Sleeveless had been treated for the sword cut in his side, but even Morgan could tell by looking at him that the triage team had maybe been a little optimistic about the raid leader’s survival chances. He certainly didn’t need the two Outlander guards watching him; Sleeveless’s eyes were a little glassy, his breathing wasn’t great, and the bandages were in the part of the gut where it’s really not very fun to get stabbed. He might still survive, if he got to a real doctor in time. Or he might not.
Morgan didn’t worry about any of that: after all, Sleeveless was an invader and nobody on Morgan’s side had been the one who stuck a sword in the bandit’s intestines. He had nothing really invested in the Freeholder’s long-term survival. But in the short-term, information would be helpful. As long as Morgan didn’t spend much time trawling for it.
As Morgan Barod drew near, he got an odd sensory impression. It wasn’t exactly a smell, but it was closer to a smell than anything else. And it ‘smelled’ a little foul. Not as bad as intestines mixed with shit; but nothing good, either.
The Outlanders had put the wounded, Freelander and — hmm, Shoreman?, thought Morgan. I need to come up with a good name for us — alike on the poor, abused tables to keep them out of the dirt; in Sleeveless’s case they had put the table where he could be handcuffed to a pole without too much discomfort. Morgan took a chair before Sleeveless. “Good morning!” he said, trying to be as friendly as he could to the slave-taking, raid-leading, murderous son-of-a-bitch.