The crossbowmen had not been happy to see me dump one of their own in the center of their camp, the place where they gathered around two long fires to cook and eat and drink and talk and bind themselves together into a group.
Here. I think this is yours, I felt like saying. It was what I was doing, in fact, but it would have been a travesty.
Rastrian raised his hand high for silence as the hum of voices grew, and raised his voice. “We found him by the mages' wagons. We don't know anything yet. Where is Dubaku?”
He was behind us.
“Here.”
I had put the man down with some care, his compatriots gathering round, naming him, asking what the hell had happened to him. I'd moved his limbs gently into a less grotesque position. Then I had stepped back, letting them have him. And had nearly jumped out of my skin when Dubaku spoke at my elbow.
“Can you call his spirit? Ask him what happened?”
“I can. It will take time. I will need to be alone. Bring him to my tent.”
I watched the scene play out. The men picking him up, carrying him after Dubaku. Then I left, telling Rastrian I would be in my tent.
I didn't need to tell him our dinner was canceled.