Leslie Moore - Griffin's Shadow

“Your brother Magnes is my friend,” Ashinji replied.

Thessalina’s eyes narrowed. “You know my brother?” she asked sharply. “Then you must be…you’re the one he talked about…the elf nobleman who took in my tink cousin!”

“Jelena is my wife,” Ashinji stated. Magnes’ sister seemed taken aback by this piece of information, as if the fact that she and Ashinji had a familial connection disturbed her. “If Magnes is here, I’m certain he would wish to see me,” Ashinji added.

“My brother Magnes disappeared some months ago,” Thessalina revealed. “After our father died. No one knows where he went or if he’ll ever return. For the time being, I am acting as his regent.” Her face clouded over. Ashinji felt resentment flowing from her like a gray fog. His heart sank. Contacting Magnes had been his only real hope of escape.

“Captain Sirrus, you and your men will be rewarded,” Thessalina said. “Have the prisoner brought to my tent straightaway.” She spun on her heel and walked away.

“You heard what her Ladyship said!” Captain Sirrus barked. He motioned to the two men holding Ashinji’s arms and they hustled him forward, unmindful of his wound. By the time they reached Thessalina’s large tent at the center of the camp, fresh blood seeped out around the embedded arrowhead, and Ashinji was breathless from stifling his screams. His captors released him, and, too weak to stand, he collapsed to the rug-covered canvas floor.

“Gods!” he heard Thessalina exclaim. “Fetch the surgeon at once!”

“Yes, my lady!” Footsteps pounded out of the tent. Ashinji felt a hand cradle his head. He opened his eyes to find Thessalina bending over him.

“Can you hear me?” Her dark gaze pierced the fog shrouding his mind.

“Yes, I can hear you,” he whispered. “May I please have some water?” Thirst had become almost as harsh a pain as that of his wound.

“Bring me some water!” Thessalina ordered, and someone handed her a leather canteen. She uncorked the spout and, supporting Ashinji’s head in one hand, she held the bottle to his lips. The tepid water tasted of cowhide, but Ashinji drank until Thessalina pulled it away. “Not too much. You’ll make yourself sick,” she murmured.

“Help me up, please,” he croaked. Thessalina slipped an arm beneath his uninjured shoulder and assisted him into a sitting position. She then squatted beside him, staring intently into his face. Neither one spoke for many heartbeats.

Finally, Ashinji broke the silence. “What are you going to do with me?” he asked, returning her gaze.

“Your Soldaran is excellent. How and why did you learn to speak our tongue?” she responded, ignoring his question.

“Languages come easily to me. I had a tutor who taught me the basics, and my father has many books written in Soldaran. As for the why…Is it not wise to know one’s enemy as intimately as possible? What better way than to learn his language?”

Thessalina sighed and bit her lower lip. “I’ve never actually seen a full-blooded elf before, let alone talked to one,” she said.

Ashinji’s chuckle turned into a wince. “Your brother said something similar to me when we first met,” he replied.

“Your commander made a foolish mistake, settling his army in a field of dry grass. Did he not think we’d try to burn him out?”

“My commander is…” Ashinji stopped himself before the words not an experienced officer escaped his lips. No. I can’t let her know of any weaknesses , he thought. Instead, he said, “Your raiders were lucky…to get past our pickets. It will not happen again.”

Thessalina’s eyebrows shot up like the wings of a bird. “Lucky, you say. I say otherwise…We will cross the river at dawn. Our numbers are far superior to yours, and your soldiers will be worn out from fighting the fire.”

“Our force is made up of seasoned professionals. They will hold their own, I have no doubt. We defend our homeland, do not forget.” Ashinji paused, fighting a fresh wave of nausea and dizziness. He coughed, then whispered, “We will resist you…to our very last breaths.”

“I expect you will,” Thessalina replied.

“What…will you…do with me?” Ashinji asked again. He could barely keep his eyes open now.

Thessalina did not answer for several heartbeats. Finally, she said, “I don’t know, yet.”

“My lady, the surgeon is here.” A soldier stood at the tent’s entrance with another man, clad in a leather apron, beside him. Thessalina motioned for the surgeon to enter. He crossed over to where Ashinji sat and hunkered down to examine the broken arrow.

“Have him brought to the hospital tent, my lady,” the surgeon directed. “Should be a simple matter of drawing out the tip, as long as it’s not barbed… none of the archers uses barbed heads, do they? Anyhow, I’ll draw out the tip, flush the wound, and apply a poultice. I suppose his kind can get wound poisoning and fevers like we can, but tinks are tough…or so I’ve heard.” His voice oozed contempt. Thessalina nodded her head in dismissal and the man stood and departed.

Ashinji could feel the last of his strength trickling away with each fresh drop of blood that escaped his body.

Thessalina looked down at him with what might have been a measure of sympathy. “We’ll talk later, if you survive.” She snapped her fingers. “Take him,” she ordered. The same two guards who had brought him before their commander came forward and hoisted Ashinji to his feet. They saluted, then half-dragged, half-carried their captive from the tent. Ashinji struggled to support some of his own weight in order to relieve the excruciating pressure on his wounded shoulder, but the guards mistook his efforts for an escape attempt.

“Quit wigglin’! You’ll not get away from us, tink,” the man on his left growled. He tightened his grip, cruelly digging in his fingers.

Human faces, distorted with hatred, derision, savage glee, and every other kind of ugliness passed by in a blur as the guards hustled him through the camp. Ashinji felt like a wounded animal, paraded before the masses in a sick spectacle. He tried to conceal his fear, but he was just too beaten, too drained.

In a curtained-off area at the back of the large, empty hospital tent, the surgeon stood waiting, hands on hips, an impatient scowl twisting his thin lips. Two younger, larger men stood on either side of him, each clad in a heavy leather apron matching his own. A long wooden table filled the remaining space.

“Here,” the surgeon ordered, pointing. The guards pushed Ashinji down on the table, maintaining their grips upon his arms. “You two can go. My lads’ll handle him now.”

On his signal, the surgeon’s assistants surged forward. One secured Ashinji’s arms, the other grabbed his ankles.

“Put in the gag,” the surgeon ordered, then proceeded to slice off Ashinji’s bloody tunic with a small knife. One of the assistants stuffed a wad of filthy cloth into his mouth. The surgeon bent down to peer into Ashinji’s eyes. “Try not to move,” he murmured, acknowledging for the first time that he treated a man and not a beast. He straightened and disappeared briefly from Ashinji’s view, returning with a pair of pliers and a slender blade. “Hold him steady, lads,” he commanded. A tiny smile played about his mouth.

He seized the broken arrow shaft with the pliers and yanked.

Ashinji uttered a single, agonized scream, then the darkness claimed him, and he felt nothing more.

Ashinji awoke to find himself clad only in his breeches, lying on a blanket atop a loose pile of straw. A thick bandage swaddled his left shoulder. As he blinked slowly to clear his vision, his surroundings swam into focus.