The Lost Guard's Healer: An Enemies to Lovers Fantasy Romance, page 1
The Lost Guard's Healer
Alexa Ashe
THE LOST GUARD'S HEALER
Copyright © 2024 by Alexa Ashe
All rights reserved.
No portion of this book may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical means, without the prior written permission from the publisher or author, except for the use of brief quotations in book reviews.
This book is a work of fiction. The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to persons, living or dead, real or fictional, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.
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Contents
Prologue
1. Rourk
2. Rourk
3. Rourk
4. Galene
5. Galene
6. Rourk
7. Rourk
8. Rourk
9. Rourk
10. Rourk
11. Galene
12. Galene
13. Galene
14. Rourk
15. Galene
16. Rourk
17. Rourk
18. Galene
19. Rourk
20. Rourk
21. Galene
22. Rourk
23. Rourk
24. Rourk
25. Galene
26. Rourk
27. Rourk
28. Rourk
29. Galene
30. Rourk
31. Rourk
32. Galene
33. Galene
34. Rourk
Epilogue
What's Next
Also by
About Author
Prologue
Galene
The sight of him is a wretched thing.
He is Oathlander all over. From the precise shade of his skin down to the dark shade of his eyes that I’ve seen on the rare occasions they’ve been open.
I wish my father wasn’t foolish enough to ask me to heal him. Even more, I wish he wasn’t cruel enough to make it my Task.
Meaning I have no other option. If I ever want to be valued in this community—if I ever want to be someone or something beyond a whispered name and a stain of shame to my family, I have no choice.
Like clockwork, I rouse the bulky Oathlander from sleep with slow, gentle touches. Anything else and I fear I’ll frighten him into a stupor of an attack. Not that I couldn’t take him—especially with the rotten shape he’s in—but I’d rather he not ruin all my hard work and force me to start over with him again. I’ve already spent far longer in the presence of an Oathlander than I ever intended to.
What would my mother think if she knew I was caring for one of them? What would she think if she knew my father had all but forced me to?
I toss the questions aside. The answers don’t matter. It wouldn’t change anything. I would still be here, mixing tonic into a bowl of soup to keep the Oathlander from starving, mixed with something that I give him to heal him—and to keep him asleep a little longer. I’m not quite ready to face him, as harmless as he may be in his current state.
Not quite ready to look a monster in the eyes.
Chapter one
Rourk
Falling. Darkness. And then nothing.
I jerk awake with a cry, my muscles tense and ready to fight for my life. It takes several long seconds for me to adjust to my surroundings, my vision coming back blurry and dull before eventually clearing.
I’m in a round hut with a campfire simmering in the center, faint wisps of smoke drifting out through a hole in the domed ceiling. At first I think I’m on the ground, but I see I’m lying on a straw bed with a thick, coarse blanket beneath me and a furred blanket over me. My shoulders heave and my heavy breaths sound loud in the quiet air. The strong earthy stench in the air, like mud and feces, makes me think of animal stables and almost makes me gag. But at least I’m alive. It smells like actual shit here, but I’m alive.
Where am I? This is like no place I’ve ever been. Or is it? Maybe I have and I just don’t remember it. My mind feels blurred, like fragments are missing.
I know who I am, though, and that’s something. Rourk Bearon, General Commander of the Oathland’s Military. Second-in-Command to the Grandmaster General Darius Archaeus. I can remember all that, but not where I am or how I got here. I’ve yet to decide whether or not that’s a good thing. Maybe I’m somewhere safe right now—or maybe I’d be better off dead.
I sit up to get a better look at the dimly lit surroundings and hiss out a breath when a flood of pain hits me. My arms give way and I drop back on the rough bedding. My first thought is that I’m injured. Or drugged. I’m too weary to think straight.
The heavy flaps of the hut entranceway shift aside as someone comes in. Bright sunlight streams in momentarily through the shifting flaps, almost blinding me. It’s a woman; tall and slim with long dark hair falling about her broad shoulders. The sight of her heightens my confusion, which immediately shifts to alarm. The worn cream dress she wears has wide sleeves and the long, sleeveless cardigan flowing about her is frail and extremely weathered, with several holes. Her vibrantly bright blue eyes contrast against her tanned complexion. This is no Oathlander. That’s clear enough.
Better off dead might not have been too far off.
I’ve been kidnapped and am being held prisoner.
The woman, who must be in her late twenties, seems vaguely surprised to see me awake. I can’t help but stare into those eyes as I try to gauge her intentions. Friend or threat?
She watches me for a long, quiet moment. Then she turns sharply away. “You should rest,” she says absently as she goes about the hut, no longer interested in me.
“Should I?” I’ve managed to prop myself on one elbow to get a better view of her. My other shoulder flares with pain if I try to move it, but I bite down on the groan that threatens to leave me and ignore it.
“Yes, you should,” she says, her sharper tone brooking no argument. “If you want to get back on your feet.”
“What’s wrong with my feet?”
I can tell from the way she huffs out a breath that she won’t be answering that question. While she collects a pot and pours water from a leather skin into it, I shift my legs under the blanket. Dark discomfort swells through me. I can barely move my legs. They feel like dead weight. I can feel them, though, and can shift them ever so slightly. They certainly won’t support my weight, though.
“How did I get here?” I ask, figuring that bluntness is better than pretending I’m not confused and, honestly, fifteen seconds away from contributing to the smell of shit around me. Her back is to me as she prepares something on a table. The curve of the ceiling almost reaches her head.
“We found you on a riverbank in the East Garlands,” she says with an almost bored air. “You’re lucky to be alive.” Stoicism emanates from every word and every movement. Something tells me she couldn’t care less if I lived or died.
East Garlands. The name is vaguely familiar, but not familiar enough that I could point to it on a map. Someplace north of the Oathlands, perhaps?
The woman brushes her hands together and steps away from the table, then surveys the tent with a calculating eye before taking a few quick steps to the diminishing flames across the room. She squats by the dying fire and strikes two stones together. On the second strike, a spark flies out and ignites the twigs and clumps of weeds she just added. She expertly blows into the glowing embers until flames begin to lick and crack, slowly gathering in strength. I’m actually impressed at how effortless that was for her. I know less than a dozen people who could light a fire like that so easily.
“Who are you?” I ask.
“That is none of your concern,” she says, ignoring me once again as she collects a pot from the table and sets it over the fire. Something dark swishes within the pot.
“I beg to differ,” I say, in a challenging mood. “I should know my captor.”
“I am not your captor,” she snaps, and leaves it at that. She doesn’t seem to be very talkative and I get the sense of annoyance every time she speaks. Although there is no outright hostility. Yet.
She kneels by the fire and crushes a few leaves and flowers into the pot. As she does so, the split of her skirt unfolds to reveal a shapely, smooth, toned thigh.
Has she intentionally revealed her thigh and is pretending not to have noticed? What game is she playing? I gaze over the room, not wanting to stare.
Every item in the tent looks worn and weathered. It’s a simple way of living with the bare basics: a table with two stools as chairs, a large trunk with a pile of furred blankets on top, and a bucket containing some clutter that looks like hunting tools and weapons. Two rabbit hides are on hooks on the curved walls. A fishing pole is in the corner. A familiar dark blue jacket is hanging over a high-backed chair. My military jacket.
I’m no longer wearing my full uniform, I notice. My armor is missing, as are my shirt and vest. I’m in a dingy white vest that has several small holes and is far too big for me. They kept my military pants on, which is some comfort. My boots and socks must be somewhere in the hut as well. I guess it’s too much to ask to have kept my sword nearby.
“Is where I am none of my concern also?” I ask.
She half-suppresses a sigh as she goes back to the table. “You’re a long way from home, Oathlander. I suggest you rest and get your strength back if you want to return home.”
While her voice is light and youthful, there is something dark in her tone. Something almost threatening, and she says Oathland as if it is an insult. I can’t place her clipped accent. It’s certainly not a local one.
I don’t think I’m anywhere in the Kingdom either. Kingdom folk would not have called me an Oathlander. They have more colorful terms and curses for their sworn enemies. And no one in the Kingdom would keep me alive. Besides, Kingdom folk love nothing more than to tell people who they are and where they’re from. So maybe I’m not as bad off as I originally thought.
One other thing makes me think I’m clearly not anywhere near the Kingdom, which some consider the beacon of civilization and say it is like coins flow through the streets, is that it would be nowhere as homely and simple as this hut. The air, despite its harsh earthy odors, feels fresh and open.
We found you on a riverbank in the East Garlands.
Her words spark a flash of a memory. Then a flood of vivid images hit me hard.
The Oathlands had been under attack from the Kingdom. I was on a bridge, and it had snapped. I’d fallen into the darkness below. I must have fallen into a river and washed up somewhere. Yes, I remember my last moments, thinking I was going to die as I fell.
I feel like I had just been dreaming of falling. Like I’d been having those flashes during my sleep. The thought of all that pain and fear makes me feel even weaker, and my head throbs.
“How long have I been here?” I ask.
The smell of mint and something like damp soil drifts through the hut, coming from the steaming pot over the fire.
The woman clears a few things from the table, stoppering vials and wrapping leaves in a parcel. The lack of responsiveness from her irks me.
“Two weeks,” she finally says as she takes a mug and a ladle to the pot. “You’ve been in and out of consciousness. This isn’t the first time you’ve been awake, but it’s the first you’ve spoken since you arrived.”
Two weeks? And I’ve been awake before? I don’t remember any of it. The thought fills me with dread. I need to get back to May. To Arthur. I don’t even know what state the Oathlands are in. Did Clio survive the attack? Are any of them still alive? My heart hammers in my chest as thoughts race through my brain. I shouldn’t be here. I should be home.
I try to rise but don’t get very far before I collapse back onto the straw bed, completely exhausted and gasping for breath.
It takes me a moment to realize the woman is standing beside me. She leans down to hand me a mug of the concoction that had been brewing in the pot. It smells like foul tea.
“Drink this for now,” she says, her voice not entirely without care. “I will be back later.”
I glance at the drink and curl my lips. “I’m not thirsty,” I lie.
She gives me a flat look that tells me she wasn’t asking. “It will help you get better.”
I remain firm, intent on not backing down. I don’t like how much she’s insisting on me drinking it. I don’t like being forced to do something. Especially when that something is a suspicious and unnamed drink from a suspicious and unnamed girl.
“You should drink it while it is hot,” she says.
“Why? Because the poison is most potent when it’s hot?” The words are out before I can stop them, before I can work through something smarter to say. An angle to work. Maybe I should have played dumb.
She gives me a small smile that softens her features. “No. Because berrybush tea tastes best when hot.”
So that’s what this is? Some kind of tea? I will not fall for that.
We remain there for a long moment, staring each other down. Her enormous eyes are so blue and captivating, but they are just the allure. The illusion. I see the real, calculating, haughty woman within.
I decide to try to appeal to that version of her. If I can get her angry, I can get her off balance. That’s the way to play this. “I can’t imagine it tastes good at all when it smells like a homeless man’s bathwater.”
She scowls at me, growing red with anger, and then throws the mug across the room. It crashes against a wooden trunk and shatters.
“If I wanted you dead, you foolish brute, I wouldn’t have spent so long saving you.” Her words come out like hisses. “Perhaps I shouldn’t have. You don’t seem like you were worth the time.” She looks like she wants to strangle me, her hands clenched into tight fists as she glares at me. But she doesn’t take another step toward me. No—she turns away and storms out in a huff, muttering words that sound foreign to me.
I try to see beyond the falling tent flaps but can’t make out much beyond the sunlight. As I lay back on the straw bed, staring at the curved roof, I wonder what had angered her so much. I almost feel a little bad and have to wonder if she was genuinely hurt, or if it was some kind of act. I can’t be certain about anything right now.
I have to stick with the facts. I almost died, and now I’m here. My legs don’t work and I’m weak as hell.
Have they been slipping me that tea in my delirium? Is that what has made me so weak? Or would that genuinely have made me feel better?
I look around freely now, trying to see everything I can. The remains of the clay mug lay by the trunk. The tea has stained the hard earth. It’s then that I notice another stain on the other side of the trunk, and my heart quickens.
The dark patch of old, dried blood is clear to me. But whose blood was that? Mine? If I’ve been here as long as she says… my throat thickens with fear.
Within a bundle of cloths nearby, a large bone is jutting out. It looks like a human bone. It’s been picked clean and polished.
With a sickening drop of my stomach, I suddenly know where I am. I’ve been brought to the Wildlands. I must have been found by the Wildmen. That means it’s a wonder I haven’t been skinned and eaten yet.
The Wildmen are a mysterious nomadic people out in the wilderness, known to be uncivilized savages. And cannibals. That blue-eyed woman hadn’t seemed like a savage and had appeared somewhat intelligent. But that must be a ruse.
I’m glad I didn’t drink that tea. Who knows what it would’ve done to me?
I have to find a way to escape before they tear me apart and roast me over a fire.
Or worse.
Chapter two
Rourk
It’s not until I drift back into consciousness that I realize I’d fallen asleep. The pounding in my head has lessened, but the lack of movement in my legs is very disconcerting.
I don’t know how long I’ve been out for, but it feels like some time has passed. A shaft of white-hot sunlight is streaming through a gap in the hut flaps, which are softly billowing in the breeze. I can hear muted voices beyond the hut but can’t make out any of the words. Just indistinct chatter. And bird chirps, I think.
I should try to leave before that woman comes back, but it’s soon clear that my legs will not be supporting my weight any time soon. And I still feel a lingering fatigue in my bones.
They must have drugged me. The broken shards of the mug are no longer there, and the tea stain has dried up. The old blood stain is still there, as is the bone in the cloths.
I pause at the sight of a knife hilt on top of a small chest across the hut. A sheathed knife is there. Waiting for me.
A hidden weapon would do me just fine. I need to get back home and check on May. I need to know if she survived the attack on the city. She probably thinks I’m dead. Everyone must think I’m dead.
I sigh as I heave myself off the bedding and begin crawling on my belly, pulling myself along with my hands and elbows. My useless legs drag behind me. My left shoulder burns with pain, but I ignore it and keep going. I pass the remains of the fire in the center of the hut and maneuver myself around the large trunk. The dark stain has the metallic stench of old blood.
Gods, I hate how weak I am, and how heavy my head feels. I’ve never felt so useless inside my own body before.
But I’m getting closer to the knife.
The hut flaps fly open and the woman enters to find my arm reaching out, inches away from the sheathed knife on the chest. With a huff, she springs into action and kicks the knife away to send it falling out of view.
