Eight out of the fifteen they had started with were dead—most from the waggoners and alchemists, who were not trained for combat. Ruth, who had managed to dig out some medical supplies from one of her wagons, did her best to tend to the wounded with the help of Jack and her surviving assistants.
Orin staggered over to where Meara had dropped her cloak and gathered it up. Though it was clear that she didn't bother to remove her clothing, which was now shredded along the road, she did manage to remove her hood. Looking it over, Orin was glad to see that there were no new tears he would have to fix. But it was a small constellation to everything else that had occurred.
As he cleaned it off the best he could and wrapped it up, Andre came up behind Orin, stating with a bombastic tone, "See, Sir Wolfbane! You're not the only one who can take on werewolves! They will sing songs of my men and me just like they have of you." He slapped Orin on the back with a friendly smile before noticing the torn clothes and the cloak. His flashy smile and pretentious demeanor withered as he said with sincerity, "Oh! Is that not your companion's cloak? Don't tell me they got that poor girl too?"
"Not exactly," Sir Orin said, "She'll be back later. Hopefully before nightfall," he said as he looked upward at the overcast sky.
"What is that supposed to mean?" Andre asked.
But before he could answer, The Inquisitor rammed on his hours, fuming, "Master Wolfbane! I hope you are pleased with yourself; because of your ineptitude, we have lost most of our company." The inquisitor glowered, red in the face.
"We did," Orin said calmly, "there were no others after we cleared the tower. This band must have been elsewhere during our raid."
"Excuses!" the inquisitor snapped, "If you actually had done your job, these tainted would not have ambushed us!"
Andre scratched his bloodied hair as he kicked one of the dead corpses of the wolves, "I have never run across beasts such as these."
"Then clearly, you've never fought many beasts that magic wells have tainted," Phillipe said with measured disdain.
"Inquisitor Philippe," Ruth spat, trying to save the life of the man with his arm loped off, "Either get off your high horse and make yourself useful or stop running your mouth."
"Well, I never!" the inquisitor snorted but did little more than sit indignity as his hours pawed the ground impatiently.
Instead, Andre quickly shuffled over, asking, "How can I help?"
But Ruth only stiffened, checking the man's neck, before the tension in her shoulders slackened, "Thank you, Andre, but it is too late for him...." She took one of the rags she had been trying to stem the bleeding with and covered his face before glancing about at the other fresh corpses with a hollow and distant look.
"Good," The Inquisitor said, "saved us the indignation of having to put him down."
"What?" Orin asked, only just noticing what the ecclesiastical man was suggesting.
"We should put them out of their misery." Phillippe said, indicating Andray's and Ruth's men who had been wounded by the tainted mutants, "better to end them now and save their soles than to let them linger and to become a tool of our adversaries."
"No," Ruth said sternly. "They are not cursed."
"Are you sure?" the inquisitor asked Ruth, "Can you say so with certainty?"
"Even if they are, we have ways to help them."
"Insolent wench," Philippe sneered, "Be it on your head if they turn and kill the rest of us," he rode away down the row of wagons.
After dealing with the dead, decoupling the slaughtered oxen, treating the wounded, and ensuring they were not tainted, the wagon train prepared to move on before the bandits could return. Meanwhile, Orin kept checking over his shoulder, listening for any sign of Meara. He was growing worried at her absence.
Jack, too was anxious. He discreetly asked Orin when they were momentarily alone, "Wolfbane, where is she? Shouldn't she be back by now?"
Orin did not want to say anything to alarm the others, but he was indeed considering their options. He was about to suggest that Lucky or himself slip off to see if they could find the wayward werewolf when something emerged from the woods.
It was Meara, staggering out from the underbrush. The girl once again was in her more human form. She was badly beaten, limping, covered in cuts and scrapes, and looked half delirious as she gasped for air.
"Meara!" Orin cried, shocked at her condition. She wobbled, her legs giving out as Jack caught her, Orin rushing forward to help, wiping her nose where blood came trickling down. "What happened? Why haven't you recovered—
"Wolfbane, there is something in her back!" Jack cried.
Orin felt the obstruction, slick with blood. He looked and found that she had a stake of enchanted silver stabbed between her ribs.
"Ruth! Get over here!" Orin shouted, helping Jack lay her down.
"I did the best I could," Meara coughed, "But I—
"Werewolf!" one of Andre's men cried.
Several other men came with arms at the ready, including the inquisitor.
"She is tainted!" Phillipe shouted, drawing his sword, "Stand aside, Wolfbane!"
But quickly throwing the cloak over Meara, Orin stepped in between her and the armed men, raising his voice, "Back off!"
Phillipe sunken eyes went wide before he spat, "She must be put down!"
"Oh! Would you just shut up for five minutes and move aside!" Ruth shouted, pushing past the inquisitor and Andre with her medical supplies.
The inquisitor and Andre watched dumbfounded as Ruth, dropping to her knees, proceeded to evaluate the damage, calling over her shoulder, "Brace! Get the elixirs! Jack, give me a hand."
The Inquisitor shook with rage, "What is the meaning of this?" he ordered, turning to Andre's men "Soldiers! Dispatch these heretics!"
"Oh, I wouldn't do that, old boyo," Lucky said as he stood on the back wagon, bow drawn and aiming right for the inquisitor's head.
The regimental troops, too, drew their own weapons but held their ground, looking to Andre for confirmation.
For his part, Andre hesitated. He looked ready to draw his weapon, but instead, he asked, "I thought you said she was burnt?"
"I said she was scarred; I didn't say by what," Orin stated evenly. "It is a long story, but understand, Meara is not tainted anymore."
"Hold her still— where are those elixirs?" Ruth called out.
Andre glanced at Ruth, then back to his men, and again at the inquisitor, who looked disbelieving at the hesitation. He asked, "Are you sure she is a threat, Inquisitor?"
"Not a threat? Look at her!"
Jack intervened, standing beside Orin with his hands up, "Just hear us out before you jump to conclusions!"
"Andre," Ruth said over her shoulder as she worked, "not all tainted are evil, and not all evil is tainted."
"Orin..." Meara weakly called out. "Orin, listen to me—" she whimpered as Ruth pulled out the stake and applied copious amounts of an ointment directly to the wound. It hissed as if burning. Meara's face twisted in pain as she fought against the others, her body twitching.
Ruth ordered, "hold her down!" before pulling out the stake and shoving a wad of elixir-soaked fabric into the wound.
Mira panted heavily as she gasped for air, her eyes rolling back in her head wildly. Orin dropped to his knees as well, holding her head as she convulsed, the numerous cuts and wounds across her body quickly ceiling up on their own accord before she grew still.
"Meara? Can you hear me!" Orin asked, shaking.
After a moment, her eyes flitted open as she took in a rattly breath. She looked up to Orin, wild-eyed and dazed.
"Oh god, Meara, what happened to you?" Orin asked. Trying to keep her conscious long enough to get an answer from her.
Meara gripped Orin's arm, "It, it was Jonathan." She wheezed as she forced out the words, "He, he's back— at, at the tower."