Free Paladin's Prize (Age of Heroes, Book 1) by Gaelen Foley Page A

called after her.
    Her airy laughter trailed down to him. With a mystified smile, Thaydor shook his head, barely knowing what to make of her.
     
    * * *
     
    As it turned out, Thaydor was right. She did not want to see what had happened to his squire. But it was too late now. His name had been Eadric of Hazelmore, nineteen years old, and his body had been strewn about in six main pieces across the far end of the farmer’s field.
    It was the first stop on their day’s errands, and more horrible than Wrynne had anticipated, but at least there was no sign of Reynulf or his men.
    The Urmugoths, however, were far larger by the stark light of day than she had realized. Sweet Ilios, if she had been able to see them clearly that night, she doubted she would have had the courage to go to Thaydor’s side, especially since a few of them had still been alive then.
    Wrynne braced herself. The only thing uglier than an Urmugoth, she decided as her stomach churned, was one three days dead—bloated and discolored, pecked upon by ravens and crows, its entrails hanging out.
    The black birds swirled back, fluttering off as Wrynne walked out onto the field alongside Thaydor. Both shielded their noses from the ghastly stench—she with her scarf, he with his sleeve.
    “I’ll get some of the men to burn the bodies when we go down to the village,” she said.
    “I’m surprised they haven’t already done so,” he answered. “It’s not healthy.”
    “They’ve probably been busy burying their own,” she said sadly.
    “As must I.” He shook his head in bitter regret, eyes narrowed as he scanned the field. “I told him to stay back,” he muttered. “They got a hold of him over there.” He pointed across the otherwise green, growing field of alfalfa to the far end where a wild apple tree grew. “You should go back and wait at the edge of the woods. This won’t take long.” He took a step forward, but she stopped him with a hand on his arm.
    “I’ll get him. You dig the hole.” She handed him the shovel; he looked at her in astonishment.
    “No.”
    “Thaydor, please.” She gave him the spiky-rayed metal sun sculpture—a symbol of Ilios—that she had taken off the wall of her home to mark the boy’s grave. Whisking off her cloak, she balled it up and set it aside on a clean patch of ground. “I cannot let you do this. It’s too much.”
    He scoffed. “You’re a lady—”
    “I’m a doctor ,” she shot back, and despite her own doubt, added firmly, “I can do this. Now pick a spot to bury him and dig.”
    He arched a brow at the order.
    Brooking no more argument, she set off across the field with the boy’s makeshift burial shroud tucked under her arm—one of the old, donated, wool blankets that she kept on hand to give to the poor.
    Fixing her scarf across the lower half of her face, she pulled on her old pair of gardening gloves as she marched toward the tree where his squire had been murdered.
    From behind her, she could feel Thaydor watching her with incredulity. But when she glanced defiantly over her shoulder, he shrugged, shook his head, then idly twirled the shovel like a weapon, as though waiting to see if she would actually get through the gruesome task.
    Leaving her to reap the fruits of her own stubbornness, he glanced around for a good gravesite, chose one by the edge of the woods, and glanced at her again and started digging, his foot braced atop the spade to help break up the soil.
    Humph . Wrynne looked forward again, steeled herself, and, upon reaching the far end of the field, spread the blanket out on the ground. This done, she willed her stomach not to revolt as she went about the task of gathering up the pieces of poor, young Eadric.
    With her pulse pounding in her ears and prayers spinning through her dizzied head, she got through it by pretending the arms and legs in various locations were just logs she was clearing off the field, stacking into a pile on the blanket. She refused to let herself