be any more fighting.”
Nycol looked away and Quinn nodded at Mansel before slipping out of the small cabin. Quinn had helped Mansel build the cabin and a small stable as well. The horses they had ridden from Orrock were sheltered in the stable, and Nycol waited until they heard the hoof beats receding before she spoke.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I was terrified and I took my anger out on Quinn.”
“He can handle it,” Mansel said after sipping some more of the wine.
“You could have died,” she said. “Thank goodness you were unconscious when we burned the wound. It must be excruciating.”
“I’m fine,” Mansel said, but he wasn’t convincing. His voice was weak and shaky, and he was sweating from the pain.
She gave him more wine, but his stomach was starting to twist. He felt weak and tired, but above all he felt bad for having frightened Nycol so much.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
She nodded but didn’t speak. He couldn’t help but wonder if the pain in her eyes was due to her fear for him or the news about Zollin and Brianna. He wanted to put his arms around her and tell her everything would be okay, but he didn’t dare move. Sleep was beginning to creep over him again, and he looked forward to the relief from his pain, but he also wanted to ease Nycol’s.
Mansel’s hand twitched forward and Nycol took it. He squeezed as she brushed tears from her cheeks. Then darkness loomed up around the young warrior and he surrendered to it.
Chapter 6
The night air was cold as Quinn’s horse cantered along the trail. He didn’t mind the cold when he was dressed for it, but there had been no time to pick up a cloak. He had been in the Valley Inn discussing a new job when someone told them there was a fight. In that instant Quinn knew that Mansel was in trouble. He didn’t know how he knew, perhaps his mind simply calculated the odds. Mansel had recently left the inn, and Kurchek was gone too. It was an easy enough assumption to make, though Quinn didn’t consciously have those thoughts. The only thing that entered his mind was danger, and he raced out of the inn to find the young man who was more than a friend and business partner to him.
He had heard Mansel’s war cry and recognized it. The two men had fought side by side, facing every kind of threat Quinn could imagine, from dragons to a witch’s horrific army. In most instances Quinn knew that Mansel could hold his own, but Mansel hadn’t gone looking for a fight. His friend wasn’t even armed, and Quinn feared he would find the young warrior too late.
He was among the first at the scene of the attack. No one needed an explanation. Kurchek lay whimpering on the ground, and Mansel was unconscious a few feet away. Some of the townsfolk had brought lanterns. One look at the amount of blood pumping from Mansel’s arm and the paleness of the warrior’s skin told Quinn he was in trouble. Adrenaline had given Quinn the strength to hoist Mansel onto his shoulder and carry him back to the cottage where Nycol waited. She had been so calm, so confident in her care, that Quinn was simply amazed.
She had tied a strip of leather around Mansel’s upper arm to slow the bleeding while Quinn heated the thick metal poker that was used to move burning logs in the fireplace. Nycol had a good fire burning, and it only took a few minutes nestled in the coals for the poker’s tip to become red hot. The smell of burning flesh had been horrid, and Quinn had almost been sick, but he held himself together. Nycol quickly covered the cauterized wound with a thick poultice.
When Quinn had finally settled into the rocking chair by the fireplace, he was exhausted, both mentally and physically. The ale he’d been drinking didn’t help, nor the fact that he hadn’t eaten, but the cold night air was keeping him alert as he rode east toward what the locals had come to call the wizard’s estate. Quinn had to admit he was impressed with how well Zollin had built his
Nycol looked away and Quinn nodded at Mansel before slipping out of the small cabin. Quinn had helped Mansel build the cabin and a small stable as well. The horses they had ridden from Orrock were sheltered in the stable, and Nycol waited until they heard the hoof beats receding before she spoke.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I was terrified and I took my anger out on Quinn.”
“He can handle it,” Mansel said after sipping some more of the wine.
“You could have died,” she said. “Thank goodness you were unconscious when we burned the wound. It must be excruciating.”
“I’m fine,” Mansel said, but he wasn’t convincing. His voice was weak and shaky, and he was sweating from the pain.
She gave him more wine, but his stomach was starting to twist. He felt weak and tired, but above all he felt bad for having frightened Nycol so much.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
She nodded but didn’t speak. He couldn’t help but wonder if the pain in her eyes was due to her fear for him or the news about Zollin and Brianna. He wanted to put his arms around her and tell her everything would be okay, but he didn’t dare move. Sleep was beginning to creep over him again, and he looked forward to the relief from his pain, but he also wanted to ease Nycol’s.
Mansel’s hand twitched forward and Nycol took it. He squeezed as she brushed tears from her cheeks. Then darkness loomed up around the young warrior and he surrendered to it.
Chapter 6
The night air was cold as Quinn’s horse cantered along the trail. He didn’t mind the cold when he was dressed for it, but there had been no time to pick up a cloak. He had been in the Valley Inn discussing a new job when someone told them there was a fight. In that instant Quinn knew that Mansel was in trouble. He didn’t know how he knew, perhaps his mind simply calculated the odds. Mansel had recently left the inn, and Kurchek was gone too. It was an easy enough assumption to make, though Quinn didn’t consciously have those thoughts. The only thing that entered his mind was danger, and he raced out of the inn to find the young man who was more than a friend and business partner to him.
He had heard Mansel’s war cry and recognized it. The two men had fought side by side, facing every kind of threat Quinn could imagine, from dragons to a witch’s horrific army. In most instances Quinn knew that Mansel could hold his own, but Mansel hadn’t gone looking for a fight. His friend wasn’t even armed, and Quinn feared he would find the young warrior too late.
He was among the first at the scene of the attack. No one needed an explanation. Kurchek lay whimpering on the ground, and Mansel was unconscious a few feet away. Some of the townsfolk had brought lanterns. One look at the amount of blood pumping from Mansel’s arm and the paleness of the warrior’s skin told Quinn he was in trouble. Adrenaline had given Quinn the strength to hoist Mansel onto his shoulder and carry him back to the cottage where Nycol waited. She had been so calm, so confident in her care, that Quinn was simply amazed.
She had tied a strip of leather around Mansel’s upper arm to slow the bleeding while Quinn heated the thick metal poker that was used to move burning logs in the fireplace. Nycol had a good fire burning, and it only took a few minutes nestled in the coals for the poker’s tip to become red hot. The smell of burning flesh had been horrid, and Quinn had almost been sick, but he held himself together. Nycol quickly covered the cauterized wound with a thick poultice.
When Quinn had finally settled into the rocking chair by the fireplace, he was exhausted, both mentally and physically. The ale he’d been drinking didn’t help, nor the fact that he hadn’t eaten, but the cold night air was keeping him alert as he rode east toward what the locals had come to call the wizard’s estate. Quinn had to admit he was impressed with how well Zollin had built his
Similar Books
