Hunter cradled Marna by the fire until noon. They hung her cloak by the fire and when it was dry, he swaddled her in it and held her, smoothing her hair with his hands and trying to get her to drink a few drops of water. He ignored the screams of pain from the injured huntsmen when Chekwe cauterized their wounds with his red-hot knife, and when he bound their wounds without much care for their comfort.
“Quamdamn pig-bastards don’t deserve a scrap of mercy,” Chekwe grumbled.
“Don’t you blaspheme in front of my daughter,” Hunter snapped.
“Hell, she’s fifteen or sixteen years old, isn’t she?”
“Not even a ‘hell’, Chekwe.”
Chekwe loomed over the three living huntsmen, holding and petting Quarla and glaring down with his eerie silver eyes bulging in his scarred green face. They stared back
