Standing over the big man, he cut the straps on his flimsy jerkin and flung it open. Had Kahriah not been so adamant about treating his scrapes and cuts, Lohmen might not have had the fortitude to proceed.

‘Infections kill more men than steel.’

Trying not to look at where his face had been, Lohmen grabbed the bottom of the man’s shirt with his good hand and pulled it to his teeth. With the dagger, he cut the garment into several strips. Lohmen then cut the pendant from his neck, stuffed it in his pocket, and pulled the gloves from his belt. With those items and his improvised bandages in hand, he went to a rock opposite the eyes of the tall dying man.

He laid the straps over his knee and set the dagger at his feet. A flood of pain caused him to let go when he tried to pull Kahriah’s ring off his hand. He grabbed a thick twig and put it between his teeth. He took hold of the ring and took rapid, deep breaths through his nose. On the fifth or sixth breath, he wrenched on the ring and pulled with what strength he had left. Blistered skin accumulated in front of it, but his hands had separated. The flesh-coated ring was now in the palm of his right hand.

He was breathing hard again, but it calmed after a long-feeling minute or two. He shook the ring free of skin and put it between his teeth before sliding a finger from his right hand through it. With his son’s painting gone, the ring was now all he had left of his former family. He grabbed the first shirt bandage and began wrapping his left hand.

He stood and surveyed the carnage that had transpired over the past few minutes. Doubled over beside a tree, he wretched. After wiping his mouth, Lohmen poked at the fire, but the masterpiece was gone. Thesdon’s sunshine was gone. He fell to his knees.

We’ll paint it again, Thes.

He wiped tears away to clear his vision, and at the edge of the fire, something caught his attention. The letters from his commissioner were marked black by charcoal but not burnt. The seal had melted away, but the paper was intact. He plucked them from the fire, wiped them on his trousers and stuffed them back in the bag the axeman had ceremoniously upended.

I must show these letters to Yerik.

He stood, raised his head and looked at the camp again. His jaw was agape and chills coursed through his blood where adrenaline had flowed before. He wondered how a painter could be capable of such things. Talking to himself, he forced himself to take inventory. He noted his items, those not broken, and began plotting his ride away from this cursed place.

My horse…

He had forgotten about his horse. The obsidian-black steed was calmly grazing by the tree where she’d been tied. It was hard to make her out; only her white feet were visible in the dark forest, but she hadn’t whinnied or gruffed once during the entire fight.

She’s made of tougher stuff than I am.

Morning was hours off, but he knew no sleep would find him. The spectres of this night would haunt him forever. In desperate need of a herbalist’s attention, he collected his things and tried to repack them as best he could. The mental list he had forced upon himself helped sequester his violent deeds for the time being. He packed the lord purse and any jars of paint that hadn’t broken he put into a saddlebag. The cartography notebook, which had stayed latched, he tucked back into the bag beside the letters. Though it made him uncomfortable, he knew what he had to do next.

He grabbed the axe first and set it beside his bags, then searched for where he had put the dagger. A quick examination revealed it to be less ornate than the Ranger’s, but he could attest to its sharpness. He patted his body, trying to find a suitable place to put it. There was a brief thought about sliding it into his belt, but that would be too precarious for riding.

I don’t know the first thing about weapons…How…?

He looked at the body of the daggerman lying face down in the dirt, the blood pooling at the side of his head, creating a thick, dark mud. The painter squatted down beside him and flopped the man onto his back. The daggerman coughed up blood and his eyes flung open. Without even thinking, the painter plunged the dagger into his heart. The painter let go of the blade and staggered backward.

He closed his eyes and took a deep breath.

“I need the sheath.”

Lohmen retrieved the simple leather scabbard from the dead man with great anguish and worked it onto his own decorated belt. He pulled the dagger from the tall man’s chest, wiped it on his trousers and slid it into the sleeve. Worse for wear and full of disgust, he stood as an armed man for the first time in his life.

He mounted his nameless horse and began down the road, the larger pack shouldered and the smaller leather bag in his lap. In the dark of night, he couldn’t be sure where he was going, only that he needed to leave this place. The pain in his head and hand kept him awake in the saddle. The makeshift bandages would do for now, but if he had any chance of avoiding infection, he would need to find an Herbalist before long.