Amric nodded and turned toward Halthak, extending a hand. Staring about in wonder, Halthak accepted it and allowed the swordsman to pull him to his feet. Moving past the men, he gathered his pack and staff from the ground before returning to stand next to the warrior. Shouldering his pack, he considered Vorenius. The bandit leader met his gaze with some hesitation, and the healer could see the malice in him, still present but buried deeply under a sense of defeat.
Halthak approached him, and reached one clawed hand out to the injured arm. Vorenius flinched away from his touch, but Halthak ignored this, and gently but firmly drew the arm away from the man’s torso and turned it over to examine the cut. After a moment, he met the bandit leader’s eyes once more, reading the mix of surprise and hopefulness there. They both knew he could heal it, that it would be the work of mere moments to draw the injury onto himself and repair it as rapidly as he had done before.
“You should cleanse that wound before you bandage it,” he said finally. “And have a poultice applied when you get to town, to stave off later infection.” Vorenius’s features contorted with rage for an instant before reverting to an expressionless mask. Halthak released the arm and turned away, returning to Amric’s side.
A smile played across the swordsman’s features. “There may be hope for you yet, healer.”
The Sil’ath warrior Valkarr turned as if to depart, and then paused. He swung back and stalked through the camp with purpose, startling the bandits into falling back another step. Rather than attacking, however, he reached down with one clawed hand and wrenched the spit from its cooling stand, complete with the generous portion of roasted boar haunch that remained on it. He bit into it with savage abandon, tearing loose a large mouthful, the muscles around his powerful jaws and neck bunching as he chewed noisily. He seemed to have forgotten the men in the camp, and no one moved to stop him. Finally he uttered a satisfied hiss and took another prodigious bite as he walked out of the camp with his prize and disappeared into the darkness.
Amric turned with a chuckle and strode from the camp without a backward glance, and Halthak followed close on his heels. The healer’s last glimpse of the camp showed the men all turning to face Vorenius. From their stances and the wide-eyed look on Vorenius’s face, he surmised that the balance of power within the band of mercenaries would be the subject of intense discussion that night.
As he tracked the pale glints of moonlight on the sword pommels over Amric’s shoulders, Halthak was forced to consider his own immediate future. He was following two strange and fearsome warriors into the unknown, one of them of a race renowned for its ferocity, love of battle, and intolerance of others. By all rights he should have been terrified, but instead he felt strangely at ease. The Sil’ath was in the company of a human who called him a brother of some sort, and in any event, Halthak knew from his own experience that assumptions based on race were not always accurate. He admitted to himself that he might simply be leaping at any change in his situation, but there was something in the swordsman’s unexpected treatment of him that instilled a newfound confidence. Whether or not that confidence was warranted remained to be seen. Regardless, his die was cast, and he was not exactly spoiled for options at the moment.
Halthak focused on his footing and keeping Amric in sight before him. They moved on and were swallowed by the night.
Halthak lay on his bedroll, staring up at the star-speckled sky. The campfire had died down to embers, but the sliver of moon gave enough light by which to see, once one’s eyes were adjusted. Several yards away, Amric sat cross-legged on the ground, cleaning with meticulous care the sword he had used in the mercenary camp. He faced outward into the night and lifted his gaze often from his task to scan the darkness. Valkarr was stretched out on the opposite side of the fire pit from the healer, his even breathing almost a purr as he slept.
The two warriors had made camp in the lee of a rock outcropping, with no wasted motion and nary a word spoken, while Halthak stood aside and felt useless. The three shared the roasted boar haunch from the bandits’ camp, and then with no apparent communication between them, Amric stood the first watch while Valkarr dropped to the ground without ceremony and fell asleep. Halthak took to his own bedroll, but his mind continued to race over the events of the night, and sleep eluded him. His fingers drummed, feather light, on the haft of his gnarled ironwood staff as he contemplated breaking the silence.
In the end, Amric beat him to it.
“Speak your mind, healer,” he said, his tone wry.
Halthak jumped, shifting his gaze to the warrior. He cleared his throat, and began in a low tone, “I want to thank you for saving me from those men earlier. Not many would have intervened on behalf of a stranger, especially one with my appearance, and outnumbered as you were.”
“Think no more on it,” Amric said, waving a dismissive hand. “It was not a scene we could pass without becoming involved. And appearance is like so much clothing; it can accentuate or conceal the truth beneath it, but is not itself the truth.”
Halthak noted the plural ‘we’, and wondered at the Sil’ath warrior’s involvement in the decision. “Nonetheless, it was a courageous deed,” he insisted. “I owe you my thanks, and my life.”
Amric paused in cleaning the sword and looked over his shoulder. “You owe me nothing, friend. It was your words as much as our blades that made those men reconsider their actions, in the end. They knew the wrong of their deeds. But I accept your gratitude, as offered.” Turning back, he resumed running a cloth the length of his blade.
Halthak turned his gaze back to the night sky. Try as he might, he could not puzzle the man out. His actions and speech were unlike any soldier he had met. Bolstering his courage, he cast a furtive glance toward the sleeping Sil’ath and spoke again, more softly.
“Is it true, what they say about the Sil’ath?” he asked.
“No,” Amric replied at once, without turning his head.
“How can you know which part I mean?”
“I don’t need to. I have lived among the Sil’ath for many years, and I have also traveled broadly enough to know that whenever ‘they’ talk about the Sil’ath, they invariably get it wrong.”
“You live-have lived among them?” Halthak blurted, rising to prop himself on one elbow.
Amric snorted. “What tales have you heard, healer? That they eat their own offspring? That they attack other races without provocation? That they are incapable of reason or honor?”
Halthak reddened, hoping his discomfort was not visible in the poor light. Amric’s derisive comments did indeed align with some of what he had heard, and he was beginning to worry that his curiosity and ignorance might have angered his savior. From the dismissive tone of Amric’s next statements, however, he had little cause for concern.
“Nothing more than hot air that could just as easily have emanated from either end of the speaker, for all the wisdom it contained.” The warrior held up his sword to sight down its edge, looking for nicks. Satisfied, he sheathed the blade and set the crossed scabbards aside but within easy reach. They sat in silence for several moments, and Halthak thought the conversation was at an end until Amric finally spoke again.
“There are no doubt elements of truth in what you have heard of the Sil’ath, healer. They are indeed fearless and implacable in battle, and their warriors are trained from birth with any weapon they can lift. Contrary to the tales, however, they are not motivated to conquer or pillage, and they are never unnecessarily cruel. Any such behavioral flaws are dealt with swiftly in Sil’ath society. They are a pragmatic people in all things, and so when they are provoked to conflict they aim to put a decisive end to it. They bend the knee to no one.”