The absolute kicker, the real sting in the tail, the worst indignity of all was that it wasn't even a bad part of town.
Now that was just plain unfair.
All right, he'd taken a short cut down a side street that was less than well-lit. And admittedly, he had thought at the time that this might not be the most brilliant idea in the world. And true, fair enough, he knew he was slightly short of sober. Not incapacitated by any stretch of the imagination, but definitely a little unsteady and slightly slower on reaction times. But oh, no, he'd had to decide that getting home quicker beat personal safety. Well, he was a dragonrider and a soldier, after all: who the hell would give him any trouble? Half a dozen weighty and well-organised thieving bastards, apparently, that was who.
To his credit, Averrin had held his ground remarkably well for a man who had decided that joining one of the senior knight-captains and a few of his men for a 'few' (never a less true word spoken) drinks six hours ago seemed like a sterling plan. The thieves had got away with precisely nothing and he was fairly sure he'd managed to get a swing in at one of them that had rearranged his pretty face. He'd left another with a limp, and made certain that any sons of a third wouldn't be welcoming any younger siblings in the net year. But six on one was always going to be a hard fight, and seeing them off without murder -- too much explanation, and besides, better to let them run so they could tell their friends who not to mess with -- made it harder. A swift cut across the neck was easy. Seeing them off without the cessation of life, that was trickier.
But he'd done it, though it had cost him. Oh, nothing he wouldn't get over... if all the bleeding would kindly quit. There was a bloody gash across his shoulder from a stab wound that had been actually almost impressive; he still had almost a full range of movement, stiffness notwithstanding -- and pain -- so he wasn't too worried it would cripple him. Even if it didn't, though, it was deep and nasty and in serious danger of bleeding out.
Lucky strike. He'd be damned if he was going to die like this.
The pain in his shoulder was damn close to unbearable but he wasn't a dragon rider and a warrior chieftain's son for his pretty face (not that it was particularly not pretty, or at least handsome, but that was hardly the point). He grit his teeth and got on with it, following the side street to its end where it joined a more major street. Quiet at this time of the night; just his luck to hit a lull in the city's revelling for that night.
Try to make it back to the barracks-grounds, he knew fine he'd pass out from pain or
blood loss before he got half-way. All right, so maybe he'd underestimated the fatality of this one. It wasn't a deadly wound on its own, certainly, but if he managed to drop down from it and bleed out...
No. Again: damned if he'd die like this.
Some kindly soul had been nice enough to leave short stone pillars lining the street -- fixing posts for horses -- and he sank down to half-sit on one, ripping off the opposite sleeve (he knew better than risk the excruciating pain of pulling the material out of a fairly deep stab wound) to ball up and press against it to stem the bleeding. He figured if he could at least get it to stop pouring, he'd be fine to pick up and head home, and maybe find a healer.
Definitely find a healer.
Or hope to all things holy one found him.
