Swordheart

by T. Kingfisher

It was only when he reached down to take her hand that he noticed the deep blue smudges under her eyes, and saw that she was favoring her right foot. I’m an idiot. She’s asking questions to distract herself from how uncomfortable she is. His men had done the same thing, in various forms; not questions, per se, but endless talking. Vetch has told the very worst jokes. Not even dirty jokes, just interminable puns. And Bo, who had a bard’s tongue, would spin out impossibly long stories about everything from the enemy to last night’s dinner, until a simple overcooked bit of venison became a three thousand-year-old victim of a god’s curse, slain at last and sent to its final resting place in the stomach of a dozen mercenaries. Fisher, the crossbowman, had made up his own songs, but the less said about that, the better. Apparently, Halla asked questions. He should have realized that Halla was doing something of the sort. His only defense was that she was a civilian, and you didn’t expect them to cope with things like a normal person.