Frantic to escape his confinement, Roran lurched to his feet, grabbed at the edges of the slit, and dragged himself out of the collapsed tent. He staggered into the light, wearing nothing but his breeches, and looked round in confusion.
Baldor was standing there, as were Carn, Delwin, Mandel, and ten other warriors, all of whom held swords and axes at the ready. None of the men were fully dressed, save for two, whom Roran recognized as sentinels posted on the night watch.
“Gods,” someone exclaimed, and Roran turned to see one of the warriors peeling back the side of the ruined tent to expose the corpse of the assassin.
The dead man was of an unimposing size, with long, shaggy hair gathered in a ponytail and a leather patch mounted over his left eye. His nose was crooked and squashed flat—broken by Roran—and a mask of blood covered the lower part of his shaved face. More blood caked his chest and side and the ground beneath him. It appeared almost too much to have come from a single person.
“Roran,” said Baldor. Roran continued to stare at the assassin, unable to tear his gaze away. “Roran,” Baldor said again, but louder. “Roran, listen to me. Are you hurt? What happened? … Roran!”
The concern in Baldor’s voice finally caught Roran’s attention. “What?” he asked.
“Roran, are you hurt?!”
Why would he think that? Puzzled, Roran looked down at himself. The hair on his torso was matted with gore from top to bottom, while streaks of blood covered his arms and stained the upper part of his breeches.
“I’m fine,” he said, though he had difficulty forming the words. “Has anyone else been attacked?”
In response, Delwin and Hamund moved apart, revealing a slumped body. It was the youth who had been running messages for him earlier.
“Ah!” groaned Roran, and sorrow filled him. “What was he doing wandering about?”
One of the warriors stepped forward. “I shared a tent with him, Captain. He always had to step out to relieve himself at night, ’cause he drank so much tea before turning in. His mother told him it would keep him from getting sick.… He was a good sort, Captain. He didn’t deserve to be cut down from behind by some sneaking coward.”
“No, he didn’t,” Roran murmured. If he hadn’t been there, I would be dead now. He motioned toward the assassin. “Are there any more of these killers on the loose?”
The men stirred, glancing at each other; then Baldor said, “I don’t think so.”
“Have you checked?”
“No.”
“Well then check! But try not to wake up everyone else; they need their sleep. And see to it that guards are stationed at the tents of all the commanders from now on.” … Should have thought of that before.
Roran stayed where he was, feeling dull and stupid as Baldor issued a series of quick orders, and everyone but Carn, Delwin, and Hamund dispersed. Four of the warriors picked up the crumpled remains of the boy and carried him away to bury, while the rest set out to search the camp.
Going over to the assassin, Hamund nudged the man’s knife with the tip of his boot. “You must have scared those soldiers more than we thought this morning.”
“Must have.”
Roran shivered. He was cold all over, especially his hands and feet, which were like ice. Carn noticed and fetched him a blanket. “Here,” said Carn, and wrapped it around Roran’s shoulders. “Come sit by one of the watchfires. I’ll have some water heated so you can clean yourself. All right?”
Roran nodded, not trusting his tongue to work.
Carn started to lead him away, but before they had gone more than a few feet, the magician abruptly halted, forcing Roran to stop as well. “Delwin, Hamund,” said Carn, “bring me a cot, something to sit on, a jug of mead, and several bandages as fast as you can. Now, if you please.”
Startled, the two men sprang into action.
“Why?” asked Roran, confused. “What’s wrong?”
His expression grim, Carn pointed at Roran’s chest. “If you’re not wounded, then what’s that, pray tell?”
Roran looked where Carn was pointing and saw, hidden amid the hair and the gore on his breast, a long, deep cut that started in the middle of his right chest muscle, ran across his sternum, and ended just below his left nipple. At its widest, the gash hung open over a quarter of an inch, and it resembled nothing so much as a lipless mouth stretched wide in a huge, ghastly grin. The most disturbing feature of the cut, however, was the complete lack of blood; not so much as a single drop oozed out of the incision. Roran could clearly see the thin layer of yellow fat underneath his skin and, below it, the dark red muscle of his chest, which was the same color as a slice of raw venison.
Accustomed as he was to the horrific damage that swords, spears, and other weapons could wreak on flesh and bone, Roran still found the sight unnerving. He had suffered numerous injuries in the course of fighting the Empire—most notably when one of the Ra’zac had bitten his right shoulder during their capture of Katrina in Carvahall—but never before had he received such a large or uncanny wound.
“Does it hurt?” Carn asked.
Roran shook his head without looking up. “No.” His throat tightened, and his heart—which was still racing from the fight—redoubled in speed, pounding so fast that one beat could not be distinguished from the next. Was the knife poisoned? he wondered.