Page 39 of The Blight of Hollowmire

“If you can call it that,” she replies. “Were you aware that you snore?”

“I do not!”

“You do,” she says. “It’s unbearable. Like a hibernating bear, or perhaps a dying boar.”

I grunt an incredulous sound. “I’ve never had any complaints.”

“Mm, I cannot think why. Perhaps it has something to do with the sword. Take it to bed with you, do you?”

“Absolutely not! Any woman who’s shared my bed came of her own free will—not through threat of violence. And I’ll have you know, I’ve certainly never had any complaints about my sword,” I snap, cheeks heating. “’Twould go against a knight’s honor.”

Vireth casts a pitying look my way.

“I thought you were a knight no longer,” she says, but there is less bite to it than usual.

That, more than anything, unsettles me. I wonder what transpired in the night to shift her mood so. I rise carefully, testing my weight on my leg and am heartened when it holds. It throbs a bit, but it is well enough.

“Well,” I say, rolling my shoulder once more. “I appear to be among the living.”

“Try not to sound so incredibly grateful about it,” she mutters, and I catch the faintest hint of a smile at the corner of her mouth.

That’s better.

She hands me a piece of bread and one of the last apples from her pack without ceremony. I accept both with a murmured thanks and settle near the embers of the fire to eat. The bread is a bit stale, the apple softening at the edges, but after the rough night and frigid morning, it might as well be a feast.

She sets the kettle over the coals again, adding water and a handful of herbs that smell pungent and medicinal.

“For your leg,” she says shortly. “It is important to keep the festering at bay.”

“I am beginning to suspect you enjoy poisoning me in small, controlled doses.”

“If I wanted you dead, you would be,” she replies.

I chuckle at that, because there is no doubt in my mind that she means what she says. It’s vaguely threatening, but only because it was stated as a fact as opposed to the boastfulness of ego. And I’m beginning to suspect I have a growing fascination with powerful women.

“That’s comforting. But then, who would keep you company on your journey?” I tease.

“I don’t need company.”

“Ah, just as I did not need any help crossing through the Verge.”

She glares at me, nostrils flaring. I’m looking forward to her acidic reply, but she snaps her mouth shut and swirls the herbal tea in the kettle.

Nibblebones reappears at that very moment, chittering energetically and darting into the clearing like a streak of white and green mottled fur. She bounds between Vireth’s feet, then immediately turns toward me with unsettling enthusiasm.

“Oh no,” I say, fearful of whatever grotesque gift she means to offer. “Absolutely not. I have only just woken…”

She drops something into my lap and I cannot hide my grimace as I look down.

It is not half-rotted meat this time, thank the gods. Rather, it is a small, tarnished object—bronze, by the look of it. I tilt it closely toward the sunlight and take in the looping knotwork design, greened with age and flecked with bits of dirt. It appears to be some kind of ancient cloak pin.

“Well,” I say, blinking slowly. “This is… unexpected.” Nibblebones chitters proudly, blinking up at me with her overlarge dark eyes. Perhaps it is the exhaustion or maybe even the fact that she likely favors me more than Vireth does, but I’m beginning to find her endearing.

Vireth glances over, then huffs softly. “A grave good, most likely.”

I fight to keep the distaste from my countenance, lest I offend the animal again. “Ah. That might be somehow worse than rancid frog meat,” I murmur. “The resting places of the dead should remain undisturbed. And I’m afraid I don’t quite understand what such a gift means from a corpse weasel.”

“It means we’re getting closer to the village,” she says. “There are old burial grounds scattered along the foothills.”