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

notice the teeth marks where the Urmugoths had bit off chunks of him, probably just for spite.
    She looked at the head from the corner of her eye, but wasn’t ready to collect that yet. Her breath came in jerky little gasps. It was hard enough getting herself to grab the bloodied torso by its belt. It was heavier and messier than the logs, but there was no way she was letting Thaydor do this. He had already been through enough.
    Besides, she owed him. Everybody, all of Mistwood, owed him. He was the only who had cared about them. Not even their own king, to whom they paid their bloody taxes, gave a fig. The knight ought to be spared at least this much.
    She had dragged the squire’s torso halfway to the blanket before she had to step away, whirl around, and drop to all fours, retching her guts out.
    Not that she had anything to vomit. Once she had realized this task awaited, she had wisely decided to skip breakfast this morning.
    She closed her eyes, so absorbed in trying to steady her stomach that she didn’t notice Thaydor until he’d stalked past her, grabbed the torso roughly by its belt, and heaved it onto the pile of body parts.
    Wrynne gagged at the wet, squishy thud it made when it landed.
    “Where’s his head?”
    “Over there.” Wrynne had not even noticed she was crying until she looked up, pointing with a sob. She started to stand. “I’ll get it. You shouldn’t—”
    “Ridiculous woman!” he exploded at her. “Go sit down before you fall down.”
    She stopped crying abruptly, quivering with nausea. “I was only trying to help.”
    “That’s what he said,” he growled.
    Thaydor walked away, picked up the head, and stoically laid it on the pile. Wrynne buried her face in the crook of her arm and turned away, weeping. With quick, efficient motions, Thaydor wrapped the blanket around the lad’s remains, then bound the gory package with the garden twine she had brought for that purpose.
    She was left alone as he picked up the macabre bundle, and, using the knotted twine as a handle, carried it off to the hole like it was no more than a sack of laundry.
    Sitting on the ground, queasy and still crying a little, Wrynne pulled off her old garden gloves and threw them, then drew her knees up to her chest. She wrapped her arms around her bent legs and rested her forehead on her knees, wishing there was a way to wipe those images from her mind.
    Meanwhile, Thaydor lowered the bundle into the grave. A rivulet babbled nearby, just inside the woods, and ran along the bottom of the mountain. He went over to it and washed his hands.
    Remaining there for a moment, he splashed his face. Then he stood and walked back out to Wrynne, bringing her some water so she could do the same. He poured what little was left in his cupped hands when he reached her across her brow. It ran down over her eyelids and her cheeks like tears.
    “I should have never let you…” he started. “I didn’t think you’d really do it!”
    “I was trying to spare you for once!” she sobbed out.
    “I’m a knight, Wrynne. Death is my stock in trade. How are you feeling?”
    Awful. It was strange and unsettling to realize that she couldn’t heal herself anymore because of the decision she had made on this very field. “I-I’m all right.”
    “Then why are you crying?” he asked softly, smoothing her hair with a cool, damp, comforting hand. “You didn’t even know him.”
    Fresh tears welled up in her eyes as she met his gaze. “It could have been you.”
    He pulled her into his arms when she started crying again at the horror of what the boy had gone through. Hushing her, he stroked her back and held her for a while. “I appreciate the gesture, demoiselle,” he said at length, “but don’t do me any more favors, all right?”
    She pulled back and smiled ruefully at him through the last of her tears. If you only knew.
     
    * * *
     
    A while later, the body had been sprinkled with garden lime and the hole had been filled in.