Page 10 of Tashama
“I cannot tell. It’s too dark over here.”
Panic coursed through her blood, worried when they discovered she was a woman. Then what?
“Is he wounded? Why doesn’t he speak?”
“What is that sweet scent?”
One of the men touched Tashama’s shoulder, and she cried out to their surprise and her own. “It’s a woman.” He took a step back.
“You’re mistaken. They wouldn’t have thrown a woman in here like this.”
“Are you hurt?”
“I’m—I’m all right,” Tashama said.
“Can you stand?” He touched her arm.
“Ah!” she cried out when his jagged fingernails poked at the cuts on her arm.
“She’s hurt.” His voice was shadowed with concern. “Get the healer.”
“No, no, really, I’m all right.” She tried to stand.
“No, miss, just sit.”
“Who is she?” one of the men whispered.
“Tashama.” Her voice was soft and high compared to the men’s deep voices, and she felt more out of place than before.
Deadly silence prevailed, then hushed voices encircled her when the word soon spread concerning the woman in the prisoners’ midst.
“That name is forbidden to us.”
“Where is she?” a hurried voice asked, his light footsteps treading on the ground close by.
A torch was brought to bear on her. She squinted at the sight of the bright light and covered her sensitive eyes. A renewed rush of voices ensued.
“She’s not one of us!”
“Yes, but she’s not one of them either.”
“What is she?”
The healer leaned over her and touched her hair, tangled in her ribbon now with more of it undone from the braid than not.
“My arms.” She stared into his blue eyes as dark and deep as the lake she’d been to earlier. His ash-blond hair hung loosely about his narrow shoulders. “They were cut by…”
“They attack our women now!” one of the men shouted.
The cry was repeated throughout the gathering crowd. Sentries rushed to double the guard, and several shouted orders on top of the high walls to watch for trouble.
The healer rubbed his smooth, pointed chin. “Carry her to my tent.”
“I can walk, for heaven’s sakes.” She attempted again to rise.
One of the men grabbed her up, then cradled her in his arms. He headed toward the healer’s tent, ignoring her protests. His lumbering gait rocked her back and forth like a rowboat on an unsettled sea. “You’re not one of ours,” he said.
Tashama frowned at the bulky brute of a man. His body odor repelled her. She tried not to breathe. “Who is in charge here?”
