Warsworn

ginger to mask the entire camp. Keir refused a protection that wasn't available for everyone. Since he was absent more often then naught, I took to sleeping in the stilltent, to be quickly available to any that needed me. Marcus was everywhere, aiding where needed, and somehow keeping us fed. He and Isdra shared the. care of the baby, trading off when necessary. What amazed me was the ease with which the warriors dealt with her, for there was no shortage of volunteers. The rare smiles I saw were at the antics of the babe, who kicked and cooed and laughed, the one sound of joy in a camp filled with despair.
    For there was little joy in our hearts. There were so many deaths, regardless of the care we took or the medicines we doled out. The darkest moments came when the ill outnumbered the healthy. At that point, we were all exhausted. Whenever I emerged from the tent, I tried not to look at the horizon where the smoke rose from the pyres. Instead, I tried to focus on the living. Goddess love him, Marcus still found time to make sure that I ate. One morning, during the time when the days blurred together, he was coaxing the morning meal into me when we looked up to see Prest standing just inside the tent, his face grim.
    "Prest?" I put my bowl aside and stood.
    "Please come, Warprize."
    "Who's ill?"
    "Rafe."
    Prest led the way, and I followed. Marcus came behind, carrying a basket of my supplies, refusing to let me carry anything. I protested, until the walk itself left me breathless. My strength was still not fully returned.
    A few of the smaller tents had been cleverly fastened together to form a larger shelter. Prest held the flap as I bent to enter. The tent was filled with people, but my eyes went to young Rafe first.
    He lay on a pallet, already covered in sweat, his black hair plastered to his forehead. His face was pale, far paler than normal, and his eyes were huge and glittering as he looked at me. His lips moved and I heard a faint "Warprize."
    This caught the attention of the other people in the tent and they turned to look at me with wide eyes. Four girls, well, warriors… but girls to my eyes. They couldn't be that much older than Gils. Their surprise was only for a moment, then the one closest to Rafe's head wrung out a cloth, and placed it on his forehead. She gave me a veiled look of mistrust, bright green eyes flashing through long black hair.
    The girl closest to me was dressed in brown leather armor, with her brown curly hair cut very short. She inclined her head. "Warprize, I am Lasa of the Horse. We are tending to Rafe." She straightened, a confident look in her clear brown eyes. "We have talked to Gils, and we know what we must do."
    "And we will do it well." The honey-blonde girl kneeling by Rafe's shoulder pounded a stake in the ground with a fierce blow. But she looked up with hazel eyes flecked with fear.
    "I am sure that you will." I smiled, trying to reassure her. "But Rafe is one of my guards, and I'd like to check him myself. Would that be acceptable?"
    The hazel gaze flicked over to Lasa, but she must have gotten approval. "Of course, Warprize." She got to her feet. "I am Soar of the Deer." Marcus handed the basket to me, but remained outside with Prest, given the crash. The girls arranged themselves carefully, leaving me to kneel by Rafe's head. He gave me a weak smile as I put my hand to his forehead. "I'm sorry, Warprize."
    "You've nothing to be sorry for, Rafe." He was warm alright, the fever flushing his face. "How long have you been ill?"
    He blinked, looking at me, lost and uncertain. As he had looked the first time I met him, in the healing tent in the castle gardens. His head injury had been bleeding, and he'd been the first of the prisoners that had let me treat their wounds. He'd talked to me in a form of trade talk that our people had in common. It had taken time to win his confidence, but Rafe had been the one to ask me to treat Simus, and had reassured Joden of my skills. "Never you mind. Sleep, Rafe."
    He closed his eyes, and relaxed. The scar from that old wound stood out, thin and sharp against his skin. The green-eyed girl wet her cloth and began to stroke his face and chest. "He's been ill for a few hours now, Warprize." Her gaze flashed at me again. "Gils has told us all that we need to know."
    "Fylin!" Lasa scolded. "Earth's sake, you have no courtesy!" The green gaze disappeared, as Fylin bowed her head. "Forgive me, Warprize." The tone was sullen. "I am Fylin of