When I did revive, it was with a horrible, retching cough and a racing heart. I tried to breathe and coughed again. Getting control over small sips of air, I dimly saw the knife had been thrown on top of me as the man turned away to listen at the door. It was probably meant as some sort of pointed message to Arthur. How cliché.
At the unexpected noises, the man jerked round and caught sight of me, trying to sit up. To be fair, in most people's experience dead people don't make miraculous recoveries, so the shock he suffered produced a cry of alarm and a paralysing effect on his legs. I writhed and clutched at the knife, determined to avenge my murder and hoping to take advantage of his momentary horror to exact some retribution.
But it didn't go exactly as I would have liked.
You know that tale about hitting someone in the nose so hard that you drive the bone shards into the person's brain? Well, ask any real martial arts instructor and the wise sensei will tell you it's a load of bollocks. But when a huge door, studded with great big iron nails, came swinging into the back of my head, the rules of iron vs. bone came into play and the results were obvious.
Door: 1. My skull: 0.
Blunt-force trauma can be lethal, and in this case it certainly was almost instantaneous.
Seriously?! I had only just come back from my first death, I still couldn't breathe properly, and now I'd been slain again in a matter of seconds! The fact that it had been my master who'd dealt the fatal door strike only made it all the more galling when I revived.
It didn't help that his face was way too close to mine when I woke up on the floor; luckily there wasn't much to repair (since I probably have very little brain matter and a paper-thin skull). Moreover, unless the injury was a fatal one I'd have to suffer the laceration to my scalp – so even if the recovery time would be accelerated, it wouldn't just disappear.
But an awfully large pool of blood (mostly from my throat) had soaked my tunic and now my hair was sticky with it. The back of my head stung hotly and I just knew I was covered in the red stuff. Wonderful.
"He's awake!" said a voice excitedly. I couldn't see who it was, Tristan's glaring face filled my vision and my ears were ringing slightly.
"Thank God, it's a miracle!"
Oh Arthur, you have no idea how ironic that is…
"N-nice shot… master," I coughed weakly, grinning up at him. He drew back a little. "But p-please… endeavour to hit the… door with more force… next time. That way… you'll be p-properly rid of m-me."
Tristan scowled down at me and then wrapped his arm around my shoulders, helping me sit up. Still dizzy from substantial blood loss and what felt like a screaming concussion, my vision blurred and darkened. As I rested my head against Tristan's collarbone, I think I sobbed a little. It was probably at the thought of having to wash my hair before it congealed into a rock-hard sticky mass.
"What happened?" Tristan growled, I knew he was furious, but if it was at me or the now unconscious man who had also been squished by the door, I couldn't tell.
"The m-man…" I whispered, every other syllable being forced out through a throat that felt like it was about five sizes too small. I closed my eyes and prayed for unconsciousness to return.
"What happened?" Tristan repeated. I felt another set of hands running over me, checking me for wounds. The touch was impersonal and I supposed it was Dagonet.
"Where did all this blood come from?" the giant rumbled, running a finger along my newly healed throat. I coughed, and shook my head slightly. Another trickle of crimson heat slipped down my collar at the movement.
"I-I don't remember…" I gasped. A blatant lie, but I could blame it on the head trauma. "But the man… he… he attacked me…" I shuddered and huddled against Tristan, feeling terrible and a little scared. If my secret was discovered, I was doomed. Tristan's grip tightened fractionally; I must have looked like hell and awakened some protective spark in him.
Yeah… and farmers bred flying pigs.
Arthur took over the interrogation and I started to fervently wish I was still dead. "What did the man do? Who screamed?"
"He s-screamed… he was l-listening at the door…"
All the important words got out before I dissolved into another fit of wheezing gasps.
"Why did he scream? Where did he attack you?"
Damn. All the hard questions…
The stress was making me start to shake again. Why wasn't Tristan getting me out of here?!
"I w-woke up… I m-must have s-surprised him…"
How on earth could I explain the evidence? How could I downplay all this coughing? I knew Dagonet wouldn't find any injuries on me apart from the cut on my scalp… hopefully that would be enough.
Damn and double damn. Time to be ultra-pathetic. I faked a swoon and let my head drop onto Tristan's shoulder once more. Whatever information they got out of the spy later would hopefully make little sense to them. After all, who would believe that a slave boy could come back from the dead, repeatedly?
~oOo~
They had all rushed the door, a cry of alarm like that was worth investigating, especially when it was right outside a private meeting.
Tristan was the first one through the door, with the full weight of Bors and Gaheris behind him. There was a nasty sound of crunching, and the door didn't open any further. Tristan dug his heels in and barked out "Stop!" in case they utterly crushed whoever was on the other side.
In that split second of stillness, he noticed the blood all over the floor. Carefully stepping into the corridor, he noticed two crumpled forms behind the door and relayed the information – also cautioning them to not shove.
One of the bodies was horribly familiar.
Without thinking it through, he dragged the girl out and leaned over her, feeling for a pulse. When he couldn't find one, his heart locked in horror. He should have never kept her.
A painful cough and a shudder told him his worst fears had been unfounded. A pulse beat erratically under his fingertips and she was blearily peering around, wheezing and gasping as if she'd just had all the air knocked from her lungs.
Perhaps his fears had some truth to them after all. What on earth had happened to cover her in all that blood?! He shot a look at the unconscious stranger, who's nose was now a gory smear across his face, and wondered… but the girl was more important. She held his life in her hands.
And then she grinned at him and made some pithy joke about trying to kill her between retching coughs. Tristan was starting to revise his opinion of strange foreign girls with bizarre names and skills. Clearly this one was beyond all hope.
Dagonet checked her over, but failed to find any injury apart from the large cut on the back of her head that was steadily soaking Tristan's tunic. As the scout cradled her gingerly in his arms he wondered if she had broken anything. Would he be able to carry her, or did they have to wait for a pallet? Cador had already disappeared to fetch the orderlies, and now Gaheris and Bors were keeping the area clear of onlookers. At least they all knew what to do in such an emergency. So when Arthur broke off from co-ordinating the situation, and started to interrogate her, Tristan was surprised that she was even more reluctant to talk. Worse still, none of her answers made much sense. How serious was her head wound? It was a small blessing she then faked unconsciousness to earn herself a vital reprieve. He knew she was faking it because she was still trembling slightly.
Arthur looked seriously at Tristan. "Get some straight answers out of your slave – the man will certainly lie."
He could hear the anxiety in his commander's voice and he nodded. "Head injuries can cause temporarily confusion. All will be well."
Dagonet was now vehemently insisting she went to the infirmary. The unconscious prisoner had already been borne away, and Tristan let out a relieved huff. About time! He shifted his grip around her shoulders and slid his other arm under her legs, lifting her to his chest before quickly getting to his feet. He hadn't truly noticed before, so perhaps it was her fierce personality that made her seem bigger, but for a supposedly grown woman she was unusually small. Despite his weakened muscles, it took no real effort to bear her all the way to the infirmary.
As he walked through the fort, there was unease from onlookers at the sight of his blood-drenched slave. Tristan didn't doubt his own expression was equally alarming, because not even the officers tried to stop him. Everyone got out of his way. Failing to suppress the angry rumble in his chest, he bit out: "What happened?" in a harsh whisper.
He would keep asking that exact until she gave him a satisfactory answer.
She mumbled something, and coughed again, her trembling red hands gripping at his collar.
"L-later… 'ts a secret…"
He really didn't have time for this. Arthur may be his friend, but he was Tristan's commander first and expected results. "What do you mean, 'secret'?"
"Curse…"
Oh gods on the wind and water… if she was cursed, this would spell trouble for everyone.
Once in the infirmary, an orderly pointed to a free bed and said a medicus would be along shortly. The ward was pretty empty, only a few soldiers occupied the beds. Tristan sat down on the cot, keeping her on his lap. He wasn't going to leave her and let some medicus uncover their secret. Dagonet hurried over.
"I thought it best if he sees someone he knows…" the giant explained. "Poor boy's wits must be scrambled."
Tristan gently squeezed Kation's arm in warning and then grunted in agreement. "He's now blabbering about a curse and some such nonsense."
Dagonet shook his head sadly and turned the girl's head around, burying her forehead in Tristan's collar, to inspect the large cut. He hissed through his teeth and caught Tristan's eye.
"He'll be fine." He said with a small smile. "Just a few stitches."
Kation began to shake in earnest and lifted her head to stare, terror-struck, at Tristan. He had forgotten how frightened she was of such things.
"Give him some poppy first." Tristan said. "Otherwise he'll try to run away."
Dagonet looked doubtful, but nodded. Once Kation had taken an alarming amount of the sedative, she quieted considerably, her eyes dark and lazy as Dagonet cleaned the wound.
"We'll have to cut his hair."
Oh, she was not going to like that. But it was for her own good, so Tristan sighed and nodded. Thank the gods she was as limp as a rag from all the medicine. He still heard a moan of protest, but ignored it. Let her have her tantrum when she was fully awake and he was certain she wasn't either crazy or at the gates of death.
Dagonet grabbed the scissors and cut the hair around the wound off almost against the scalp, revealing it to be a wide, jagged tear as long as Tristan's middle finger. It still bled sluggishly, and Tristan suppressed a wince. That had to hurt. But the Sarmatian healer just kept cutting, remorselessly creating a considerable pile of shorn hair on the bed between them. Finally, her black locks were as short as any Roman youth's, exposing a long slender neck and small ears. She looked even more frail and vulnerable, but Tristan wasn't fooled. She was going to be hysterical when the poppy wore off.
~oOo~
Upon seeing Tristan fully occupied with the girl, who looked to be severely injured, Kahedin turned his attention to the unconscious man. After a quick search of the area, he found a knife on the floor. The blade was covered in drying blood, and he frowned as he noticed the specific shape of the weapon.
It was a native-forged blade, and a typical shape of a warrior's dagger. On the grip was a running stag.
He beckoned Galahad over, knowing the boy's keen mind and original (if often half-baked) ideas might offer an alternative theory as to the knife's meaning, since he really disliked what his own suspicions entailed.
The teenager looked at the blade and frowned. "It certainly belongs to someone of high-status," he ventured. "From the grip and quality of the steel it looks like it might belong to someone from a noble's retinue."
"But why take such an incriminating thing into the wolves' den?" Kahedin said, pretending to ponder. The boy could be so useful if only he was prodded in the right direction. Galahad, looking like he would rather be anywhere but right there, sighed.
"Either the man was overconfident, or he sought to put blame with the real owner of the blade if he was discovered." He replied, in a tone that suggested all this was obvious, which it was.
"Think harder." Kahedin said sharply.
Galahad sighed and glared at Kahedin, who simply stared back in a flat-out challenge.
"Well… if I was to guess," he said pointedly. "I'd say that this wasn't the first time someone has been listening to our meetings. It's just that they couldn't have known Kation would be waiting in the corridor. Who knows how long our plans and strategies have been monitored?" he shrugged, as if he didn't care, but Kahedin knew that the lad could feign insouciance very well when he felt like it. "And who would be interested in such information?"
Kahedin allowed himself an approving smile and let Galahad return to helping Gawain. The boy really was clever. Now if only he wasn't always so literal, he'd be really helpful. There was definitely some wider scheme at play… and Kahedin would find out what it was.