Valerien sighed. Bards. Always so melodramatic.
The face buried in his shoulder left traces of soot on his cloak, so he lowered his burden onto the ground and went to get the horse. It was used to fire and blood, but the shifting ground had made it retreat between the trees.
It certainly had more self-preservation instinct than the bard. Still, he shouldn't have pushed the young fool to expend so much energy. Humans were fragile, and even most Fae would have collapsed after a single touch of the Veil's magic. This young mage was unexpectedly strong. Stubborn, too.
As expected, he seemed to be ruled by emotion rather than sense. That made him volatile but also easier to manipulate. Coaxing would work better than threats.
He picked up the slightly scorched lyre and the dagger to put them into the saddlebag, then heaved the bard sideways into the saddle like a sack of grain.
Looking around the mining site, he realised there were barely any tools here. The rebels must have taken those too, together with the purified iron. Deep impressions of cart wheels showed that they had gone west, but the trail ended at the tree line. Fae magic might not work on iron, but even the basic elemental powers of the Low Fae were enough to cover a trail in the woods.
They had moved fast and with purpose. He suspected what they were planning, but he still needed details from the human to piece it all together and decide on how to proceed.
He patted the bard's dangling head and regretted it immediately. Ash and sweat clung to his hand, making him grimace. Maybe he should just dip him in the river a few times to clean him.
Picking up the reins, he led the horse back into the woods. Barely a few steps further, he heard a creak of leather and turned just in time to catch the bard by the collar before he slid off the horse.
Gritting his teeth, he briefly considered tying the man to the saddle, but decided that would only make him panic again if he woke up. He mounted behind him and hauled the limp body onto his lap, one arm locked across the bard's middle to keep him in place.
"You better prove worth the trouble," he muttered.
The bard slumped against him, heavier than expected. Just like him to be entirely uncooperative even while unconscious. His cheek pressed into Valerien's neck, breath tickling along the skin as he muttered something about beauty and heroes.
"You should know better than to trust either of those," Valerien muttered.
The body under his arm felt damp and cold. The clothes were torn and scorched in places.
Valerien gave up and pressed him closer to his chest to warm him up. Humans died so easily of cold and exhaustion, and still needed this one.
He urged the horse on and sighed in relief when he finally saw the tents Elinor had set up. The damned bard was starting to get all cuddly in his sleep.
Elinor blinked at the sight, then grinned.
"Just like that old song in which an outlaw brings home a bride he'd stolen in a raid," she commented.
He dismounted and handed her the reins with a mocking bow.
"For you, Commander. This man dares to argue with his gods, so maybe he is even fearless enough to marry you."
She showed him a rude gesture, then came closer as he lowered the bard from the saddle and laid him next to the campfire.
"Careful there. He looks like you've already scorched him enough. Did your doubtful charm finally fail you?" she asked.
"My charm never fails. And it's not my fault he's half-baked."
He told her what had happened, and she frowned.
"Are you sure it was the rebels?"
"It was fire magic and Arcanite swords. Human weapons don't cut so precisely and don't cauterise the wounds instantly."
She stared at him. "That is why they came here? For the iron? But such weapons would be useless to them."
"Not if they can make sure they don't have to touch the blades. Wood neutralises iron," he said and carefully got the bard's dagger out of the saddle bag by the handle.
She looked at it sceptically. "I can see that could work for arrows or spears, but swords? That seems risky."
"If I were in their place, I wouldn't even waste time on forging weapons. Fill the catapults with splinters and shavings of the cursed metal and let them rain. Magic resistant, deadly, and sure to penetrate even an Arcanite armour."
"What if Lioren comes up with the same idea?"
"I will not believe he is a traitor unless he tells me so himself."
"I didn't believe he would kill civilians, but here we are," she pointed out.
He didn't answer.
Thankfully, the bard chose to be helpful for once and started coughing.
Elinor glanced at him and said, "At least clean your bridegroom's face before the wedding night. He might choke on all that soot."
Valerien grimaced. "Can't you just summon some water from the river to rinse him off a bit?"
She raised her hand. A moment later, a splash of icy cold water hit him in the face.
"The human, not me!"
"You don't look much cleaner either. I am going to sleep. If he's dead in the morning, that's on you. Here you go," she said and let more water splash into the field cauldron next to him.
Resignedly, he put his hand against the metal and warmed it up, then took a cloth from his saddlebag. He washed the soot off his neck and hands, rinsed it, then dropped it onto the bard's face.
The human moved a hand as if to swat a fly, but didn't wake up. Valerien looked over the bedraggled figure. The clothes clung in places where they had dried, the fabric rough with dirt and stiff with sweat.
The lines of his body underneath were lean and well-formed, with the kind of proportion that drew the eye even under dirt and bruises. He remembered the sensation of the young mage writhing under him as they'd fought, and the firm back muscles against his chest in the saddle.
Shaking off those unwelcome thoughts, he picked up the cloth from the bard's face and dropped it into the cauldron again. Once it was well soaked, he wrung it over the sleeping face. The dirt flowed down the neck and into the tangled curls.
The fair eyelashes fluttered, and the man muttered something about being cold as he rolled to the side and rested his head on Valerien's thigh.
Valerien stared at him in indignation for a moment, then grinned.
"Next time you climb onto my lap, at least stay conscious enough to make it interesting."
The bard sighed as if in answer and moved his arm to Valerien's hip in a half-conscious attempt to cling to the warmth. As he shifted, the torn fabric stretched across his shoulder and slid down the curve of the upper arm.
Valerien caught a glimpse of a scar. It was pale and stretched across the upper arm, the shape distorted by time and growth. The lines were too clean to be a wound from battle and too deliberate to be an accident. A vertical line, crossed by two horizontal ones. Whatever it meant, someone had branded him on purpose.
Probably some human form of punishment, Valerien decided.
"You've always been trouble, I see," he told the bard and freed himself.
He dragged the sleeping form a little closer to the fire and covered it in his cloak. It was ruined anyway.