Free Elisha Barber: Book One Of The Dark Apostle by E.C. Ambrose

pulling up her tattered garment. “You’re the physician, sir?”
    “Indeed, I am. Of the Salerno School.”
    Slipping off his cloak, Elisha rose, shaking out the cloth. No harm done—then a cry rose up around them.
    “The witch! He’s gone!” Townsfolk ran to the shout, then scattered out among the streets. “Quickly, before he enflames another!”
    Elisha found himself surrounded and caught up in the rush down hill toward the river. This action the soldiers could support and they, too, joined the cry. At the river’s edge, Elisha stopped, clinging to a tree. In the mad dash, his cloak had been torn from his grasp and left behind. “Damn it all,” he grumbled.
    After a moment, his eyes adjusted, making out the dim shape of a bridge, and the absurd sight of townsfolk and soldiers pursuing some poor man caught unawares with a sprig of mistletoe or some other supposed sign that he’d cast fire on their chapel. A pile of stones sat nearby, and Elisha made his way over, feeling for rough edges and someplace to catch his breath.
    Instead, his hand encountered an arm, and someone cried out and burst up from his hiding place among the rocks.
    “Bloody Hell!” Elisha shouted, as frightened as the other man. Several of the crowd turned in their direction.
    The witch stumbled toward the river, and Elisha sprang after him as a soldier behind called out, “Have you got him?”
    Catching the man with one hand, Elisha hauled back the other and knocked him senseless into the shallows, jumping lightly down after.
    “Here, what’s going on?” a soldier called, as a few townsfolk gathered, one raising a torch overhead.
    Quickly, Elisha scooped the man’s shoulders against his chest, looking up to them, his heart racing. “This man’s fallen. I’ll see to him. You’d best keep searching.”
    “Aye,” the soldier called down, and they hurried off in search of their prey.
    Bent over his captive, Elisha took a few quick breaths. His hand at the man’s throat found a rapid pulse, and the man started under his touch, trying to push him away.
    “Hush,” Elisha urged. “Don’t move, I’m not out to hurt you.”
    Shaking, a muffled voice replied, “You hit me, didn’t you?”
    “I had to—I couldn’t take time to explain, could I? Now they think you’re unconscious.”
    “I am,” the witch answered, ceasing his struggle, but sitting stiffly, not trusting.
    Elisha slipped his arm around the man’s shoulder and helped him from the water up to the rocks. “Steady, steady,” he whispered. Elisha guided him into a nook and settled beside him.
    The witch shook all over, drawing his knees up and ducking his head. Quietly, Elisha replaced his arm about the other man’s shoulders.
    “They’ll kill you,” said the witch. His voice was light and soft, younger than Elisha had guessed.
    “I won’t tell,” he replied. “Will you?”
    A muffled snort answered him, a sort of nervous laugh, stifled for safety. “Who are you?”
    “Elisha Barber. And you are?”
    “Does it matter? I’m accused of magic.”
    Dropping his voice even lower, Elisha asked, “Are you a witch?”
    The other jerked. “Of course not!”
    “Pity. I could use a bit of magic.”
    Laughing, the witch rose. “I think they’ve gone.”
    “At least let me see to your injuries.” Elisha tried to get a look at him, but trees obscured the feeble light of the pale moon.
    “Just a beating. I’ve had worse. It’s what I earned for trysting in a chapel.” Clothing rustled as he moved, and he added, “I think your blow was the worst, actually.”
    “It was the best I could do in the moment.”
    A warm hand sought his own in the darkness and gripped it tight—a soft hand, with the slightest calluses. Not a workman’s hand, nor that of any townsman he’d ever known. Elisha frowned. The young, clear voice said, “I thank you, Barber, for the blow that saved my life.”
    With the other’s aid, Elisha pulled himself to his feet. “Take care