The Wind-Witch by Susan Dexter

Rook’s furry shoulder pressed her knee. She stared at the prisoner. There wasn’t room for him to stand upright, but he didn’t try anyway. He was kneeling among the empty baskets.
    “Why didn’t you go with the others?” Druyan demanded fiercely, trying to cover her fright. She shushed the dog, finding the barking more a distraction than a protection. “Why did they leave you ?”
    She could just make out the pale blotch of his face as he raised it. It changed shape—from his answer, she realized he’d put his hand up to it.
    “I got hit on the head.” His speech was thick, halting. He coughed feebly, as if his throat pained him.
    “When did they go?”
    No reply. Either he didn’t know, or he couldn’t understand her. The light hadn’t increased, but her eyes were more used to what little there was of it—Druyan could make out a dark patch on the right side of his forehead, which might have been blood, dried and crusted. The raider was touching it with his fingers, but with what looked like great care.
    “I don’t know, Lady.” He coughed again and groaned when the spasm jarred his head.
    Likely he’d been unconscious, Druyan thought. Someone had given him a solid clout—the farmhands had been aimed with rakes and hoes and shovels, any of their stout handles good as a quarterstaff in willing hands. Not likely he’d be able to tell her much, even if he wanted to. Assuming the injury wasn’t feigned, to deceive her.
    “I heard them talking . . . I think I did . . . but I couldn’t . . . I wasn’t awake. I’m not surprised they left me.” Kellis was, however, surprised they hadn’t killed him first. And with every heartbeat sending stabs of agony through his skull, a little disappointed they hadn’t.
    “ Gone ,” Druyan said bitterly, accepting it at last. She shut her eyes on the useless tears. No matter how hard they worked, there was no way they’d other than fail to get the crop in. And if they missed the crop tithe, someone would come to see why.
    “Lady?”
    She startled again, having nearly forgotten him until that croaking question. Rook growled.
    “I am not four men . . . but I can work. I want to pay my debt to you,” he added in that ragged voice that made her own throat burn.
    “You want to get out of there, for which I certainly don’t blame you,” Druyan said tartly, straightening her spine. Hurt, abandoned, captured, he’d likely agree to anything that promised him release. She backed a step away. “All right. Come out. Keep your hands where I can see them.’ She lifted the fork just a trifle.
    Druyan retreated farther from the door, into the sunlight. Even if he was shanmiing his injury, sheand Rook could deal with him, no question. One to one was a world different from four to one. She heard him scramble to his feet, groaning something that was possibly a curse.
    The man had to stoop to get through the door: and when he had come under the lintel and could stand erect, he clung to the frame for dear life. No chance he was aiming to deceive or lull her—he had a palm-width cut on his forehead, and by the bruising around the wound, it had been a solid blow, no trifling scratch. The skin looked seared. Could he have been hit with a torch? Druyan wondered. His drab clothing was splotched with dark-brown stains, and he had—by the smell—been sick all over himself. He kept his eyes tight shut, as if the daylight pained him.
    Rook was growling still, her hackles rising. The man tipped his head toward her, squinting in what must have been a glare to his half-closed eyes. “No need, little sister,” he whispered. “My fangs are very well blunted.”
    “I’m not your sister,” Druyan said testily, wondering if the blow had bitten into his brain. He might be willing to work, but he didn’t sound as if many of his wits remained to him. And now that she’d let him out of the cellar, just where was she going to put him? Could she force him back into his prison if she