widened. Half hidden in the grass, a sword dully reflected the sunlight.
Sosha shivered again, only this time glancing around in near panic. A sword! No one in Sweetwater carried swords. Knives they had in plenty, but the only swords folk in these parts ever saw hung at the sides of men who guarded traders from bandits or weapons carried by the occasional noble who happened to be passing through this area of Karse.
She licked her lips, unsure for a moment what to do. Once again, she remembered the teachings she had received since childhood. She could not ignore this man’s plight. He was obviously in need of aid, more aid than she could provide. Somehow, she had to get him to the priest Beckor, who also served as village healer.
Whispering a brief prayer to Vkandis Sunlord, she slipped from her saddle and slowly approached the man. Her skin tingled in apprehension; she was poised to retreat at the slightest hint of danger. Danger? She snorted inwardly. This fellow didn’t look as if he could harm anyone in his present condition. She stood only a few steps away, her mind racing. How was she to carry him to the village? He was a large man, broad shouldered. She could hardly lift him atop her horse, and he might not be able to walk. Swallowing her fear, she stooped, reached out, and gently touched his shoulder.
He started at the touch, lurched to one elbow, his face turned in her direction. One very blue eye stared at her; the other was hidden by crusted blood. She jumped back at his sudden movement, gasping in surprise, but he made no move toward her, merely bowing his head and shaking it slowly as if to clear his thoughts.
“Be you hurt bad?” she asked, proud her voice only trembled slightly.
He shook his head again and then quickly reached out to where his sword lay. She backed away, now caught up in fear of what might happen next. His hand found the hilt of his sword, his fingers tracing down to the cross guards. Seemingly satisfied his weapon had not disappeared, he looked up at her again.
“Where?” His voice was not what she suspected. It was deep, calm, and only slightly edged with a thinness she attributed to pain. “Who are you?”
“Name’s Sosha. I’ll try to get you help, but we be a ways from the village. Can you stand? Got a horse here, if you can ride.”
He slowly rolled onto one side, drew up his knees, and tried to stand. She heard him cursing softly, obviously unsettled at his weakness.
“Lord of Light,” he murmured, “I can’t see out of my left eye.”
“Healer will take care of that,” Sosha observed, hoping she was right.
He grunted something under his breath.
“You lost a lot of blood,” she observed, still poised to run. The side of his green tunic was stained with it. She couldn’t tell if it was from his head wound, or whether he had another cut somewhere else. “You need a healer. Sooner the better.”
“You’re right about that,” he muttered, lifting a hand and gingerly touching the cut on his forehead. He stared down at his fingers, which had come away sticky with blood. Suddenly, he glanced around, as if looking for something or someone. “Have you seen any strangers recently?”
She thought back. “Only been on the road a short while myself. Seen no one. Farmer passed a while back on a wagon, but nothing else.”
“Two men,” he said, still unsteady on his feet. He felt his side, grimaced, and looked up and down the road. “Two very large and angry men.”
“Ain’t seen anyone like that. Now, you be in need of help. Sweetwater be a short ride from here. Think you can make it to my horse?”
“Sweetwater? That’s the name of your village?”
“That be it.” A sense of frustration filled her. “You coming or not? Going to keep bleeding here by the side of the road?”
He managed to look slightly embarrassed. “Sorry. You’re only trying to help. I think I can ride. But what about you?”
“You ain’t in a race,” she said. “I’ll walk beside.” He reached down and picked up his sword, tottering for a moment as if on the verge of falling. Sheathing the weapon with an unsteady hand, he once again touched his forehead, flinching in pain.
Trusting he had no thoughts of harming her, she turned to her horse and led the animal close. The man slowly followed, still a bit unstable on his feet. Her horse backed up, the scent of blood disturbing it, but she had the reins firmly in hand.
“Stirrups too short for your long legs,” Sosha said. “Want me to let them out?”
He shook his head, winced at the motion. “I’ll be all right.” He grasped the saddle and slowly pulled himself astride.
She shrugged, turned, and led the horse back to the road. The sun beat down on her head, and she could taste the salty sweat on her upper lip. After he seemed to be settled firmly in the saddle, they started toward the village at a slow walk.
He kept silent as they went, and she echoed his silence. Once, glancing over her shoulder to be certain he still sat upright, she caught him looking back at the road and then around, as if uncertain of his safety. She gnawed on her lower lip. Who was he? Where had he come from? And who were the two very large and angry men he had mentioned? She had seen no horse nearby and doubted he had walked this far out into the countryside from Vkandis only knew where.
One fact was certain: he did not hail from this area. He spoke in a cultured accent, and his clothing was far too fine to be owned by any of the villagers she knew. His boots were made of soft leather, the scabbard and his sword belt decorated in what might be silver. Even so, he did not seem to be of noble blood. Perhaps a retainer of some highborn house.
She sighed quietly. He held to his silence, and she was hesitant to pose any questions. Those could be raised by Beckor, for she had decided this man needed help that only the priest could provide.
Noon prayers to the Sunlord finished, Beckor stood next to his chapel at the center of Sweetwater. The village dozed now under the summer sun. The smithy was quiet; a low murmur of voices drifted out from the tavern. It was a peaceful time; the midday meal had passed, leaving a short period of rest before afternoon labor resumed. Not a soul stirred. He contemplated weeding his small garden but discarded the notion. Sunlight poured down out of a cloudless sky, the air beginning to thicken as if before a storm. Weeding could wait, at least until the day grew cooler.
Movement down the road that ran directly through the village caught his attention. Shading his eyes, he stared in surprise. What in the God’s green earth was Sosha doing with a stranger riding her horse? A sudden burst of light filled his vision, and he started at what he saw: Sosha, a man on her horse, and a large golden cat padding alongside. He blinked, and the cat disappeared as if it had never existed. Beckor hurried toward Sosha, trying without success to make out the man’s identity. Her face lit up, and she increased her pace.
“God’s greeting to you,” Beckor said, taking the reins from her. He looked up at the man, who now slumped forward in the saddle. The fellow stared down out of one eye, the other swollen and covered with dried blood. “Come with me. We need to get you out of this heat.”
“Oh, sun-ray,” Sosha said, her face flushed and beaded with sweat. “Found him by a field south of here. Can you help him?”
“I’ll try.” Beckor led the horse around to the side yard. He stopped by the door to his room at the back of the chapel. “Sunlord bless you,” he said to the man. “Are you able to walk?”
The man nodded and, moving deliberately, slowly dismounted. He caught himself, his knees threatening to buckle.
“God above,” Beckor breathed, reaching out to brush the black hair away from the man’s left eye. “Who did this to you?”
The man remained silent. Beckor put an arm around the fellow’s shoulder and led him to a shady spot beneath a tree. “Sosha, get some water. And there are clean rags and a jar of poultice in the top drawer of the chest in my room.”
She nodded and hurried off. Beckor helped the man sit, straightened, and glanced up at the sky. Who this man was, what he was doing so far from his usual haunts ... all those questions could be answered at a later time. Now, the most important task ahead was to treat his wound. Vkandis would provide guidance beyond that.
Sosha sat in the afternoon shade, staring at the stranger, who had finished a small
