Chapter 7
ICE FLOES, belly slithers, what would they think of next?
Loriane pulled the thread and knotted it close to the young man’s skin. She cut the needle free and covered the wound with a dab of paste to stop it going bad.
“That will become a nasty scar, I’m afraid,” she said. On his forehead, too. Stupidity forever engraved on his face.
The man blinked, looking up at the canvas ceiling of the treatment tent. Light from the central fire flickered in his eyes. He was too drunk to respond, too drunk to feel pain. He also had been too drunk to swim, probably; otherwise he would not be sitting here.
“I’ve finished with him,” she said to his friends who waited by the fire, hands outstretched to warm themselves. “Take him home and make sure he rests for a ten-night.”
They mumbled agre
