"Fuck..." The curse was a breathless rasp. Farone's world was dissolving into fever-phantoms; he even hallucinated Carl standing over him, pissing, the warm spray seeming to speckle his skin. "Fuck." He pressed the back of his hand to his brow; his breath ran thin. "Carl, come back!" He drew two more breaths. "Answer me, hero. Don't tell me a farmer's done for you—fuck." The more he spoke, the worse the visions became. He shook his head, gave in, and shut his mouth.

  Then a hard, fast drumming of hooves blew all weakness and ghosts away. He braced, pushed up, drew steel—all in the space of a few heartbeats. A knight was coming down the path. Only when the rider drew close did Farone see he wore the Empire's colors.

  "Lower that, friend—no need for such nerves." The rider was twenty at most, with a glib manner. Nobility. Farone felt a curl of distaste. "Hold still, you bitch!" The young lord was suddenly at war with the reins and the vicious mare between his knees. The light-brown mare, dappled with milky white, flung her head and jackknifed, fore and hind legs lashing out. "Want to throw me? Not bloody likely!" The noble hauled tight on the reins and clung to the saddle. "Keep moving, bitch. Go on! Thought you were stubborn?"

  After a few more violent tosses, the mare settled. "Hnh. Cynthian bitch," he spat, flashing Farone a smug grin. "My own mount is dead—leg hacked off. A pure-blooded runner from the Borna Plain, she was! Had to 'liberate' this mare from some unlucky sod. See? These Cynthian horses are just like the whores in this country—filthy, vicious, and mad."

  Farone nodded anyway and slid down the trunk to the ground. With only a sliver of consciousness remaining, half the noble's chatter washed over him unheard. "What ails you, brother?" The noble hadn't yet noticed the wound. "Why are you sagging like some spineless weakling?"

  Farone pointed at his flank, conserving breath.

  "Oh. You're wounded. Badly, I see." The young knight merely glanced at the gash before looking away, as if pain might leap from the wound into his own eyes. "You're alone here? Where are your companions?"

  Farone pointed right—toward Carl. "He went to... find me a physician."

  "A physician? In this forsaken wasteland?" the noble said, incredulous. "I'd welcome a physician myself—to mend this cursed mare's addled brain. Hey!" The mare skittered sideways. "Stop twitching, you bitch, hey!"

  "He went to that house over there. Been gone a while. I call but he doesn't answer. Probably can't hear me." (At the volume I'm managing now, he'd need to be a ghost to hear me. O Triad!)

  "That is a predicament." The noble looked discomfited. "If I were still riding 'Little Bitch'—my real horse, the Borna Plain runner—I'd consider carrying you back to garrison. But with this animal..." He kicked the mare again. "Not a chance!" He booted the mare hard in the flanks; she lunged forward several strides before he wrenched her back. "This hell-spawn won't tolerate another rider. I'm fortunate she hasn't broken my neck already, brother. So I... regrettably, I cannot assist you."

  Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.

  "Take my horse instead." Farone nodded toward the bay tied to a low stake nearby. "He's gentle-natured."

  "Ah... well. That's... not without merit..." The color drained from the young lord's face. "However... that seems..."

  (You silver-tongued little shit. Can't even invent a proper excuse.) Farone cursed inwardly. "Fine, sir. I see you're on urgent business and can't be burdened. But I beg you, ride to that house. Find my friend. That much shouldn't be too hard for you, should it?"

  "Certainly not! No trouble whatsoever!" The noble thrust out his chest, displaying a neat row of white teeth. "What shall I call him?"

  "Carl. Hero Carl."

  "Wait here but a moment, brother." Without spur or command, the spotted mare bolted away like an arrow from a bow.

  Carl Clawyn's helping hand remained suspended in midair. The girl continued shaking her mother's shoulder, trying desperately to extract some response, some moan, any word at all. Finding none, she turned to her father. It took her a long moment to locate any part she could touch—almost nothing remained intact. This attempt was briefer than with her mother. Afterward, she sat on the ground, hands limp at her sides. Tears slipped from her crystal-clear eyes, falling slowly while her face remained perfectly composed.

  In his heart, Carl Clawyn swore by those tears to protect her forever, to become her father, and to make her his second daughter."Come here, child," he said, voice gentle for fear of frightening her. "Child, over here." He beckoned with his hand.

  She responded, nearly making him sob aloud from the intertwined joy and grief. But he forced back all tears and vulnerability. Before her, he must appear strong, tall, unbreakable. The girl met his gaze with the same expressionless face—but extended her hands toward him. She crawled across the three corpses on her stomach, inching toward Carl Clawyn. A strip of open ground separated them, along with a difference in height. (I must dismount.) he thought. (I need to lift her up.) "Wait for me, child," he said softly. "Stay right there. Wait for me."

  Why Carl Clawyn didn't hear the sudden thunder of hooves, the mare's terrified scream, or the noble's volley of curses, no one would ever know. The spotted mare was at a full, mad gallop. The young lord was sawing at the reins. Carl was just beginning to swing his leg over. And in that one, shattering instant, all hope and promise were stamped into the bloody earth. The noble knight—atop his crazed mare—trampled directly over the Friez, the spearwoman, the farmer—and, most devastatingly, Carl's goddaughter.

  Carl Clawyn stood frozen in place. Never had his eyes been so flooded with blood.

  After a short distance, the noble finally reined the frenzied horse to a halt. "What in the seven hells did you run over now?" He glanced back at the pile of bodies, then down at the red and yellow pulp smeared under the mare's hooves. "Gods above, do you aim for corpses?" He wrinkled his nose in disgust and spat at the... fragments... clinging to the mare's foreleg. "Filthy." He gagged. It was the girl's right arm.

  With a terrible, grinding slowness, Carl Clawyn turned his head toward the young noble. "You're Carl, aren't you?" the lord said, recognizing the Imperial armor. He tried for an awkward smile. "Ghastly business, all this. The whole family... dead?"