The King of the Vile by David Dalglish Read Free Book Online

blanket. They camped in the heart of the village. The place was empty, since Dieredon had urged the people to gather their things and head south, toward the Castle of the Yellow Rose. Behind the walls protected by Lord Arthur, they might have a chance.
    “We don’t need to stay here,” Jessilynn said as Dieredon carefully tended the fire. She could tell he was anxious. No doubt he wanted to be many miles from here, warning another village instead of taking care of her.
    “I’ve seen such a reaction before,” the elf said, tossing a small stick into the fire’s center and then crouching low, chin resting on his fist. “That blow to your head was worse than you let on. Have the headaches started?”
    She nodded.
    “I thought so,” Dieredon said. “I must warn you, Jess, the bruise on your forehead will heal far faster than the hidden damage. This next week will be difficult for you. Daylight will be uncomfortable on your eyes, as will any loud noises.”
    “I’ll suffer through,” Jessilynn said. “We don’t have time to be sick. The creatures are still moving, and so must we.”
    Dieredon shook his head. “Tonight you rest.” His brown eyes flicked up from the fire to hers. “Unless...can you heal yourself using Ashhur’s power?”
    Jessilynn huddled tighter underneath her blanket. Healing? There’d been no occasion to try at the Citadel, with both Lathaar and Jerico insisting they’d focus more on that subject once the students were older. She knew the rudimentary prayers, the concepts behind it, but to perform such an act, and on herself?
    “I don’t know,” she admitted.
    Across the fire, the elf shrugged his shoulders.
    “That’s fine,” he said. “But surely there’s no harm in trying?”
    Jessilynn let out a soft chuckle. “I guess not.” She sat up straight and let the blanket fall into her lap. The movement sent a spike of pain from the back of her head down her spine, and she hissed as she clenched her teeth. She felt so foolish, so pathetic. A simple block, that’s all it’d taken. Jerico had endured an onslaught of thousands of undead, yet a humanoid bird hurling a chunk of wood had her down and suffering. If there was ever an epic retelling of her journey with Dieredon, she hoped this part would be mercifully left out.
    Telling herself a dose of humility was always welcome, she put her right hand on her bruised forehead and closed her eyes. The damage was hidden, Dieredon had told her, and so she tried to focus on the pain deep inside her head. Calming herself with a deep breath, she began the prayer as best as she could remember Lathaar teaching it.
    “Through your power, not mine, let this wound be healed,” she whispered. Exactly as she expected, nothing happened. Jessilynn let out a sigh.
    “It was worth the attempt,” Dieredon said. “This will slow down our travels significantly.”
    “I’m sorry,” Jessilynn said, crouching as if to make herself as small as possible. The elf stared at her, and she wondered what he could possibly be thinking behind that careful, guarded stare.
    “Perhaps you should consider wearing a helmet like many of your brethren,” Dieredon suggested.
    “You don’t wear a helmet.”
    “I also would have dodged the throw.”
    Jessilynn laughed despite the hurt it caused.
    “Of course you would have,” she said. “And if you find a helmet around here that fits me, I’ll wear it, but I’m not holding my breath.”
    Silence settled between them. Jessilynn shifted closer to the fire, warming her toes. For several long minutes there was silence. Bored, Jessilynn tapped her fingers on Darius’s sword, lying beside her in the grass. She’d kept it strapped to her back throughout all their travels, putting it aside only when they were to battle. Dieredon frowned at the blade often, but to her appreciation, he never questioned her need to bring it with her.
    “We do too little,” he said, his voice a whisper, the words a guilty confession.