Of Gods and Warriors ✓

Chapter 17

Looking for something becomes mind-bogglingly difficult when one does not know what to look for. Not only does this apply to life itself in its more sophisticated, philosophical aspects, but also to its more superficial levels.

The latter was the case for a certain copper-haired soldier right now in the deserted living quarters of the archers, fighting an urge to swear loudly, as she was supposed to be stealthy in her mission, if it could be called that.

She had found the particular quiver she was meant to find; and a dozen others, but she figured Sarge would not need the entire squad's supply of arrows.

But that was only half of the job done.

"Search the living quarters," he'd said.

For what?

That he didn't specify. Somehow his caffeine-fuelled brain seemed to conclude that she'd figure everything out on her own and with a swish of his cloak, he was off to interrogate Dion.

Perhaps Farren should've just asked him what to search for instead of getting flustered and fumbling with her words like an anxious speaker addressing the public for the first time.

Bunk beds stood in two rows on her either side, shirts and cloaks and breeches and scarves hung from the bedrails, some scattered around on the floor, and the bed and shelf belonging to Dion was nothing remarkable from the rest.

Tucking the quiver under one arm, she started sifting through Dion's belongings, her moves swift yet mind brimming with guilt. She remembered all the instances Dion had stood up for her. It hadn't been a long time since he came with Alastair to this post, but the archer was generally well-liked, which was more than could be said about his friend.

And Linder suspected him, although he hadn't voiced it yet.

Farren found nothing out of the ordinary among Dion's possessions. She'd almost been afraid when she slid a hand below the mattress, then under the bed, thinking she'd come across a vial of Glikayne or something else that painted him as the culprit. But she came across no such evidence.

Although that wasn't saying much, because a hired killer would hardly be clumsy enough to simply let poison bottles lay scattered around.

She heaved a sigh of relief, hating the fact she was content not because Dion was possibly innocent, but because she wished to see Alastair be apprehended, for her personal, selfish grudges.

Mutant freak.

Street dog.

Why must the healers bother to keep you alive?

And three whole months without pay. All because of him.

Anger flared through her veins, much in the way Glikayne did through the bloodstream of an unfortunate victim. What do I care if the real culprit gets caught or not?

I just want to see that blue-blooded bastard in shackles.

She crawled down the window at the back, and strode away, not wanting to discover anything that could make her question herself. Her job here was done.

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"Is that all?" Linder sipped coffee from a tankard that looked less like a drinking vessel and more like a small bucket fashioned from roughly hammered pewter plates, and a handle attached only as an afterthought.

Dion nodded, wiping his nose on his sleeve, his eyes bloodshot as he seemed to be clinging onto the last bit of his energy. He'd just been informed that the wounded night-archer he'd carried to the healer the night of attack had died.