Dangerous Talents by Frankie Robertson

You always were one to lie abed. We’ll never catch any game with you flat on your back all day.”
    Sorn’s smile widened. “You should try it. The ladies like a man who knows his way around in bed.”
    “So this is just a ploy to gain the lady’s sympathy? I can think of better ways to attract women.”
    Sorn shifted position and gasped. Dahleven’s gut twisted in sympathy, but he maintained a mocking expression.
    “Use them then,” Sorn said. “I can’t wait to see. You won’t catch one with that grim face, though. Women like a man who laughs now and then.”
    “I laugh.”
    “Not enough.”
    Dahleven’s pretended humor failed him. “I can’t find much to laugh about just now.”
    “Ah, my friend. Our fate is in the hands of the Norns, and they weave as they will. My death blow came defending a lady. It’s a good death. But your fate is much different, I suspect. Though tied to the same lady.”
    Dahleven let Sorn’s reference to his death pass without comment. He was right; it would be an honorable death. The skalds would sing songs of his deeds. “The lady is a puzzle.”
    “She’s more than a problem to be solved. She’s a woman—as you already know.” Sorn grinned.
    Dahleven groaned. “I know it too well.”
    “Your fates are woven together. Enjoy it.”
    “The Gods respect and reward a man with courage enough to grasp his fate—and change it,” Dahleven countered.
    “Some fates shouldn’t be changed. A man needs more than respect to make a life. He needs joy. Take it where you find it.” It was an old debate between them, and held the comfort of a ritual. Sorn’s eyes drooped and his smile softened. His voice was muzzy with coming sleep. “Don’t turn your back on joy, my brother.”
     
    *
     
    Sorn’s fevered voice awakened Cele. His querulous moans had already roused Dahleven and Ghav. Cele slipped from beneath the blanket she shared with Fendrikanin and went closer. She stopped a few steps off to Dahleven’s side, where he knelt, facing Ghav across Sorn’s supine form. Dahleven hadn’t wanted her near Sorn before, and she didn’t want to be sent away again.
    A slight breeze bit cold and sharp, raising gooseflesh on her arms and legs. Cele hugged her arms tightly, trying not to shiver, and looked down at Sorn. Fever flushed his face, and his breath came rapid and shallow.
    “Is there nothing that can ease him?” Dahleven asked.
    The healer looked across at him. Dahleven’s usually calm face was carved by fatigue and worry. His eyes pleaded with Ghav.
    Cele knew how he felt. She’d asked the same questions herself, but seeing the naked emotion on Dahleven’s face twisted something inside her. An irrational, half-formed hope tried to flicker to life. She wanted Sorn’s recovery too much to accept anything less, and Dahleven wanted it too. He led these men. They respected him. They obeyed him. Somehow Ghav would do what Lord Dahleven demanded. He would save Sorn. Cele saw the same expectation on Dahleven’s face, etched by silvery light and shadow. She wanted it for herself, for Sorn, and when she saw the anguish in his eyes, she wanted it for Dahleven, too.
    Ghav’s low voice rumbled almost below the threshold of hearing, as if he were as reluctant to speak the words as they were to hear them. “There is only one thing that will ease him now, and it will come soon enough.”
    Hope shriveled in Cele’s heart as Ghav’s words repeated in her mind. She looked at Dahleven. His expression barely changed, but the subtle tightening of his face, the slight sag of his shoulders betrayed his pain. Her vision blurred as her eyes filled, and hot tears spilled down her cheeks. She turned her face away.
    There was nothing more anyone could do. Ghav had done his best. Sorn would die, and no one could do anything about it. No one here . At a hospital, with modern antibiotics and sterile surgical techniques, they could probably save him. But she might as well wish them both on the