How Not to Poach a Unicorn

Sixteen

 Prag was not very good at being unconscious. He had met people that could just ride it out; they'd wake up rested and relaxed. It was like a vacation for them. Not Prag, though. Despite his best efforts, his mind rebelled against it constantly. He wallowed on the edge of awareness while his mind saw fit to keep him there by replaying every other painful instance that ended up with him comatose in a never-ending loop. It was a conspiracy between his mind and body in a vain attempt to get him to stop engaging in activities which resulted in blunt head trauma and blood loss.

He couldn't gauge the passage of time. He would drift in and out of his painful dreams to experience brief moments of painful reality before falling back into another round of reminiscence of being a punching bag for an intoxicated ogre.

Things must have been going well for his charges, otherwise he'd be dead. He cursed his good luck. Death would have been a very pleasant release from the constant reminders of missed steps on rooftops and horribly unmatched battles from his past.

He imagined that it had been days by the time he finally woke up properly. He cracked his eyes and blearily looked around, trying not to move. He couldn't find his sword. That made him very uncomfortable. No wonder he was so damned jittery while he was out.

He scanned the area. He was in a copse of trees. It was night. There were two sleeping women lying curled together opposite a dying fire. There was a swirl of glowing blue some distance into the woods. There was the sound of something being quietly devoured behind him.

He turned ever so slightly to see his strange young companion eating away at something.

Prag searched again for his sword, but consciousness was trying to escape him again. He grappled with himself for a time, but soon he lost the battle and fell back into his restless sleep.

The next time he woke up, it was bright out—too bright to open his eyes; probably morning. It sounded as though there was trouble brewing.

"That was supposed to last us for three days! What happened to it?" Kish's voice nearly rattled the trees around them.

"What could have taken the whole body away without waking us?" queried Cariolta's voice in worried response.

"I don't smell anything strange," added the smoky growl of Kazé. 

"Good hoase," chimed in a fourth, unrecognized voice. It was young, masculine, and somehow detached from the conversation as a whole.

"Well, it didn't just get up and walk away. What are we supposed to eat now?" Kish returned to her original point.

"What does that matter if whatever took away the horse gets hungry again?" Cariolta was obviously more worried about the silent beasts in the night than their empty stomachs.

"It could have been a dragon," grumbled Kazé's voice. "A dead horse is an easy meal."

"Good hoase," replied the stranger again.

"Yes. It was a very good horse. Just like I told you last night. It was one of the fastest horses in the kingdom but we had to eat it or we'd starve. Now be quiet. There's trouble."

Prag finally roused the courage to face the morning sun and cracked one eye. The boy was immediately elated. "Pag no dead!" he shouted.

"Oh, damn the gods, it talks," Prag replied with all the exuberance of a man who had spent four days tied to the back of a horse. "Where are my trousers?"

"Kish is wearing them," replied Cariolta briskly. "You were in need of the material from her skirt. You traded. You were very co-operative."

He swivelled his head to see that the princess of the eastern planes was indeed wearing his stolen, shredded and blood-stained trousers. "They suit you. Very noble looking."