Alam stopped running. He bent over and rested his hands on his knees. His breathing was ragged gasps, his legs wobbled, and his strength was gone. No matter how much his mind wanted to keep running, his body had done all it could. Alam looked up. Tajar was limp between Frost and the horse's neck. Frost pulled on Mist's reins and turned towards Alam. There was fear in her eyes, she was not even trying to hide it. Alam knew that the same look was in his - the fear that it was too late to save Tajar. He had come to a hard decision minutes ago, but finally admitted to himself there was no other way.

"Go. Ride. You have to get to Lasthome before..." he could not bring himself to say it.

Before he dies.

"You take him," she replied. "He's your friend and Mist is your horse."

"No. He needs you. You are his best chance. The townsfolk will not trust me."

Frost nodded and tightened her grip on Mist's reins.

"Frost, the weapons." She reached down and handed Alam the axe and bow. He grabbed the reins desperately and pulled himself close to her and Tajar. "You have to make it in time."

"I know," she nodded. She turned Mist's head and kicked her heels into the horse's flanks. Mist whinnied and launched forward, kicking up dust.

***

Frost held Tajar tightly as Mist thundered along The Trail.

"Don't die," she muttered. Tajar was so limp she had no idea if he was still alive. It was with shock that she admitted to herself that she was afraid of him dying, or perhaps it was that she was afraid of him leaving her, she could not tell which.

"Damn it!" she spat.

Attachments get people killed.

I've let myself get soft. I've spent too much time with these barbarians.

Teacher would tell me to abandon him now.

No, she would tell me to kill him. That would purge the weakness.

It would be easy. Simply releasing one of the reins and he would fall and dash his brains on the ground. No blade or poison would be needed. "Use nature to do your work when you can," she had said. No one would suspect me if he fell. After all he is a fully grown man and I am just a helpless little woman.

Even easier would be to slow down and make sure I take too long to reach Lasthome. Time will take him soon anyway. Maybe it already has.

She neither let him drop nor slowed her pace. Instead she leaned further over Mist and gripped Tajar tighter between her arms. His head flopped back against her shoulder and she heard the faintest exhalation of breath.

"Yah!" she screamed and she kicked her heels in again. "Run, Mist! Run!" The horse responded. Even though she had been cantering already, at Frost's urging Mist lengthened and quickened her stride. The land raced past.

After traveling for a couple of hours, sometimes galloping, sometimes walking, they came around the side of a long hill. Suddenly the steep roofs of Lasthome burst into view. Relief flooded into Frost. Her eyes stung and watered up. She urged Mist forward into one final sprint. The tears were blown towards her ears by the onrushing wind.

She steered Mist onto the road that led into the town.

"Move!" she screamed as they dashed into the street. Townsfolk scattered before her. Others rushed to the street to see what the commotion was about. Frost pulled the reins to slow Mist into a trot. Her eyes jerked from side to side until she saw what she was looking for: a temple. She cursed her luck. It was a Temple of Trisen.

No other option.

She kicked Mist until they were outside its open double doors.

"Help! Somebody help!" She dared not try to lower him to the ground. Her arms were too shaky to trust.

A woman and a man, both past middle aged, and wearing faded brown robes, appeared at the doorway looking concerned. They ran to her and reached up to take Tajar.

"Is he alive?" Frost asked. She desperately tried to put her blank face back on.

The woman placed her ear near his mouth and her fingers on his jugular vein.

Time stopped. The woman was motionless for too long listening and feeling for a sign of life.

I was too slow.

After an eternity the woman replied. "Barely."

"He took an arrow in the back. It punctured his lung and river water got in. That was two days ago. Fever is taking him."

The woman and man exchanged a quick look. Frost had seen healers give that look before. It meant that there was no hope.

"We will do our best," they lied.

Frost curtly nodded her head. Together she and the two priests dragged Tajar onto a table inside the temple. They placed him face down. While the woman fetched their tools and herbs, the man cut Tajar's shirt off of him. The stink of rot filled the room as the cloth was pulled away. The edges of the hole were festering - dark purple and swollen. The man and woman exchanged another look. The man picked up the fire poker and placed its tip in the flame.

"We must cauterize the wound and make some incisions to drain his chest," he explained to Frost.

The woman then started strapping Tajar to the table with large leather bands while the man sharpened a small, delicate blade.

"You have done enough, dear," the woman said gently to Frost. "Go rest. We will find you when we are done."

Frost nodded but she could not move. She looked at Tajar's pale face. Even without his ridiculous smile he was so beautiful.

What a waste.

A moment of rashness overcame her. She bent over and put her lips to his ears.

"Please survive." She blinked her stinging eyes and left the smallest of kisses on his burning cheek.

"Frost?" he mumbled. He tried to reach his bound arm towards her. His open hand stretched towards her.

She took his hand in hers.

"Thank you," he mumbled and squeezed her hand. She squeezed back for a few seconds. His hand was rough and cool. She brushed her thumb lightly over his knuckles. His eyes opened halfway and met hers. He smiled at her and she smiled back. He then closed his eyes, stopped squeezing, and went limp.

What the hell am I doing? He's going to die.

She let his hand drop and walked towards the temple door.

This is no good. You're better than this, Xantia.

By the time she reached the road her face was tearless and strong again.

***

Xantia appraised the three inns of Lasthome and chose the cheapest looking one. With no money to her name she had to barter one of her smaller knives for it. The knife was worth ten days of accommodation but she willingly traded it in exchange for a bed, food, a basin of hot water, and a lump of soap.

Once refreshed she went in search of caravan drivers. Fate was smiling on her, for she found a silk merchant bound for the west. Even better, they were leaving Lasthome in the morning.

"I wish to travel with your caravan," she told the middle aged woman in a gaudy, but dusty, blue and yellow traveling dress.

"It will cost you two pieces of silver per day. Four if we are feeding you too."

"I will be one of your guards." Xantia replied impassively. "You will pay me five pieces of silver per day, and supply me first choice of food."

The woman burst out laughing. "Did Zhao put you up to this?" she looked around the room, presumably trying to find Zhao.

"I am serious. You will need me. The barbarians are raiding heavily this time of year."

"Go away, I don't need any more guards and certainly not a little girl like you who would hide from the first sign of danger."

"I will spar with your best guard. If I win will you take me on?"

"You are serious aren't you?" Curiosity lit up her eyes.

"Deadly serious."

The merchant examined her carefully. "Deal. If you can defeat my best you may travel with my caravan for two silver pieces a day plus food."

"Five," she repeated.

"Let us see you spar and then negotiate."

Her best guard was a middle-aged man with just the right amount of muscle to make him strong without slowing him down. The first time they sparred the man paid the price for not taking her seriously. He let her attack first, thinking, perhaps, that he was being chivalrous. She dispelled that thought by throwing a handful of dirt in his eyes and then taking out his right knee. He went down hard, but jumped up quickly and wiped the dirt from his face. The second time he did not wait for her. His punches were quick, and his posture was perfect. She could tell that his hand forms were better than hers. There was little chance for her to beat him if it were not for the fact that he was still holding back. She would have to end it quickly. She grabbed his wrist and twisted it into a lock. It was weak, but gave enough distraction that she was able to kick his left knee. He fell again. 

Stay down.

He did not. He stood up as if his knees were unhurt. His face was covered in shame and rage. 

I'll have to hurt him. Men and their pride...

He came at her warily but struck out ferociously when he got in range. The blows would have connected had she not had time in the previous two fights to observe his fighting style. Xantia pulled out of reach, not allowing him to engage. As blow after blow fell short his frustration grew. When he broke his posture to try to reach her she launched herself on him. She deflected a blow inwards and stepped to his side. Her jab to his throat was like an adder strike. He instinctively clutched his neck.  Without mercy she kicked in his injured left knee. He collapsed in pain. To finish the job she stomped on his hand until she heard something crack. 

"Well," said the merchant, "I will not underestimate you again. I'll give you three pieces a day plus food."

"You'll give me twelve, to be paid at dawn each morning, and a horse."

"Pah! That is more than three of my other guards combined. What makes you think you deserve more than them?"

"Because you need a new captain - he is little use to you without his knee and sword hand - and because I know the barbarians better than any of your caravan."

In the end she settled for ten pieces a day, second choice of food, and a horse.

Later that evening the priest woman came looking for her, presumably with news of Tajar, but Xantia easily avoided her.

Xantia left early the next morning to join the caravan, but not before sneaking into the inn keeper's private room and stealing back the knife she had bartered away to him.

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-Y. V. Qualls