Jim Butcher - Captain's Fury

"For killing men, metalcrafters stand supreme," Gaius murmured. "But beasts don't fight like men. Primal. Savage. For them, nothing replaces raw strength. And I think one really couldn't fault my choice in companions on this particular journey." He shook his head and blinked his eyes several times. "I'm babbling. Please excuse me. The mind tends to wander a bit when one is my age-or in excruciating pain."

"We'll do what we can, sire," Amara said.

"The pain won't kill me. Bernard is bleeding. See to him. I believe I'll faint now, if it isn't too inconven…"

The First Lord fell silent, and Amara bent to him for a panicked instant. He continued breathing steadily, though, and his pulse was strong. She bit her lip in sympathy, and was just as glad that he had lost consciousness. His injury had to be pure torment.

She took off her cloak, damp as it was, rolled it up, and used it to support his broken leg. Then she rose and went back to Bernard. He had taken off his pack and was fumbling through it rather dazedly. Amara took it from his hands and removed the box of bandages, ointments, and healing salves he carried in it. She cleaned his wound as best she could, but it kept bleeding, as such injuries tended to.

"This will need stitches to close properly," she said quietly. "That means we'll need boiling water. A fire."

"Dangerous," Bernard mumbled. "Too easy to spot."

"We've little choice," she replied. "He's unconscious. His leg is broken.

We have to warm him up, then set the leg. Can you have Brutus make a shelter for us?"

He looked at her dully for a moment, and then back at Gaius. "Dangerous."

She put her hands on either side of his face. "Bernard, you've been hit in the head. You're having trouble speaking clearly, much less thinking clearly. I need you to trust me. This is necessary."

He exhaled heavily and closed his eyes. Then he nodded. He opened his eyes again and peered blearily around them, through the rain. Then he nodded at a hillock, and muttered under his breath. "Garim had a den there. Brutus is widening it. Shoring it up. Drag wood in first thing. Let it start to dry. Then we'll move Gaius in."

"Very well," Amara said. She covered his wound with a pad of folded cloth and wound a bandage around his head to hold it closed as best it could until she could see to the injury more thoroughly. "Bernard. It's his good leg that's broken."

Bernard frowned for a moment, then said, "Crows. He won't be able to walk."

"No," Amara said.

"That's bad," he said.

"Yes."

"But there is good news," he said.

She frowned at him.

His nostrils flared as he inhaled. "Smell that?"

Amara frowned and sniffed at the air. There was an overripe smell to it, a vegetable reek.

"Only one thing smells like that," Bernard said. "Swamps. We made it. Once we get in there, don't have to worry about our back trail."

"No," Amara murmured. "Only disease. Injury. Lack of food. And more of those garim."

Bernard grunted. "Well," he mused, "we never did get that honeymoon."

Amara blinked at him for a moment, then burst out in a laugh that surprised her with its depth and strength.

He gave her a weary grin, and for a moment his eyes shone with warmth. "That's better. Love it when you smile." Then he took a deep breath and pushed himself slowly to his feet. He touched the bandages and hissed in discomfort.

"Don't do that," Amara said absently. She rose, wincing at a flare of pain in her back. She had almost forgotten the blow from the garim's tail and the tumble afterward. Her muscles and bones, however, had not. "He can't walk," she said quietly. "What are we going to do?"

"We'll handle it, Countess. One thing at a time."

She touched her face, and then the bandages. "I love you very much, you know."

He lifted her fingers from his head and kissed them gently, eyes sparkling. "Who could blame you?"

Amara laughed again.

"Again!" Araris snapped, driving a series of high, whirling slashes at Tavi's head. The singulare was not restraining the force of his blows, and it took every ounce of Tavi's concentration and skill to survive them. He found the rhythm of the attack, found the tiny half beat of vulnerability between one of Araris's strikes and the next, and countered low, his body dipping to one side and out of the line of the attack, one hand resting flat on the ground to support his suddenly altered balance, his blade darting in a swift thrust for the large artery in the singulare s midsection.

Tavi was an instant too slow. Araris slammed his blade across Tavi's, driving it from his fingers. The singulare swung a booted kick at Tavi's face. Tavi rolled away from it. Araris drove his heel down at Tavi's nose. Tavi swatted the blow mostly aside-and found the point of Araris's sword resting in the hollow of his throat.

Araris stared at Tavi, his eyes expressionless, even frightening. Then he drew himself upright and lifted the sword away. "It has to be faster," he said quietly. "The fight is always in motion. You can't wait for the right beat. You have to anticipate it."

Tavi scowled up at Araris. "We've done this every day for a week. It's only one counter. Someone my size is going to have real trouble using it. We both know that. What happened to fighting to my strengths?"

"This is one," Araris said. "You just don't know it yet."

Tavi shook his head. "What the crows is that supposed to mean?"

Araris rested a hand on his midsection where he'd been wounded, wincing like a man with a stitch in his side after a long run. "Any swordsman worth the name won't expect that move from someone like you. They would think it too dangerous, too foolhardy."

Tavi touched his throat, where Araris's sword had been, and glanced at the small smear of blood on his finger. "Why would anyone think that?" But he got to his feet, recovered his sword, and faced Araris, ready to go again.

Araris rolled his shoulder, his expression pained, and shook his head. "Enough for today."

They lifted their blades in a mutual salute and put them away. "Is your side still hurting'? Maybe I should get the Steadholder to-"

"No," Araris said at once. "No. She has enough to contend with. It's sore, that's all."

Tavi arched his eyebrows, realization dawning in his face. "That's how Navaris got you."

Araris frowned and looked away. "She had too many of Arnos's singulares with her. I couldn't have fought them all and lived. So I gave Navaris an opening. I had counted on her to take a thrust to my leg and pin her sword in the hull for a moment." He waved a hand at his flank. "But she hit me here instead."

Tavi frowned. "I saw her sword go through the hull. But it was still stuck there when…" His voice trailed off as a little surge of nausea went through his stomach. Araris had been pinned to the Mactiss hull with a sword through his guts. The only way he could have freed himself would have been…

Bloody crows. The man had simply sliced himself free on Navaris's weapon. He'd let the blade cut through four or five inches of his own midsection. No wonder it looked like Navaris had slashed him open halfway to his spine.

Araris met Tavi's gaze soberly and nodded. "Without Isana…" He shrugged. "Navaris shouldn't have been able to do that. I don't know how she managed it. But she did. I'm pushing us both."

He turned without another word and went back to the ship's cabin. Tavi put his sword away, tugged on his loose tunic, and made his way thoughtfully to the ship's prow.

After their raid on the doomed Mactis , the rest of the voyage had been comparatively uneventful, and Tavi found himself growing increasingly anxious. Araris was back on his feet after two days of rest, and they returned to relentless practice on the deck for hours at a time. Araris proved to be one of those swordmasters who believed that pain was the best motivator for learning. Tavi acquired any number of small cuts-some of them quite messy and painful- and a collection of dozens of bruises in various colors.