Empire of Ashes

Chapter VI - Sparks Flying

Temris was sat on the bench, stripped to the waist. That sight alone stole the air from my lungs. Sun-kissed skin rippling with muscle. His torso was dotted with scars of all shapes and sizes, the largest of which was a raised and jagged slash just beneath his ribcage. I didn't know much about battle-wounds, but I did know he should have been dead.

Stranger still, Bevan knelt beside him, rinsing crusted blood from a blotchy bruise that discoloured three ribs above the scar. They looked like they might be broken. Fendur watched disapprovingly from the other side of the pavilion, one hand on his sword hilt.

"See? I'll live," Temris insisted. "You're kicking up a fuss over nothing, Fen."

Where the hell had the injury come from? Had I done it? I didn't think so.

"Sorry, I'll go," I murmured, making a tactful retreat.

Noticing me for the first time, Temris knocked Bevan's hand away and pulled a dark green tunic over his head. He said, "No, Lyra, it's okay. We're done."

"What happened?" I asked.

Fendur snorted, disapproval dripping from his voice, too. "Well, the idiot wasn't wearing chainmail, so one of the Anglians caught him with a sword hilt. Then you tackled him, I'm told, and that can't have helped. And he didn't tell anyone, because he was too proud to admit how stupid he had been."

"Oh." It was a quiet, not quite regretful sound. I felt a little bad, of course, but I wouldn't admit it. I had tried to kill him, and he had repaid the effort with more kindness than anger. And worse — he hadn't complained or flinched, even when I had been picking fights just for the sake of it. Gods above.

"Should you be calling your warlord an idiot?" Temris wondered aloud, dryer than Sihon wine.

"I'll call anyone an idiot if they refuse to wear armour," Fendur retorted.

Temris rolled his eyes even as he stood. "There are clean clothes on the table, Lyra. They won't fit well, fair warning."

"Thanks," I muttered distractedly. The whole 'half-naked warlord' thing had thrown me off guard. It was far too late, but I remembered Anlai. "Oh, your cousin is waiting outside."

"My cousin?" he demanded, turning to Fendur and raising an eyebrow. "You said you left her with a friend, not Anlai."

"Anlai's a friend," Fendur muttered defensively.

"Yes, but he's also an arse."

I wiped my grazed palms on my shirt and lied, "He was a perfect gentleman. Now, would you just go out and talk to him? If you can walk, that is..."

Temris looked at me flatly. "Hilarious, Lyra. Gods, and you wonder why I kept my mouth shut..."

"She might be joking, but I'm not," Fendur warned him. "Broken ribs shouldn't be taken lightly, Tem."

"They're not broken," Temris insisted. I considered fleetingly that he might simply be trying to spare me from guilt. "I don't think I've even cracked one."

It seemed Anlai had been forgotten again, and I just knew he would blame me for it. Temris and Fendur squabbled like brothers: happily and often. They would have kept it up for hours, I was sure, so I jerked a thumb at the tent entrance and caught Temris's eyes until he gave me the slightest of nods.

Fendur threw up his hands in exasperation. "Fine. If you want to act the tough guy, you can. It will be your funeral, and afterwards I can serve a Ragnyr without so many suicidal tendencies."

Temris strode past me, headed for outside at long last, and called back with some of his earlier bravado, "I assure you, Fen, I'm not acting."