He sagged away from her. Spat the taste of bile into the water, and fell to his knees. She made a sound and her eyes rolled up. Michael caught his shoulder, and put a canteen in his fist. He drank. There was wine in the canteen, mixed with the water, and he spat it out, then drank more. “Get me up,” he said. Red Beard got under his other shoulder. “You’re a warlock?” he asked brusquely. The captain had to laugh. “I’ll forgive you your imprecise terminology.”
