The swordsman was obviously dead, but the man with the axe, the one that had tried to stop them, lay there, unmoving. She approached cautiously, crouching down to examine him. He was clothed in a rough cut tunic with large stitching, and wore heavy-looking boots, quite unlike the others that had attacked her. His face showed a thin beard, his hair long and unkempt, unlike most of the townsfolk hereabouts. Reaching out, she checked for a pulse to find he still lived. His chest was bloody, the ice shards having punched clean through his tunic, but while his breathing was shallow, he had not yet made the journey to join the Saints.

Wounded

Autumn 1103 SR

Athgar awoke with a start. He was in a room, lying in a large bed, unlike any he had ever slept in before. It was comfortable, with thick blankets to ward off the chill of morning. Looking around, he realized he was in a spacious room, far bigger than the tiny hut he had lived in for most of his life. It was richly appointed, with rugs on the floor to keep the cold at bay and curtains hanging by a window that boasted glass, allowing light to filter through.

He sat up and immediately regretted his decision as his chest exploded in pain, feeling like a red hot poker had been thrust into him. Suddenly, the room swirled before him, and he lay back down. Closing his eyes, he took a deep breath, trying to calm himself and breathe through the agony of his wounds. Slowly, he opened eyes again and gazed about the room, looking for any sign of where he was, or how he got here.

He vaguely remembered hearing a cry for help and then entering an alleyway, only to be met with some type of ranged attack. It had felt like being hit by a volley of knives, all thrown in succession, pushing him back against a wall. Someone had loomed over him, and he recalled staggering along with help, but the rest was a complete blur. Somehow, he had ended up here, though for what purpose he couldn't say.

He gingerly probed his chest to find it covered in bandages; whoever had brought him here had decided to keep him alive for the time being. Lifting the blankets, he swung his legs over the side of the bed to feel a soft rug beneath his feet. His boots were on the floor, still covered in dirt, and his axe lay on a nearby table. No one would hold a prisoner and leave their weapon so close at hand, and so he breathed a sigh of relief.