Something small and hard slammed into Bishop's chest, jolting him from his pleasant slide into the welcoming darkness. He was vaguely aware that he was sprawled uncomfortably on wet grass, and the air was chilly on his sweat-soaked skin. He should have expected it, really, that he wouldn't even be allowed to die on his own terms. He was tempted to fight his way back to consciousness just to flay the person currently shouting in his ear, but that plan was somewhat dampened by the inability to lift his arms.
"You can't die on me now, you bastard!"
Another thump, and was that one of his ribs cracking? Lovely. If he did live, it would be weeks before he could give his unwelcome savior a proper thrashing.
"Not like this, and not until you tell me why-"
The next strike forced a rush of air from Bishop's lungs, and he spent the long moment while his body relearned how to breathe composing a scathing invective. It was rather alarming that he still couldn't move his right arm, but no sense wasting a perfectly good opportunity for verbal abuse. He opened his mouth and was promptly overcome by a fit of coughing.
The air was thick and damp, and he could imagine it coating his lungs, thwarting his efforts to draw breath. It tasted of vegetation and decay, and he could hear the trickle of water and the skittering of some small creature through the brush. It was completely at odds with his last memory, all enclosed darkness and falling rock. How had he ended up in a swamp?
"Easy," the voice said, softer but still with an undercurrent of irritation. His rescuer leaned closer, and now Bishop could smell leather. Well-worn, not creaking but rasping softly. Underneath was the coppery bite of blood. Was it his, or was this person also injured? "You've inhaled a lot of dust."
It was familiar, that voice, but more unmistakable was the frustrated tone. He forced his eyes open, choking out a bitter laugh when his vision swam into focus.
He'd spent a great deal of time fantasizing about the vivid green eyes that stared back at him. Glassy and lifeless as blood poured from her slit throat. Wild and burning as he took her against a wall or over an ale-stained table. The most appealing notion was some combination of the two, where he'd have his pleasure and then dispatch her at her most vulnerable. Sadly, their current position – her lithe frame straddling his hips while she attempted to pound the life back into him – was as close as he'd ever gotten.
At the moment, those eyes were filled with exhaustion and anger, and Bishop wondered if she'd saved him from the cave-in simply so she could kill him herself. The day before, he would have said she didn't have it in her, but now she looked wild, nearly feral. Spatters of blood lent gruesome highlights to her silvery hair, and her normally dusky skin was painted gray with rock dust. If there was ever a moment where he could push her past endurance, this would be it. So the question was, did he try to defuse the situation or provoke her? Live or die?
"Well, if it isn't Eowen Swift," Bishop drawled. "Shard Bearer, Knight Captain, and...what? Champion of murderous traitors?"
Though he was primarily trying to get under her skin, it was a valid question. Why had she saved him? He doubted she had any absurd notions of making him stand trial, and she had yet to reach for the rapier secured at her side. Blackmail? Would she take a page from her drunken uncle's book and proclaim herself his newest master? Better that he die. He gazed at her scowling face, still hovering above his own, and was struck by inspiration.
"Ah, I see." He ground his hips upward, nearly unseating her, and she clutched his arm to keep her balance. He bit his tongue to hold back a hiss. Definitely broken, then. At least the lower half of his body still worked. "Now that your precious paladin is so much mincemeat, you thought you'd try a real man. Of course, you'll have to do most of the work, but I could-"
In one fluid movement, the hand clutching his broken arm wrenched suddenly, and an armored knee connected with his groin. White-hot pain blurred his vision, and when she spoke, her words came as though from a great distance. "I know what you're trying to do, Bishop, and it's not going to work."
And that was the greatest of the many irritating things about this woman – always so certain she knew what he was thinking, even when he wasn't sure. He opened his mouth to point this out, but unleashed only a pained gasp.
She barreled on, regardless. "If I was going to kill you, I would have done it a long time ago, and I wouldn't have bothered saving you from that chamber."
"Why...save me?" Bishop managed. She sat back on her heels to consider him, finally relieving the pressure between his legs, and he stifled a sigh of relief. "And how did you know I was still in there?"
"I've become rather accustomed to knowing where you are, in the event that you decide to sink a knife into my back."
There was no accusation in the words; she simply spoke them as fact, as though she accepted the idea that he might kill her at any moment. Had she been expecting his betrayal? She was certainly clever enough to have seen it coming, though she also possessed an idiotic tendency to allow people second chances.
"As for why," Eowen continued thoughtfully, "I think we'll leave that for another time. Maybe when you're ready to tell me why you stepped aside and didn't fight us."
He flinched involuntarily. That was not a conversation he wanted to have now, or ever. He was supposed to be dead, ensuring she would have no way of prying yet more secrets from his lips. And she would, he had no doubt. She was small, even for a half-drow, and he should have been able to snap her in half. Yet, somehow, she had proven to be the most formidable, infuriating damned woman he'd ever met.
"Now," she said, tugging gently on his uninjured arm to maneuver him upright. "Let's see what we can do about that arm. And then-" She smiled, and it was both captivating and terrifying. "I have a task for you."
