CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
From the corner came a whimper, so tiny Reece may have missed if he had not turned up the flame of the oil lamp and shined it into the inky darkness. He gasped at what he saw. Destry, huddled in a tight ball, trembled under a torn and tattered sheet, his eyes red-rimmed, skin the pallor of chalk, lips blue. “Help me,” came the voice. “I need water.” Instantly, Reece thrust the lamp into Fieyn’s hand and went to the stricken Destry. He called out for someone to fetch a canteen and when one of the others returned with one, Reece put the tip to Destry’s cracked lips. Coughing and gasping as the water hit the back of his parched throat, Destry bent forward, retching. Reece held him around the shoulders, despite the stench which invaded his nostrils. The man was awash with the
