Soulcatcher. One-time mentor. One-time mistress of the Black Company. More recently a deadly enemy, but still long ago. Supposedly dead for a decade and a half.

Hed been there. Hed seen her slain. Hed helped hunt her down....

He tried to rise again, some vague force driving him to fight the unfightable.

A gloved hand stayed him. A gentle voice told him, Dont strain yourself. You arent healing well. You havent been eating or taking enough fluids. Are you awake? Are you sensible?

He managed a feeble nod.

Good. Im going to prop you up in a slightly elevated position. Im going to feed you broth. Dont waste energy. Let your strength come back.

She propped him, had him sip through a reed. He downed a pint of broth. And kept it down. Soon a glimmer of strength trickled through his flesh.

Thats enough for now. Now well get you cleaned up.

He was a disgusting mess. How long? he croaked.

She placed a pot of water in his hands, inserted another reed. Sip. Dont talk. She started cutting his clothing off him.

Its been seven days since you were hit, Croaker. Her voice had become another voice entirely. It changed every time she paused. This voice was masculine, mocking, though he wasnt the mockerys object. Your comrades still control Dejagore, to the embarrassment of the Shadowmasters. Your Mogaba is in command. Hes stubborn but he could be embarrassed himself. And however stubborn he is, he cant hold out forever. The powers ranged against him are too great.

He tried to ask a question. She forestalled him. The mocking voice asked, Her? Wicked chuckle. Yes. She survived. Thered be no point to this if she hadnt.

A new voice, female but as hard as a diamond arrowpoint, snarled, She tried to kill me! Ha-ha! Yes. You were there, my love. You helped. But I dont hold a grudge. You were under her spell. You didnt know what you were doing. Youll redeem yourself by helping me take my revenge.

The man didnt respond.

She bathed him. She was free with the water.

Hed been diminished by his wound but he was still a big man, four inches over six feet tall. He was about forty-five years old. His hair was an average, unnoteworthy brown. Hed begun to go bald in front. His eyes were hard, humorless, icy blue, narrow and deeply set. He had a ragged, greying beard surrounding a thin-lipped mouth that seldom smiled. His face bore scattered reminders of a childhood pox and more than a few memories of acne. He might have been moderately good-looking once. Time had been unkind. Even in repose his face looked hard and a little off center.

He didnt look like what he had been all his adult life, the Black Companys historian and physician. His appearance was more suited to the role he had inherited, that of Captain.