Wynter had lost count of the number of ghouls he had killed by the time he was able to pull back and help Galvin and Brenna. The druid appeared to be faced with the most desperate struggle. He was standing on one ghoul, which appeared to be finally dead, while holding off another three with his scimitar. The two that had passed by Elwin were eyeing Brenna but keeping their distance, obviously concerned about her magic. Wynter started toward the druid.
Galvin kicked at a ghoul in the middle, sending it sprawling, then swung his scimitar in a vicious downward stroke at the one to his right. The weapon cut through the corpse’s shoulder blades and lodged halfway down in its chest. The ghoul seemed to grin as it reached forward and clawed the druid’s exposed arm. Galvin immediately felt sluggish, his arms and legs heavy. He felt the talons of his other attacker rake his left arm as he became rooted to the spot.
“No!” the centaur screamed, bringing his staff down on the ghoul that had Galvin’s scimitar in its chest. Wynter smashed its head like an overripe watermelon, ending its unlife. Continuing his assault, the centaur trampled the remaining ghoul into oblivion, then swung to see Brenna wrestling a tall corpse.
The sorceress obviously had taken out one of the pair. As the centaur dashed forward, he saw a decaying body lying at an odd angle across her bags. Part of its chest was missing.
“Back up, Brenna!” he called, rearing on his hind legs.
Brenna fell back on the ground, unmoving, her clawed cheek exposed. The ghoul turned to meet Wynter’s front hooves, which fell on it hard. In a berserk rage, the centaur pounded the undead into the soft ground, continuing to rear and stomp on it well after it had ceased to move.
The centaur’s chest heaved from fear and exertion. He was the only one standing in the clearing. It was too dark to make out all the details, but he could see Galvin’s frozen outline and Brenna lying on the ground, motionless. Elwin’s corpse lay in pieces, but the ghouls who had dined on him were nowhere to be seen. Although Wynter was relieved he didn’t have to fight any more of the creatures, he was worried about the surviving ghouls’ absence. Ghouls were intelligent undead, and he feared they would report the incident to their dark master or gather more of their kind for another assault.
Determined not to wait for any undead reinforcements or to take time to assess his friends’ conditions, Wynter picked up the paralyzed Galvin and slung him across his back. He cradled Brenna in his arms and carried the pair of them and their belongings out of the defiled area and into the abandoned barn. If guards looking for escaped slaves chanced upon the trio, Wynter thought, the Aglarond council would have to contact more Harpers to continue the spying mission.
Inside the dilapidated barn, the centaur placed the sorceress near a large mound of straw, laying her down gently near the barn wall and placing her head on some hay. Watching her closely, Wynter saw her chest rise and fail shallowly. Tears fell from his angular face, and his hands trembled. Wynter didn’t want Brenna and Galvin to die. Aside from losing his friends, their deaths would leave him alone in a country he considered one step removed from hell.
The centaur laid Galvin near her and cringed when he saw how irregularly the druid was breathing. Wynter pulled off the druid’s tunic so he could clean the gashes left by the undead. Galvin’s arms had been raked by the claws of the creature, and the area around the red welts was swelling. Rummaging through the druid’s satchel, the centaur found some of the herbs Galvin had used on his shoulder earlier. The centaur was uncertain how to apply them, so he crumbled them in his fingers and laid them across the gashes.
Next he tended to Brenna. Wynter tore off a strip from the hem of her dress and soaked it with water from his waterskin. Kneeling awkwardly, he cleaned the blood from her cheek where the ghoul had clawed her. The scratch marks weren’t deep, but they marred her pretty face.
The centaur wore a circular path in the dirt as he trotted around the unmoving forms of Galvin and Brenna. Through a gaping hole in the barn’s roof, the stars shone brightly, illuminating the sheen of sweat on the centaur’s back. Wynter feared the undead would return, or perhaps a patrol of a worse kind would find them. His friends’ long hair would make them look like escaped slaves, so if they were caught here they would be killed or put on a slave plantation, never to see Aglarond again.
Wynter shivered and glanced about the barn. There were too many shadows to make out everything, but he noted a few piles of moldy straw, damp because the roof provided little shelter from the rain. One toward the back of the barn was large enough to hide Brenna and Galvin behind it in the event he heard someone approaching the barn. He didn’t want to move them unless he felt he had to. It looked like the barn had had a loft at one time. Now it was completely hollow inside, and rotted boards lay along the walls and near the center of the floor to outline where a second story used to be.
The entire structure tilted a little to the east, and Wynter suspected it wouldn’t survive a heavy windstorm. The dirty hay inside smelled musty and was coated with little bits of fur. It probably served as a haven for mice and other rodents. A few rusted farm implements were scattered along the western wall—rakes, a hoe, bits of tack. He took note of those that might serve as weapons.
The centaur continued to guard his friends until daylight filtered in through the roof and he could no longer stay awake. Standing between the barn doors and the prone druid and sorceress, Wynter slept on his feet. He awoke late in the afternoon to find Galvin and Brenna still unmoving. Wynter peered out one of the larger cracks at the front of the barn. In the distance, he saw the orchards and spied a few slaves moving among the trees, picking fruit. The centaur was careful not to touch the wood of the barn. The structure appeared so old and rotted that he feared it could easily fall over.
Wynter kept his vigil, dosing on and off until well after midnight, when Galvin finally shook his paralysis. The gashes on his arms smarted, but they were slightly healed by Wynter’s efforts.
“How … how long has it been?” Galvin asked, sitting up and glancing about the barn. “I remember … Brenna! Was she killed?” The druid panicked and brought himself quickly to his feet.
“She’s still alive—barely, I think,” Wynter replied. “She was clawed, too. She’s paralyzed.”
Galvin rushed to the enchantress’s side and moved the fingertips of his right hand over her scratched face. He closed his eyes and hummed softly, an old druidic prayer taught to him as a youth. He rarely used healing magic, which took a great deal of concentration—something he usually lacked when he himself was injured. The druid preferred to rely on herbs and natural mixtures. But he had none of the latter handy, so he continued the prayer. After several minutes, Brenna’s breathing began to deepen, although she still remained unconscious. The scratches on her face began to heal, and Galvin rose.
“She’ll be all right,” he stated simply, his voice showing his relief. He began to examine his surroundings and noticed that Wynter looked different somehow. Then he realized why—the hair on the centaur’s head was short, not more than an inch long. His long curls and braid lay in a pile on the barn floor.
“What did you do?” Galvin pointed at the centaur’s head.
“We need to look like Thayvians, remember?”
Brenna finally came to several hours later. Sunlight streamed in where planks of wood had rotted away in the walls and through the hole in the center of the roof. The rays warmed her face. She slowly sat up, then pulled herself to her knees.
“I’ve come to the conclusion that it’s decidedly unlucky sharing a camp with the two of you,” Wynter said dryly. Despite the tone, he was thankful his companions were for the most part uninjured. He tossed the enchantress her satchels.