Magic of Thieves by C. Greenwood Read Free Book Online Page B

heavenward, his lips moving in silent prayer. He made no move to flee or to defend himself as the brigands closed in. The same could not be said of his young companion.
    “Run, Honored One. I’ll defend you!” the boy cried, leaping boldly forward to shield his master. With determined force, he struck out with the only weapon he had, his travelers pack. Nib was caught unprepared as the heavy pack slammed into him and knocked him from his feet. Seirdric was not so easily felled. Before the boy could gather his strength, the outlaw slashed a knife down the lad’s skinny ribs.
    Yowling in pain, the boy dropped his pack and collapsed heavily to the ground. There, he curled into a tight ball, clutching his wounded side. A steady stream of blood appeared from beneath his hands. Behind him, the priest found the courage to turn and flee toward the near trees. Illsman snatched up the dead woodsman’s crossbow and steadied it against his shoulder, aiming at the priest’s retreating back, but no bolt was ever loosed.
    “Stop!” Dradac shouted. “Let him go.”
    Illsman hesitated and during that pause, missed his opportunity. The priest had put the trees between them and was lost from sight.
    “Why did you stop me?” Illsman growled. “I had a clean shot. Now we’ll have to chase him down.”
    Dradac clutched his shoulder and spoke through gritted teeth. “Forget the old man—it’s unlucky to murder a priest. Besides, he doesn’t know the forest. He’ll stumble around in circles for days before he finds his way free of the trees, and once his safety is secured, I very much doubt he’ll have the courage to return.”
    A low moan nearby distracted me from the outlaws’ conversation. I followed the sound to the priest boy, who writhed in pain a few yards from me. I don’t know what instinct or pity made me move toward him, but I did. He lay on his side, hands fumbling uselessly at his injury. To his credit, he wasn’t crying out. Instead, he sucked in his breath in ragged gasps against the pain. His hands were trembling, his knuckles white where he clenched handfuls of his gray robe in his fists, vainly attempting to slow the flow of blood.
    His feeble efforts moved me and, unthinkingly, I began to assist him. Trying to remember what little I had learned from our camp healer about tending such injuries, I tore the hem of the boy’s robe, ripping free a long strip of coarse cloth. With effort, I lifted him a few inches from the ground and shifted him enough to twine the bandage twice around his waist, pulling it tight over his injured side to staunch the bleeding. He gasped at the movement and the painful pressure against the wound, but I ignored his reaction, feeling a small surge of satisfaction when I saw the blood flowing less freely. The boy’s face was growing pale as milk.
    He opened violet eyes to peer into my face, and I was immediately struck by his gaze. It held none of the panicked dread I’d expected. Slowly, cautiously, I opened my magical sense to the turmoil of his emotions, only to discover there was no turmoil. Intrigued, I dug deeper but could find no fear in him, only a silent cry of determination and a strong will to live. Alongside this, hot waves of agony rippled through him, and I instinctively withdrew before the pain could reach through him and touch me.
    I became aware once more of my companions. Dradac, his voice taut with pain, was giving orders. “Seirdric, stay behind and dispose of the bodies. I don’t want anybody stumbling over this mess and wondering how it got here. Nib, you’ll help him and Illsman will accompany me back to camp. I don’t know that I can make it there on my own.”
    There were murmurs of agreement as the men leapt to obey his orders. And then they noticed me kneeling over the boy.
    “What have you done here, hound?” Seirdric came over to frown down on me. “The boy should’ve bled to death. Now I’ll have to finish him.”
    “No, leave him be,” I said,