move to Veland and never come back to Midaelia.

Before he could act on any of those, chaos broke out. Three people rushed through the door, carrying between them a copper-haired soldier with only one boot and a bruised leg. The one in the middle of the chaos, however, remained the most unperturbed, almost smug.

They helped her to the bed beside him. Now Crowder recognized her.

Letting her lone boot drop onto the floor, Corporal Clearstrike propped herself up on one elbow and offered him a dashing smile.

"Hi," she said.

✦✧✦✧

The infirmary was small. Eight beds stood in two rows over the creaky floorboards. The shelves and tables in one corner were laden with vials and bottles of potions and rows of old, leather bound books.

Looking at Crowder, Farren couldn't help but feel proud for him. He was doing so well for such a disastrous first day.

Farren's first time in battle had been a mess. Drisian looters had rode from the other side of the hills and raided the village in the middle of the night. Terrified beyond thinking, she'd tried to desert, ran away into the woods near the waterfall and fell on the jagged rocks trying to cross the stream. And the rest was written on her face.

Farren now swallowed hard as the healer fixed her with a stern gaze, and then turned that fiery glare to Foxward. The young healer looked ready to throw himself out of the window from that look alone.

Eliora the healer, the camp's doctor and Foxward's mentor, might look like a sweet granny who tells whimsical fairytales beside a cosy hearth, with her wispy white hair and ancient, wrinkled face...

But she had once taken out a forest troll with naught but a morningstar and a hard baked piece of fruit cake.

Thus it was only reasonable that even the sergeant looked unnerved as she asked her for permission to question Crowder.

Eliora looked at Klo, then at Farren's leg and sighed. "Fine. But you'll have to wait a bit for that leg. This boy here still needs some healing done -and Foxward, don't think I can't see you trying to sneak out. Come back here, this instant!" Foxward clambered miserably to the healer's side.

"The man who attacked me was not after my life," said Crowder before any of them could bombard him with questions. "But he might've killed me, had I not feigned my death."

"Was your attacker a horseman in dark robes?" Renadarr interrupted.

"Aye." Crowder's expression went grim. "Then you two must have seen him."

"That we did. We thought he was one of your colleagues," said Farren.

"You mentioned the man was not after your life," Klo said, "then what did he seek? Tell us. Leave out no details."

Crowder gave her a solemn nod. "He came riding up to me, when I was trying to melt the ice, you know, as you do."

"You were melting ice. In the middle of the woods," said the sergeant, giving him a long, serious look. "Understandable. Continue."