by David Penny
The soldiers had been thinned by half, the remainder hanging back, unwilling to sacrifice themselves now their leader had been killed. Then Luis swung into the saddle of a spare horse and urged it into a gallop. He came directly at Thomas, sword held above his head in a stupid show of bravado. Thomas pricked the horse’s flank and leapt backward, avoiding Luis’s swinging blow with ease. He stumbled into someone, pushed against them, then felt a punch to his back and staggered forward. He swung around to face a frightened man who was already backing away, and then someone else crashed into him and he fell to his knees. He managed to turn in time to deflect a lazy swing of Luis’s sword. He struck back in return, careful not to injure the youth. His strength was fading, flowing from him like a damaged vessel, and he risked a glance down as he staggered to his feet, afraid the blow had been a sword thrust, but he saw no wound, no blood. He shook his head, trying to regain his senses, then made a fast attack against Luis. The boy was good, skilled, but Thomas had honed his own skills over decades and knew he could vanquish him anytime he wanted. Except again someone grabbed at him and he swung around, almost taking Olaf’s hand off at the wrist if his axe had not stopped the blow. Olaf glanced down, gave a small shrug and stepped past Thomas, his eyes on Luis, who had changed direction and was approaching Aban.
“Go check on Jorge,” said Olaf, “I think he’s hurt. I’ll take care of this one.”
“Leave him. Let him live.” Thomas stepped back six paces, trying to pull more air into his lungs than they would take. Usaden stood in the centre of a ring of dead and injured men. His sword hung loose at his side as he waited for the others to decide if they wanted to risk his wrath or not, but already men were shuffling backwards, looking away, looking to where their companions waited. Luis backed off from Olaf and joined the others now he had proven himself.
The fight was over.
Thomas turned to find Jorge on one knee, his hand clasped to his side. Blood ran between his fingers to pool on the ground.
“I need to dance better,” said Jorge, his voice remarkably calm.
“Or learn to fight better.” Thomas went to both knees and drew Jorge’s hand away from the wound. Blood pulsed and he rose, grabbed Jorge beneath his arms and dragged him to the side of the track and propped him against a rock. He unlaced the leather vest that had failed to offer enough protection, then tore Jorge’s shirt to reveal the wound. Low down, a single sword thrust. Thomas turned Jorge over and found a smaller wound in his back where the blade had gone all the way through. Less blood flowed from the rear puncture, so he turned him back around.
“I think I killed two men,” said Jorge. “How many did you get?”
“Be quiet.”
Jorge smiled. “So not as many as me, then.”
“That’s not being quiet. Do you want to live or not?”
“Live,” said Jorge. “If there is a choice. Yes, live. Can you fix me, Thomas?”
“Shut up.”
Thomas tried to remember how many he had killed and couldn’t, their number fading into the distance along with all the other men he had stolen the breath from. Too many men. Too much fighting. He was getting too old for such exploits.
He fashioned a rough bandage by tearing Jorge’s shirt into strips. He padded the wound with a square of leather cut from the vest, using the edge of his own sword to fashion it, then wrapped the bandage as tight as he could. He sat on his heels, a hand up to stop Jorge moving, and watched. A little blood seeped beneath the binding, but not as much as there had been.
“How are you feeling? Dizzy?”
Jorge shook his head. “But it hurts. Hurts so much, Thomas.”
“It will until we get to Gharnatah. I have herbs and potions that will help, but we need to get you there first. Stay here. Don’t move.”
Thomas picked up his sword and rose, his body aching, but he knew the fighting hadn’t finished yet. He heard Olaf’s roar as he worked, the clatter of sword and axe and knife, the screams of the dying, the whinny of horses. When he turned, he saw Olaf standing over a felled man. Usaden was walking slowly toward him. The remaining attackers had fallen back again, trying to regain a semblance of order. A few glanced at their fallen comrades, then mounted theirs horses and rode away.
Thomas looked among the bodies for Aban but didn’t see him. Luis, he knew, had fled with their attackers.
“They’ll be back once they get reinforcements,” said Olaf.
“How far do you think?” Thomas asked.
“The others will be in Pampaneira, so not long. A few hours, no more—sooner if they ride hard. And there will be more of them next time. Perhaps too many for the three of us.”
Usaden came toward them. He had gathered four horses and led them, docile now. Thomas looked them over and wondered if Jorge was capable of riding. He glanced around once more, puzzled by where Aban had gone, afraid he had been injured and hidden himself away somewhere. He asked Usaden if he had seen him, knowing the Gomeres mercenary missed little.
“He switched sides,” said Usaden. “He joined his friend, the one called Luis. They mounted the same horse and rode off with the others.”
“The boy is a fool,” Thomas said, knowing who he meant even if the others didn’t.
“Is Jorge badly hurt?” asked Usaden
“He may be. I need to get him to Gharnatah so I can treat him.”
“Can he ride?”
“I don’t think so.”
Usaden nodded and released the reins of one of the horses, which wandered away with no destination in mind. Usaden swung into the saddle of another in a single lithe motion. Olaf had been cleaning his axe as they spoke, examining the blade and touching one or two nicks with his fingertip.
Thomas took one of the horses and led it toward where Jorge lay. His skin had paled, and when Thomas saw the colour of his lips he felt a moment of fear he hadn’t during the fight. Olaf helped him lift Jorge into the saddle, then Thomas climbed behind. He gripped the reins, his arms pressed tight to hold Jorge in place, then urged the horse into a walk, waiting to see how Jorge fared. He swung from side to side and Thomas had to hold him upright. He saw Olaf mount the largest of the beasts and follow. Usaden hung back, looking over the fallen men, then he smiled and followed.
“How many?” Thomas asked as he joined them.
“Over a dozen. Olaf killed almost half their number.” Usaden made no claim for himself, but Thomas knew he would not have been far behind. Which meant he had not killed as many as he had thought—not if Jorge claimed two—but Usaden said, “I saw you send three to their God, whoever that might be.”
Not that it mattered, Thomas thought. Battle wasn’t a competition for most men, at least not those who wanted to live long. He caught Jorge as he began to slip sideways and pulled him straight before urging the horse into a canter. Speed was more important than comfort, and he was concerned for his friend. Jorge had come to rescue him, to save his life, and he hoped the gift could be repaid.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Thomas knew they should have taken more care entering Gharnatah, but there was not enough time. The light was starting to fade as he rode through the eastern gate and he hoped that would offer at least a little cover, though Olaf was a difficult figure to miss. They left the stolen horses in al-Hatabin square, a gift for whoever found them, and climbed the remainder of the way on foot. Olaf cradled Jorge in his arms as though he weighed nothing. Thomas remembered how, less than a year before, Olaf himself had been the one close to death. Now there was no sign of the injuries he had sustained in the battle that had sent al-Zagal scurrying east to al-Marilla.
Thomas was unsure what to expect when he approached the entrance to his house. Had Muhammed’s soldiers destroyed the place, even burned it to the ground? From the outside it looked unchanged, though he saw most of the expensive glass panes had been smashed, the shattered shards still on the flagstones. Olaf turned sideways to enter the house without having to put Jorge down.
“No, bring
him through here.”
Thomas went into his workshop, anger flaring when he saw what Guerrero’s men had done. Almost every jar had been dashed from the shelves to break on the stone floor. A bare few remained intact, but the rest had their contents mixed together, making them useless. Books that Thomas had acquired over years, and his notes, were piled in one corner. Someone had tried to strike a light against them, but for some fortunate reason it had not caught properly and only a few sheets were curled and blackened.
“Put him on here.” Thomas patted the worktable, which acted as a makeshift bed for patients. He went to a cabinet and opened a drawer, relieved to discover the instruments within lay undisturbed. He selected what he needed, then searched through the bottles that remained intact, but couldn’t find what he was looking for.
Jorge began to moan. He had been quiet on the journey, only half-conscious, but now with some physical relief the awareness of his pain grew in intensity.
Thomas turned to Olaf, who continued to stand in the doorway. “Go fetch Belia,” he said, and then as the big man started to turn away, “and Helena. I need them both.”
Thomas tore a strip of linen and tied it around Jorge’s wrist.
“What are you doing?” Jorge’s eyes remained closed, and his voice was barely audible.
“I don’t want you thrashing about. How much pain is there?”
“How much do you think!” Jorge’s shortness was answer enough.
“There’s going to be more. If I don’t tie you down I can’t work.”
“What happens if you leave the wound as it is?”
Thomas stared at Jorge’s pale face, his clammy skin, the sweat standing out on his forehead. “If you think it hurts now wait three days. And if you think it hurts then, wait another three. Two more days and the pain will be gone.”
“Well, then.”
“Because you’ll be dead.” Thomas turned at the sound of footsteps. Belia entered first. She glanced at Jorge, and Thomas saw she wanted to go to him and stepped aside to allow her. She crossed quickly, took Jorge’s hand and held it between her breasts. Helena remained in the doorway, avoiding looking anywhere in the room.
Thomas went to her first, knowing his request for her was the simpler. “Do you remember where Da’ud lives?” he asked, referring to the physician he used to work with, but not for some time now.
“Of course I do.”
“Go there and tell him I need hashish and poppy liquor—he will have both. Bring them back as soon as you can.”
Helena stared at Thomas for a moment. He half expected her to refuse, for no reason other than she could, but once again she showed how much she had changed, or how much Muhammed had changed her. She nodded, turned and left without a word.
“Will he live?” asked Belia.
“If he lets me work on him.”
Belia looked back at Jorge. “Then do it, my love.” She kissed his knuckles where they were bruised from the fight, then turned to Thomas. “What can I do?”
“I need honey and egg-white for the infection. It’s the best we have for now. Is there anything left in the garden?”
Belia shook her head. “Nothing that’s not been dug up, and they killed all the chickens and left them, but there are a few eggs we can use. I saved what I could. There is a little willow bark. They ignored the crab-apple tree, and I think I can use the fennel and plantain. They are drying in the kitchen and we can get other herbs from the market in the morning if we need them. There are also a few lotions in the cellar they didn’t smash.”
“I need something now. We’ll have to manage with what we have.” Thomas wondered if he should have gone to Da’ud al-Baitar instead of sending Helena. Da’ud might have some of the herbs he needed, but he would know well enough what was required and provide it if he could.
Once Belia had gone to start preparing her herbs Thomas returned to Jorge, who lay without protest as his wrists and ankles were tied, lengths of soft linen binding them to each of the four legs of the table.
“Perhaps I should get Belia to do this to me occasionally. Once I am well, of course.”
“This is going to hurt.” Thomas leaned close, almost kneeling, and cut away the makeshift bandages that were by now stuck to Jorge’s wound. Thomas continued cutting, then used water and a cloth to wash away more of the mess so he could see clearly.
He used the tips of his fingers to press lightly against the flesh around the entry wound, which was starting to bruise and continued to leak blood. He glanced up to see Jorge’s face set against the pain.
Thomas leaned close, then pressed sharply so the break in Jorge’s skin opened a little, and before he could pull away placed his nose close and breathed deep. He cursed at the message the smell told him.
“I’m going to untie you on this side for a moment.”
“Are we finished?”
Thomas said nothing, fingers working on the knots so recently tied.
“Why tie me up only to untie me? You are teasing, aren’t you? You lust for my body and this is the only way you can get it. Well, I have told you often enough–”
“You have told me more than enough.” Thomas pushed hard and Jorge cried out as he rolled onto his side. Thomas held him there with one hand as he cleaned the exit wound and sniffed again. Nothing this time, which was good, but he would still need to open Jorge’s body to clean within. He was sure the bowel had been cut. With luck it would be no more than a nick. Without luck it would be damaged beyond repair, but even a tiny cut could be dangerous. The wound and surrounding area would need cleaning fully and Belia’s herbs applied.
He let Jorge flop onto his back again and stood, straightening and trying to ease the deep ache in his body he knew only time and a soft bed would cure, only one of which was available. When he twisted he caught sight of a slight figure standing in the doorway.
“How long have you been there?”
“Only a little while,” said Dana. “Is he going to live?”
“He will if I have anything to do with it.”
“Good. I like Jorge.”
“Most women do.”
“I’m still here,” said Jorge. “You can come and hold my hand if you want to offer comfort to an injured hero.”
Dana offered a shy smile but stayed where she was, which Thomas considered for the best. Jorge didn’t need beautiful women close to him at the moment.
“What are the others doing?” Thomas asked, not particularly interested. He would prefer the girl gone, but was unwilling to eject her without reason.
“Jamila is cooking, as usual. The men are talking.”
“About what?”
“Fighting, I expect. That is what you all do, isn’t it?” She cocked her head to one side. “Do you know what you are doing with Jorge? Should you not be sending for a physician?”
“I am a physician,” Thomas said, and heard Jorge make a sound suspiciously like a laugh.
Dana’s face remained expressionless. It was clear she didn’t believe him.
“I thought Aban or Luis might be in here,” she said.
“They didn’t come back with us.”
Dana stared at him as her face paled. “Are they dead? You can tell me if they are.” She worried at her lip on one side.
“Not dead, but they … decided to stay out there.” He saw the look of fear in Dana’s eyes. “It is not what you think. I’ll explain to everyone later.”
“We love each other,” said Dana. “I know what we share is not usual, especially in this land—a woman with two men—but it is what we are. It is what we do.” She placed a hand over her belly which showed nothing, but both Thomas and she knew what lay within. “The child I carry could have been set by either of them, but it doesn’t matter which. We will always be together.” She cocked her head and looked at Thomas. “Do I shock you?”
“Thomas is shocked at everything,” said Jorge from behind him. “But you do not shock me. Do they love you as much as you love them?”
/> Dana nodded.
“Then all will be well. If they come back, all will be well.”
Thomas recalled the drawing Luis had made of her and wondered what others he would have found if he had taken the time to study the other books. For now, he had a job for Dana. He picked up the bucket of water he had used to clean Jorge’s wound and held it out. “Take this and throw the contents away, then go see if you can find me more—but hot this time.”
Dana looked at the bucket, and for a time Thomas was sure she would refuse, then she started to come toward him.
“No, stop!” Thomas shouted, and Dana came to an abrupt halt. He closed the gap between them, aware her feet were bare and the floor was covered in shards of broken pot and glass. He handed the bucket to her and she took it, having to use both hands. She turned and padded away into the dark courtyard.
Thomas found more oil lamps and lit them so the table and Jorge were bathed in light.
“She likes me,” said Jorge, “but I think she is both afraid and drawn to you in equal measure.”
“Wait until you begin to scream.”
Jorge stared at Thomas. “Will there be a great deal of pain?”
“Only if Da’ud has no poppy, and I’ve never known him be without. I don’t Dana likes me anymore. Should I be concerned, do you think?”
“You?” Jorge relaxed against the table as if it was the most comfortable feather-stuffed mattress. “When have you ever cared what people think of you? What are you going to do, Thomas, after you inflict all this pain on me?”
“Olaf and Usaden are making plans, so I need to wait to see what they come up with. It’s you I’m concerned with for now, nothing else.”
Jorge smiled. “And I love you too, my brother, but you know neither Guerrero nor Mandana are going to rest until they have killed you.”