Zephyr susurrus tickled her toes in the cool blackness. Unlike the cosmos just outside her mindspace, this darkness was full, filled with whispers and echoes and memories. Unlike the cosmos, this place made her feel comfortable.

But where am I?

Where am I?

Am I?

The thought echoed about the darkness. The whispers giggled, a high-pitched, disconcordant sound that made her shiver and drew her forward. In a blink she saw a broken, shrunken, body floating in the darkness. And as she watched, the body uncurled, stretched, and healed. In another blink, the body stood before her, hale and whole and perfect. A man she had killed, risen from death.

The song of the black book burst into her mind with a skrill, General Vahrmap smiled at her, and Devorah woke screaming.

“General?”

Devorah blinked and realized she stood, rapier in one hand, dagger in the other, just outside her tent. The black book’s song danced about in her mind, itching at her neck and pinching at her eyes. Even miles away to the south, secure in the Governor’s office, the song called to her.

Rory stood in front of her, hands out spread to show he was unarmed, a spectacularly stupid thing to do as far as Devorah was concerned.

“I’m fine,” Devorah lied.

Rory wasn’t alone, his coterie of night watchmen stood at his back, each carefully not looking at her with any kind of concern. Devorah sheathed her weapons, giving herself a moment to think before she explained, “That last bandit raid…” and she knew they understood. Among neophytes and veterans alike, their latest foray into bandit elimination had left a lasting impression.

For the past two months, General Devorah Kempenny had led a group of soldiers along Kempenny’s northern border, rooting out bandit groups. Just two days ago, they had rousted a group whose actions involved not only waylaying travelers for their goods and money, but also taking the travelers themselves. The stink of human filth in the cave where the captives had been kept, the sickness, the defeated expressions, had been difficult to forget.

Rory nodded and turned to face his men. “Back to watch, gentlemen. I’ll join you shortly.”

“Sure thing, Corporal,” said one of the men. He saluted Devorah, “General, by your leave.”

Devorah nodded and watched them walk into the dark. She turned to her tent and pretended to check the ropes. She didn’t remember exiting the tent or drawing her weapons. She didn’t want to have to answer the questions she knew Rory was thinking.

“The people we rescued, they’re all right?” Devorah asked, trying for distraction.

“Still in camp, unharmed if a bit skittish,” Rory replied. “We should reach their village tomorrow. Whitebuck it’s called.”

“Good. And they’re certain it was the town cleric who sold them to the bandits?”

“Their story hasn’t changed.”

“Good. I mean… good to know.” Devorah realized she’d been fiddling with the same tent rope for too long. Not that Rory would be fooled.

“I’ve dreamed about it too,” Rory said quietly, “all those people forced into such a small space. But I’ve never heard you scream. Not even when Vahramp was beating you.”

Devorah shook her head without looking at him. But before she could explain the dream, a high-pitched exclamation startled them both. Devorah recognized the voice at once and sighed. Emma’s tent was erected next to hers because the Governor had insisted a General needed a personal assistant. Her one-time nurse had her head poked out of her tent, looking at the two of them, wide-eyed.

“Baby. It’s not appropriate for a young lady to be meeting a young man in the middle of the night.” Though she’d phrased it as a rebuke, her tone held a wink and a nudge.

Devorah clenched her teeth. “Emma, I told you not to call me that.”

“Sorry, Baby.”

Devorah stamped a foot. “I am not a baby. I am the General of the Army and…” she sighed. “And the Knight of the Province and… and so on and so forth.” She laughed and her own insistence.

Emma smiled. “I heard voices and worried. I know I’m just being silly. Sorry, Baby.”

Devorah ground her teeth.

“I could make some tea,” Emma offered, conciliatory.

“Sure,” said Devorah. “I don’t think I’ll be going back to sleep anyway.”

While Emma ducked back into her tent to put together the tea, Devorah walked a little away, beckoning Rory to follow her.

“Why…” Rory began, but he stopped himself.

Devorah knew what he was going to say: Why keep Emma around when she clearly wasn’t cut out for this kind of work. “Because the Governor insisted and politics is a game of chess,” Devorah replied.

“Hmm. Never learned to play chess.”

“I’ll have to teach you then.”

“Really, General, I don’t think I have time to be playing games.”

“I think I’ll insist.”

Rory saluted. “If you say so, sir.”

“Besides, I’m fond of her.”

Rory shrugged. He glanced over his shoulder at Emma’s tent. “Are we at a sufficient distance, sir?”

In his way, Rory could be just as annoying as Emma. She preferred his formality to her informality, but sometimes he was too formal. Devorah bit her tongue rather than voice the contradiction. Instead, she focused on the implication of the dream.

“I’ve been hearing rumors of monsters,” Devorah said. “What about you, Corporal?”

Rory shrugged. “I always hear rumors: monsters, demons, witches… you know, I’m beginning to think all outsiders are called ‘witches’ by village folk. But there has been one rumor more consistent than the others: livestock has gone missing.”

“That could be a lost sheep or two,” Devorah said

“Sure. But those found have been… dried out.” He shrugged again. “Rumors.”

Devorah couldn’t imagine what dried out livestock had to do with her dream of General Vahramp’s perfect form risen from darkness and whispers. Perhaps nothing.

• • •

Devorah had gotten some questioning looks when she’d entered the building for morning service. The people here abouts all knew each other and she was clearly a stranger. But a Church of Khulanty was meant to be open to everyone, so no one said anything.

It was strange to sit in a crowd of devout. They sat silent, severe, dour even, but their thoughts were open to her. And for a religion that professed love and acceptance, the only emotion she felt from the congregation was fear. They feared the man in black who stood at the lectern, but more, they feared what he threatened.

“There is but one God, and He is angry.”

Behind his words, she saw something else. She saw another man, a man dressed in humble robes but with haughty demeanor. He was the High Cleric of the Church of Khulanty, and it was his influence that drove the preacher's next words.

“God is the only path to paradise. But for those who have died without accepting Him, for those who did not measure up, for those who, in life, were not devout to Him, He does accept indulgences. A paltry payment. Isn't a few pieces of silver worth insuring a loved one's place in the sun with God rather than on the desolate landscape of the moon? A few pieces of silver to ensure forgiveness for their transgressions, for yours?”

Devorah shook her head. She had understood the Church of Khulanty to be corrupt; she had not understood to what degree. And she hadn’t even gotten around to accusing him of slave trade yet. She looked back at the door of the makeshift chapel where Corporal Vickers stood. He was out of uniform, but he still stood like a soldier. He nodded at her. They were ready.

Devorah stood, strode down the aisle, and stepped onto the small stage where the cleric used his lectern to loom over the townsfolk. The cleric, a man a head and a half taller than her, balked at her sudden intrusion. She held her grin in check. This would be fun.

“What is this?” the cleric demanded. “Who are you?”

Devorah turned to face the crowd.

“Ladies and gentlemen, I am Devorah Kempenny, General of Kempenny Province. And this man is a fraud.”

The cleric was caught off guard for only a moment. He sneered at Devorah, then spread his hands and also faced the crowd.

“Brazen, to interrupt a humble cleric and his congregation. But we know of you. Yes, we’ve all heard of the Witch of Kempenny, a dealer in dark magics, raiser of the dead, consorter with demons. Saint Zyta declaimed 'Suffer not, a witch to live. Burn her in the fires of the sun!'”

The crowd shifted and murmured. Dark rumors surrounded her name, many coming from the cleric. Fortunately, the congregation wasn’t ready to burn her just yet.

Devorah shrugged, trying to affect an air of confidence. “It’s easy to throw around accusations. I could claim he’s a fear monger using his position to live comfortably at your expense. I could claim the indulgences he collects line his own pockets. I could claim the pilgrims he sends to Kinswell are sold to the slave trade.”

She paused and smiled at the secret thoughts whispering through the silence. She liked the skeptical nature of these solid folk.

Can it be true?

Can she be trusted?

What proof does she have?

But the secret thoughts of the cleric turned wild and panicked. She knows! How does she know? Kill her! Kill her now! His eyes went wide, his hands trembled, and he shouted over the silence.

“Lies! Deception straight from all the Hells!” He grabbed Devorah by the arm. “We must burn her! Do as the Saints command!”

Devorah was surprised he grabbed her. He’d done it suddenly, impulsively. She thought of a dozen ways she could escape and counterattack. Instead, she looked at Corporal Vickers and nodded. He saluted and opened one of the large doors to the chapel. It swung out, ponderously. Through the door came a shaft of dusty, morning light, followed by the prisoners they’d rescued a few days before. The congregation turned to look and their thoughts shifted.

The pilgrims!

This is her proof.

He used us…

The cleric hadn’t noticed and continued to shout. “We have a duty, my people. She has come thinking to deceive us. But we are stronger. We must rid the righteous of her presence!” Spittle sprayed from his lips.

A tall man with greying hair stepped forward, walking halfway down the aisle before the cleric noticed him.

“You’re a liar!” the man shouted. “And a criminal of the worst sort.”

Devorah couldn’t remember his name, but he’d been the most forward of those they’d rescued, the most angry, the most ready to return to his home and denounce his cleric.

The cleric choked on his words.

“Third day of the pilgrimage, we were set upon by bandits,” the man continued. “They laughed at us, called us foolish sheep, and they praised Cleric Bridge by name for delivering such easy prey. General Kempenny and her men rescued us.”

Devorah jerked free of the cleric and pushed him to the edge of the stage, toward the congregation. They stood as one to claim him.

• • •

Devorah examined the rough stone church. It was a large building for so small a town. It hadn’t been full this morning, and Devorah doubted it would be full even if every family of farmers and hunters for miles around joined every villager, from the newest baby to the oldest grandparent. The front of the building was adorned with a pair of large double doors more than big enough for a person. Maybe they were meant for animals? There was no stained-glass window above the door as was in most other churches, but a sunburst worked in carved wood and painted in bright orange, red, and yellow, hung above the doors.

The sheriff of Whitebuck, a stout woman wearing a stout dress and bearing a stout cudgel, fit the image of this small community far better than the makeshift church. The sheriff stood next to Devorah outside the church, but she was busy glaring at Cleric Bridge, kneeling in the dirt at their feet.

“We’ll have you hanged for this, Alan,” the sheriff said, her voice a gravelly growl.

The cleric glared up at them as though still staring down from his pulpit. His fine clothes and disdainful sneer were so at odds with the plainness of Whitebuck he seemed unreal, a child’s doll in full costume brought to life.

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“God will punish you,” declaimed the cleric in a voice that carried, his performance as much for the gathered townsfolk as Devorah and the sheriff. The cleric made to stand, but two black-clad Kempenny soldiers shifted menacingly behind him and he hesitated.

“Sheriff.” Devorah spoke quietly but everyone nearby fell silent when she spoke, craning to hear. “What was this building before it was a church?”

The sheriff looked at her. “A barn. Old Mister Hostitch’s. He died a few years before Alan showed up.”

Devorah nodded, still examining the church. That explained the overly large doors, the lack of windows, and the rough-cut stone.

“I turned a stinking pig sty into a House of God. Is that a crime in Kempenny now?”

Devorah looked at the cleric. His face was set in haughty disdain.

“No. Though you are proof enough that your religion is a sham. Accepting money and gifts with a promise that those who treat you to such are assuring a place for themselves and their loved ones next to God in the afterlife,” Devorah snorted, “Disgusting. Even by your own laws these indulgences were anathema decades ago.” She remembered that from a book on church law in her aunt’s library.

“My place with God is assured, child,” said the cleric. “Can you be so certain about your fate in the afterlife?”

Devorah laughed, a high, girlish laugh, at odds with her menacing demeanor, but she didn’t care. “You sold people to slavers. If your god really approves, then no wonder your religion is a sham.” She knelt and whispered to the cleric. “There is no afterlife, no God, no heaven and no hells, only corrupt, rich old men abusing fairy tales to frighten the ignorant. When these practical people hang you tomorrow, you won’t be welcomed by God, only oblivion. I know. I’ve seen it.”

Slowly, his confidence cracked, his eyes widened, and he released a high-pitched moan.

Devorah stood. She looked at the sheriff. “Should I send him south to the Governor?”

The sheriff shook her head. “We’ve a gallows tree. I was serious when I said he’d hang for these crimes.” She looked at Devorah’s soldiers who were still eyeing the cleric menacingly. “There’s a stocks in the square.”

The soldiers saluted, grabbed the cleric by his arms, and hauled him away. The crowd of onlookers followed, calling condemnation on the fallen cleric, some pulling sunburst amulets from around their necks and dropping them in the dirt.

“Sheriff, I have a request.”

The sheriff nodded curtly. Now the corrupt cleric had been dealt with, the sheriff was ready to be rid of Devorah and her soldiers. Devorah was just as much an outsider as the cleric, even if she was the Governor’s niece and General of Kempenny’s army. Devorah was happy enough to leave Whitebuck in peace to govern itself.

But there was still the matter of the monsters to contend with.

“Tell me what you know of monsters roaming the area.

The sheriff faced Devorah, arms crossed firmly, and fixed her with a weighing look. “Who told you about the monsters?”

“Nobody.”

“So it’s true then, that you’re a mind reader.” Devorah didn’t sense the sheriff’s hidden disapproval because the sheriff made no attempt to hide it.

Devorah nodded. It was easier than explaining, and rumors that made her more powerful than she was could be useful. The sheriff did not look comforted by the revelation. Instead, she looked more dour. She preferred a world without magic and gods and nonsense.

“For the last week, odd stories have come in,” the sheriff said grudgingly. “Livestock has gone missing, turned up later all dried out. Like leather.”

“The monsters dry out livestock?”

The sheriff shrugged. “I’ve sent some deputies to take a look. They’ll be back in a few days.”

“What do the monsters look like?”

“I’ve told you everything I know, General.”

“Has anyone in town seen them?”

The sheriff grunted. “You want me to round up folks so you can read their minds?’

Devorah nodded. “That’s about it.”

“They couldn’t all be here until this evening.”

“That’s fine.”

“And where should I gather them, General Kempenny?”

“How about the old church?” Devorah smiled

The sheriff snorted with amusement. “You do like to drive a point home, don’t you?”

• • •

She’d been correct about the size of the town versus the size of the church. Even with everyone the sheriff could round up, the converted barn wasn’t full of people, but the excited buzz was enough to make up for it.

Devorah strode down the center aisle between rough-hewn pews, affecting an unsettled silence. She stepped onto the small stage but eschewed the sunburst-adorned lectern. She scanned the crowd of somber, weathered faces, men and women made hardy by labor, and she saw in them fear.

“There are rumors,” Devorah said, speaking quietly so the gathered had to strain to hear but knowing her voice carried. “You know which ones I mean.” It was as though the temperature in the room dropped. Fear and suspicion was a thing she could feel. But there was no guilt. And better, she could feel one among them who had seen what had happened and wanted to tell someone.

He was a young man though his face was lined. He wore the sturdy clothing of a farmer, but had a clean, pale green scarf about his neck. At his side was a young woman, his wife.

“I can assure you that you need not fear each other. None here is the culprit, as some have feared.”

The young farmer met her gaze.

“As General of Kempenny, it is my duty to protect against such threats. It would be foolish to tell you not to worry, but also know that we’re investigating the situation and will take action against the culprits. Thank you for coming. You should go home now.”

She nodded at the young farmer and he nodded in return. As the rest of the town stood and shuffled to the door, confused by the sudden dismissal, the farmer and his wife approached the stage.

The sheriff reached her first. “That’s it? What, exactly, did you accomplish other than drawing a bunch of folk away from their work so you could tell them not to be afraid?”

Devorah gestured at the young couple who stood nervously before the stage.

“Christopher?” said the Sheriff.

Christopher cleared his throat uncomfortably. “Sorry, Sheriff, I just didn’t think you’d believe my story. I’m not sure I believed it myself until…” he nodded at Devorah.

“Why don’t you tell us what you saw?” Devorah suggested.

Christopher looked over his shoulder at the doors where people still filtered out of the old barn, then at his wife who gave him a weak, though encouraging, smile.

“Well, like you said, there were rumors. None of my cattle had died, so some folk were blaming me. Saying I had magicked them to death. Anyway, I was out late a couple nights ago. A weasel or somesuch had gotten into the chickens and I was fixing some loose boards on the coop. And then…”

His wife put a hand on his shoulder and he touched her like a talisman

“I saw it. The moon was bright so I could see clearly. It was a man, kind of, wearing rags, and dirty. And it was sneaking. And it stalked up behind old Cornflower like some kind of big cat. But it didn’t eat her, it just sort of… sucked her dry.” He shivered and looked at Devorah with pleading eyes. “It wasn’t real, was it?”

They were all so willing to believe in a deity and afterlife, but given the evidence before their eyes, they still tried not to believe in monsters. Devorah was disinclined to comfort the man.

“I’m certain it was.”

Christopher swallowed hard, but he nodded.

Devorah reevaluated her opinion of him. “You have an uncommon strength in you, Christopher. Not everyone bears up under the idea of monsters. I could use more good men like you.”

She saw Christopher’s wife wince and immediately regretted her words. Had she just stolen a farmer from the fields, a man from his wife, a potential father from a future child? Devorah took a breath and banished the thought. There was a more immediate threat.

“Sherriff, keep people indoors a much as you can tonight. I’ll see you in the morning.”

Christopher put a hand on her arm to stop her, and when she looked at him, he jerked back as though struck. “You’re… you’re not going out there, are you? It’s nearly dark out.”

“I’m not afraid of the dark, Christopher. I am the dark.”

As she left the building, welcoming the velvety embrace of evening, Devorah couldn’t but chuckle at herself. I am the dark… really? She hoped the chuckle would sound creepy and mysterious to Christopher and his wife, but knew the sheriff was rolling her eyes.

• • •

“Baby, what are you doing?”

Devorah sat on the floor of the room the sheriff had afforded them in the town’s small inn. The rest of her soldiers were camped outside town in the woods, but Emma had insisted a woman of Devorah’s stature deserved to spend a few nights in a real bed. Devorah’s eyes were closed. She had been preparing to go to the mindspace before the interruption.

Devorah took a deep breath through her nose and unclenched her fists. “Emma, I’ve asked you to stop calling me that.”

“What?”

Devorah opened her eyes to see Emma, clad in her neck-to-floor night gown, holding a small lamp in one hand and a tray of cookies and hot tea in the other.

“I’m not a baby. I haven’t been a baby for years. Stop calling me that.”

“Oh.” Emma blinked fast and sniffled softly. “I didn’t… I just…”

“I’m not sick anymore. I’m not weak. I am powered, and I’m the General of Kempenny. Stop treating me like a child.”

“But… I just…”

Emma’s insistent simpering grated at her ears. “Out!” Devorah pointed at the door.

Emma looked over her shoulder, then back at Devorah. She cried openly. Flustered, she bent and set the tray down before fleeing the room to her own. Devorah sighed and got up to close the door. She ignored the tea and cookies.

Once again seated, she touched the rapier on the floor at her left to make certain of its presence, the knife at each wrist, the hilt of the short sword strapped across her back, then closed her eyes again.

In her mindspace, she took a moment to enjoy the calm, the peace removed from fighting bandits, rousting clerics, and hunting monsters. She noted a new book in the bookcase, The Voyages of Dr. S. Clemens. The leather binding was dyed a deep blue, and the title page credited Dr. Clemens' notebooks with most of the detail but his wife with putting everything in order. A game of solitary was left unfinished on the desk. The white player hadn't made a move upon the chessboard in a while. Devorah was certain this game was hers.

But she wasn’t here for books or games. She gathered the cards and put them in the desk before willing the bowl of water upon the desk.

I really am the dark, she told herself. I can see in the dark and see from the dark. I can pull it to me like a blanket. I can find this monster in the dark.

She looked at the bowl of water, the symbol of her power, and imagined it was the shadows of nighttime. She imagined herself sinking into it, a cool pool of water, enveloped by darkness, and her awareness spread; it zipped through the darkness, danced among moon shadows, leapt through the sunless sky. She was everywhere in the night at once, seeing houses locked against the monsters, their spots of light obscuring this peculiar vision. And she could see a group of cattle huddled close together, shifting fretfully. In the next moment, she found the creature, lurking in a dip in the ground, stalking the cattle. It was not far from the edge of town, she could be on it in minutes. Perhaps not in enough time to save the cows, but in time to kill the creature.

Picking up her rapier and standing in one smooth move, Devorah hurried down the stairs and into the night. Once in the darkness, she closed her eyes, seeing by way of darkness and ran though the deserted streets of the small town. While she ran, she watched the creature as it crept from its shallow hiding space and turned, not toward the cows, but toward the house. Devorah stumbled as she realized the creature hunted the people. She watched it slink though the dark and lurk at the edge of light.

It was the first farm on the edge of town. It wasn’t particularly big: a small house, a small barn, and only four fields. Devorah’s lungs began to burn, her legs to cramp as she sprinted without pause. She was nearly there, but the creature was done watching. It slipped into the house, into the lighted rooms, and out of Devorah’s sight.

Devorah snapped her eyes open at the high-pitched scream echoing off the night. The small house loomed in front of her, the front door ajar, terrified screaming, pleading, issuing from that sliver of space. Devorah didn’t slow, she just turned her shoulder into the door and let her momentum carry her into the house, hoping to make a noticeable enough entrance to draw the creature’s attention.

In a moment, she saw everything: a dim lantern stood on the mantle, illuminating a cushioned chair; a book had been laid face down on one of the chair arms; a patchwork quilt lay folded neatly over the back of the chair. In the middle of the small hearth room an emaciated creature bent over the body of Christopher’s wife, her neck bent to a deadly degree. The creature was thin, starved, and bald. When it looked up at Devorah’s entrance, she could see its eyes were dull red, its mouth was dominated by two elongated canines, and its long, thin tongue was covered in blood.

And there was something else, a peculiar tickle at the back of her mind not unlike her experiences with shadows, mindspace, and… the dead. It was the creature, an undead, and she could feel it.

The creature lunged at her, and Devorah drew the short sword from across her back, stepped to the side, and brought the edge across its neck. The creature was slammed to the floor, but its head did not separate from its body. It had been like striking stone.

The creature was fast. It squirmed to its feet and slashed at her with fingers like claws, catching her shoulder, ripping cloth and skin. Blood oozed from the wounds and Devorah felt the creature’s excitement, its hunger. It slashed again, and though it was fast, it wasn’t a good fighter. Devorah’s skill and speed were enough to match the creature and she sparred with it for a time, holding it off until she was able to slice at its belly. But, again, the blade did not cut the creature’s skin.

Devorah went on the offensive, striking deadly blows one after another and watching the edge of her blade bounce off skin that looked like paper but held like armor. Her aggressiveness cost her in defense, and the creature struck her low on the ribs and high on the back. She ignored the wounds, the warm blood escaping them, and the weakness she knew she should feel but didn’t.

The creature slapped at her blade and tore it from her hands. Without hesitation, she drew the knives from their wrist sheaths and tossed them at the creature, lodging both in either eye. The blades sank to their hilts and the creature howled.

I should have thought of that earlier, Devorah chided herself as she drew her rapier and thrust it at the creature’s throat. Where the slashing edge had failed, a piercing thrust succeeded, breaching the creature’s skin. The creature grabbed at the blade with both hands, but Devorah withdrew the blade and thrust again, this time aiming for its heart, piercing it through. The creature went slack and collapsed to the floor, sliding off her blade

Fire, Devorah reminded herself.

“General?”

Devorah looked to the top of the stairs where Christopher stood. She watched his gaze move from her, to the creature, to his dead wife.

“Christopher,” Devorah said his name loud and sharp. She needed to distract him from the tragedy of his wife or she’d lose him and she needed his help. His eyes returned to hers at his name.

“I need a fire, outside, now.”

“Wha…”

“Now.”

Christopher hurried the rest of the way down the stairs. He paused, briefly, to look at his wife, at her ruined throat, then hurried outside and Devorah could hear him gathering split logs and preparing them to be set ablaze. Devorah took the moment to kneel next to the creature and put a careful hand upon its ribs. It looked so delicate now, like it might dry up and blow away. But with her hand upon its bare chest, she could feel the magic in it, necromantic magic. The creature’s body was repairing itself, the blood it had consumed tonight giving its otherwise lifeless body speed, strength, and regeneration. As soon as the heart was repaired, Devorah knew, it would spring up to hunt again. With careful precision, Devorah drew her knives out of the creature’s eyes and inserted one of them in to its heart. Immediately, the regeneration slowed and stopped.

Interesting.

“General?”

“Help me drag it outside,” Devorah said, taking hold of the creature’s wrists. Together, they hauled the creature to the fire Christopher had started and tossed it into the flames. The creature ignited at once, like ancient paper, and was reduced to ash in moments. Devorah decided not to recover the knife she’d put in its heart.

When the fire died down, Christopher was the first to speak. “She was all I had, General.”

Devorah tried to say something comforting or at least offer condolences, but the words would not come.

“I’d like to come with you, to serve Kempenny.”

Devorah nodded. “We leave an hour after sunrise. Get your affairs in order here and I’ll make sure Corporal Vickers knows you’re coming.”

She left him there, staring at the fire, and walked to the edge of town, one knife lighter. Soon she came upon her soldier’s encampment. The first soldier who saw her, a new recruit standing night watch, snapped to attention as she came into view, then stared dumbly at her, gaping at her wounds, a few of which had cracked their scabs.

“Don’t just stand there, man. I need a surgeon.”

In a matter of minutes, she had been divested of her dress and lay on a cot in a small tent, a combat medic she’d met but did not know preparing a needle and thread to stitch up her wounds. The medic’s thoughts were jumbled though his hands were steady: The General of the whole army—I can’t believe that she can lay there so stoically—I wish I’d had more time to learn before…

“I’m sure you’ll do your best,” Devorah said through shallow breath and grit teeth. Since she’d had to remove her clothing, she’d also had to remove her weapons and the strength, awareness, and endurance that came with holding them had left her. She breathed shallowly to avoid coughing.

The medic jumped at her voice and stuck himself with the needle. Devorah was saved trying to assure the medic by Rory’s entrance. He was clad hastily, his knots of rank askew on his shoulder. He blushed when he saw Devorah’s state of undress and turned his back.

“I’m fine,” Devorah said before Rory could voice his concern.

“No, sir. That much blood means you’re definitely not fine.”

Devorah quirked a smiled. “How would you know how much blood there is if you won’t look at me?” She made sure her amusement was evident.

Rory shifted uncomfortably.

“It wouldn’t be appropriate for me… to… to look… sir.”

“The surgeon doesn’t seem to mind, do you?” Devorah looked at the medic.

The surgeon shook his head. “I’m not getting involved,” he said, amusement evident in his own voice. “Sir,” he amended quickly.

The procedure was not quick and by the end, Devorah was in more pain than when it’d started. The surgeon apologized several times for his inexperience, but Devorah told him to get on with it. When it was over, Devorah put on an old patient’s robe and buckled on her weapons over it before allowing Rory to escort her back to the inn.

“Good night, General.”

“Good night, Corporal.”

She opened the door to her room and was met with the familiar aroma of hot tea. A small tray sat upon the small table in the center of the room, a cup of steeping tea and three small cookies upon a small plate. Devorah bit her lip.

I don’t need a minder. I don’t need to be taken care of.

But still…

I’m sorry, Emma.