(Previous Chapter)

When Ilarion came to, the carriage was still moving. He groaned, rolled his neck about, and began dry heaving. Too much excitement for one day, he decided.

“Hey, Idzi, looks like he’s waking up,” Mirche said, a definite note of relief in his voice.

“Yeah, I know. Little sod should be dead, though,” the big man commented.

“And I’m sure he will meet his end, but, God’s faces, you didn’t have to hit him like that. If the Inquisitor finds him unable to speak…”

Idzi growled. Coarse f...