Page 51 of An Unlikely Knight

Chapter Sixteen

Despite the warmth of the crackling fire and the thick rug beneath him, pain pulsed through Padraig’s battered body, each wound felt as if his skin was on fire. His eyes fluttered open to the dim light of flames in the hearth flickering across the cabin’s interior.

A violent shudder shook through Padriag, his body trapped in the cruel cycle of fever one moment burning from the inside out, to the next seized by a bone-deep chill that made his teeth chatter.

He swallowed against the raw dryness in his throat. He would give anything—anything—for a cup of water. The thirst clawed at him, nearly as unbearable as the pain cutting through his back and hands. Frustration burned behind his eyes, and a few stray tears splashed onto the rug beneath him. He did not weep out of self-pity but out of sheer helplessness.

If only he had strengthened the wards on the house. If only he had stayed in Esland. His life would have been boring, perhaps even lonely, but at least it would not have been an unrelenting game of survival, a constant struggle against Meliot’s sadistic whims.

If he was to remain in this cursed alter-world, he would have to find a way to disappear, to vanish so completely that even Meliot’s unnatural reach could not drag him back to his torture chamber.

Padriag did not believe for one moment that the guard had freed him out of kindness. No, this was Meliot’s design, to release him, set him free just long enough to recover, and then send his soulless guards to retrieve him.

A sharp pain sliced through him as he shifted, pressing both palms to the floor and forcing himself upright. His back screamed in protest, torn flesh stretching painfully, but he clenched his jaw and endured it. The simple act of sitting drained what little strength he had, leaving him breathless and trembling.

His gaze drifted toward the adjoining room, where a pewter pitcher of water sat atop the rustic table. He imagined gripping it, tilting it to his lips, and drinking every drop. Another form of torture because in his current state, it was impossible to get that far.

Then, out of the corner of his eye, he noticed something—just within reach. A mug, tall and sturdy, sat beside the hearth.

Dragging himself forward, ignoring the sharp protest of his wounds, Padraig stretched out a shaking hand and grasped the handle. The heat of it stung his palm, but he hardly cared. Lifting it to his lips, he caught the sharp scent of herbs—willow bark and bog myrtle. He knew their properties well. Pain relief. Fever reduction.

Poison? It could be, but he doubted Meliot would allow him a merciful death.

The tea was bitter and strong, steeped far too long, but he welcomed its warmth as it slid down his throat, easing the unbearable dryness. He let his head fall back against the nearest chair, eyes drifting toward the wooden beams above. He needed to get off the floor, needed his strength back.

A flicker of memory surfaced.

The guard.

What had he said? Something about Padraig being safe there?

He turned his head slightly, eyes landing on the coat of arms mounted above the fireplace. Dutch. That made sense—the guard’s accent, his features.

Janssen.

When Padriag had been in Esland, Sterling had mentioned Janssen and called him a friend. If that were true, then once, perhaps long ago, Janssen had been an honorable man. Had he, too, been cast into this cursed realm by Meliot? And if so, what had broken him? What could turn a man into the loyal servant of a monster?

Padraig let his eyes slide shut, the fever dragging at him. He had to find out more about Janssen. He had to talk to Sterling.

If there was still a shred of the man Janssen had once been, perhaps he would help Padriag thwart Meliot’s plans.

A day or two passed. Padriag managed to pull a thick blanket over himself. From the stinging of the wounds on his back, he’d torn some open. They were probably bleeding. The tea had given him some relief from the pain, and the fever had finally broken.

How many hours or days it had been since he’d been returned to the cabin, he couldn’t be sure of. He worried about the aurochs, that they’d been penned in the stables for who knew how long and whether they had food and water.

Judging by the dimmed light outside, the suns were setting, marking the end of the current day. Padriag promised himself he’d be well enough to go out and see about the animals in the morning and allowed himself the respite of sleep.

“Padriag. Padriag.” Something or someone was shaking him awake. Clenching his jaw at the pain that would come, Padriag closed his right hand into a fist and swung.

“Ouch. That was bloody unnecessary,” Liam yelled.

“Shit. Sorry.” Padriag looked up at the Brit massaging his jaw. “I am so glad to see you.”

Liam gave him a droll look. “You could have fooled me.” A frown formed as his friend looked at him. “You look like ... horrible.”

“And you haven’t seen the best parts yet,” Padriag replied. “I need water. I would get it except my legs don’t work that well and I may be stuck to the rug.”

Instead of retrieving the water, Liam leaned forward to examine him closer. “I should have stayed here. To help. What happened?”