Brimstone Angels by Erin M. Evans

Like Havilar he was well fitted in scale armor over his own reddish scales, and along his jaw there were a series of holes, as if once he’d worn rings in that ridge.
    He pointed a sharp-taloned finger at the first twin. “We had a plan. You leaped in there throwing fire like a street performer in front of fifty
karshoji
people, and then very nearly got yourself spitted on a
pothac
orc’s bastard sword. What in the Hells were you thinking?”
    Farideh’s face contorted in anger. “Everyone can stop shouting at me, thanks. I was
thinking
they were going to kill him. Did you want me just to watch?”
    She meant Brin. The orcs had been going to kill … He felt dizzy.
    “If I hadn’t done something,” she continued, “then he’d be the one spitted on a sword.”
    “Axe,” Havilar said blandly, scrutinizing her glaive. She looked down at him. “You can’t spit things on an axe though. Split. You would have been
split
on that axe.”
    Brin turned and vomited on the ground beside him.
    “Yes,” the dragonborn said sarcastically. “I can see you’ve saved quite the precious soul. What
would
they have done without him?”
    “I didn’t get in your way,” Farideh said. “It’s not like they weren’t going to be able to tell what we are anyway. You let Havilar out.”
    “Tieflings are one thing but warlo—” He broke off with a hissing sigh. “No,” the man said, “we can have this conversation later. When I lecture your sister for wasting her energy prancing around the battlefield like a godsdamned acrobat!”
    “I killed seven of them!” Havilar protested.
    “You killed
five,
” the dragonborn replied. “The two that limped off don’t count. And you could have taken nine.” He looked down at Brin, his eyes as cold and clear as a snake’s, but far more clever. “Are you done heaving all over the ground?”
    “Y-yes,” Brin said.
    The dragonborn reached beneath his breastplate and pulled out a much-folded, much-handled piece of paper. He smoothed it out andsquatted down beside Brin so he could hold it close to his face. It smelled odd and musky, like dragonborn, concentrated. The page was a wanted poster—a picture of a sour-looking woman looked back at Brin. A pointed chin, a pinched nose. Dark, narrow eyes and darker hair with severe bangs. Brin’s heart started racing, and once more, he was afraid he was going to faint.
    “You know her?” the dragonborn said. “You see her in that caravan?”
    “No,” Brin said. He’d
not
seen her in the caravan, but he’d seen her nearly every day of his young life.
    The woman was Constancia. Utterly, undoubtedly Constancia.
    Of course Constancia had come looking for him—it was
her
head once someone realized he’d fled. Brin had counted on the fact that no one would send out hunters and wanted posters for
him
—too many had too much at stake for his name to become well-known. But if Constancia had ridden out after him, if she hadn’t gone to her superiors at the temple or their family, then …
    The poster spoke volumes: Constancia was apostate for losing Brin.
    The dragonborn stood, muttering under his breath in a language that wasn’t Common. “Farideh, Havilar—you two stay here. I’ll sort out things with the caravan master.” He pointed at each of them. “Don’t. Move.”
    “Do you think they need help?” Farideh said.
    “Don’t you go
near
them,” the dragonborn said. “You don’t know anything about them and now they know too much about you. Chances are better than good you’ll need your own help when one of them gets skittish and decides to stick you. Stay. Here.”
    “They might like us better if we gave them our healing potions,” Havilar said.
    “If they’re stupid enough to be traveling this road without their own supplies, then you don’t
want
them to like you. And they have a priest, so stop making up reasons to go over there.” He stomped off, muttering in the same language as before, toward the caravan and