If the Horses Hold

At a campsite on the border between the Drathmoor Lowlands and the Taroan Highlands

“Lay him down here,” Atalla instructed, tapping the bedroll close to the campfire.

Cragath and Amaric laid Lothar down gently. He groaned and writhed in pain as Mira cradled his head, whispering assurances and comforting him as best she could.

Atalla laid her hands upon Lothar and whispered in a tongue none but Rascha had ever heard. At once, her eyes went white as she seemed to gaze into the heavens—then returned to normal within a moment.

“It didn’t hit anything vital,” she declared, referring to the arrow. “But we have a problem.”

She and Rascha tore at his tunic, revealing the wound, which had already begun to turn black with corruption, slowly spreading.

“It’s cursed, grandmother,” Rascha observed. “As long as that stays in him, we can’t use our magic.”

“We’ll have to do this the hard way,” Atalla agreed. “Rascha, grab the surgery kit from the cart. Cragath, bring me one of the arrows those bastards were using. I need to see what we’re dealing with.”

They followed her instructions and returned within moments. Cragath presented the projectile, noting its barbed head.

“Alright,” Atalla huffed. “Slow is smooth, smooth is fast. Rascha—vinegar and my scalpel. Mira, give him the leather to bite down on.”

Vinegar was poured onto the wound, causing Lothar to buck as he bit hard into the leather strap. Cragath and Amaric moved in to hold him steady.

“Easy now…” Atalla murmured.

She made an incision, widening the wound and wiping away the fresh blood that poured free.

“Twine.”

Rascha handed it to her. Atalla plunged her fingers into the wound and looped the twine around the arrowhead.

“Feathers.”

Rascha clipped them and passed them over. Atalla slid the hollow shafts over the barbs to keep them from tearing flesh on the way out.

“Alright—Rascha, hold it steady. I’ll pull. The rest of you, keep him still. Ready? One, two—three!”

Atalla pulled, slow and firm, while Rascha held the shaft steady with pincers. After an agonizing moment, the arrow came free.

“Now, Rascha!”

Rascha extended her hands as a warm light bloomed between them. The corruption bled away, the wound knitting closed until only a scar remained.

“Ah!” Lothar exhaled, breath ragged.

A collective sigh of relief followed. Lothar stirred, eyes clearing as he tried to sit up, only for Mira to gently push him back down, her fingers threading through his hair.

“You’re alright,” she whispered.

“You’ll still feel pain for a time,” Rascha said softly. “But it will be manageable.”

“Thank you,” Lothar said, meeting the eyes of both goblins. “Both of you.”

Atalla waved the gratitude aside. Rascha looked away, cheeks flushing crimson.

Mira felt a brief pang of jealousy—until she caught Lothar looking at her, a small, grateful smile on his face. In that moment, she let herself be content, lost in his amber gaze, thanking the gods he still lived.

Amaric clapped him on the shoulder with a crooked grin.

“Thought we lost you, brother.”

“Not yet,” Lothar replied faintly.

“We’ll need to be more careful on the road now,” Cragath muttered.

“Aye,” Amaric agreed. “Someone didn’t want you returning.”

“Then let’s find out who,” Lothar said.

Kaethe dragged one of the assassins forward, arrows pinning both his legs. She yanked back his hood.

“Edran.”

Lothar pushed himself upright despite Mira’s protests. “So,” he growled, “how fares my uncle?”

Edran spat. “He’ll be just fine. Can’t say the same for anyone carrying water for you.”

Lothar’s eyes hardened. “What does that mean?”

Edran chuckled. “What do you think? Maybe Eumer will finish—”

Lothar slit his throat with the dagger at his belt, staring into Edran’s eyes as the life drained from him. When the body went still, Lothar turned away.

“I have to get back to Leoham. Quickly.”

“Kaethe and I will stay behind with the goblins and the cart,” Cragath said. “You, Amaric, and Mira ride ahead. If the horses hold, you’ll reach Leoham by the morrow.”

As Lothar, Amaric, and Mira armed themselves and mounted up, Rascha called out.

“Wait.”

She pressed the boar medallion into Lothar’s hand.

“But this—”

“Don’t worry,” she said quickly. “Grandmother has taken a liking to you. And I…”

She faltered, cheeks coloring once more.

“…just be safe.”

Lothar accepted it and kissed her hand.

As they rode off, Amaric leaned toward Mira with a smirk.

“I think you’ve got a rival.”

***

Meanwhile, at the keep of Leoham

“This must go before the clan,” Karga said firmly. “I will call upon the High Shaman to assemble the Witan. And you, Allowin—you will testify to everything you’ve told me.”

“Yes,” Allowin nodded. “And I will declare my support for Lothar, provided my life is spared—and that my wife and children fall under his protection.”

“You have my word,” Karga said. “My son will remember the service you render.”

She knew well that Allowin’s warning had not been born of selflessness. But influence was influence, and his web of whispers could yet serve Lothar—at least for now.

“And if Lothar does not—”

“Lothar will return,” Karga cut in sharply.

“…Of course,” Allowin conceded.

“We must prepare,” Odotho said. “Once Eumer learns Allowin has escaped—and that the Witan is being assembled—he may move openly.”

“He can’t command that much support,” Osric said.

Before Allowin could answer, Brithun burst into the chamber.

“It’s Eumer! He’s raised a host in the streets—they’re coming this way!”

Osric rose at once. “Barricade the keep.”

“Already done. Runners are rallying our forces. If that bastard wants a fight, he’ll have it.”

Karga rushed to the window overlooking the bailey. Torches flickered like a rising tide in the darkness below.

“Lothar…” she whispered. “Hurry home.”