“You are…uninjured?” Sorn’s breath came out unevenly.
“I’m fine.” Cele tried to keep her voice steady. “You saved my life.” Her feelings jumbled together. In only a short time, she’d started to rely on his kindness and humor. What would she do without him? No one had ever risked his life for her before. How dare he put that burden on her?
She looked at Ghav. She couldn’t keep all of the accusation out of her voice. “He’s in so much pain! Can’t you do something?”
The expression on Ghav’s weathered and lined face flickered at Cele’s tone, but he answered with a calm voice. “I’m blocking as much of his pain as I can, my lady. Beyond that, I can only use my knowledge and skill to help him.”
Cele dropped her eyes and pressed her lips together. Ghav was doing his best, but that wasn’t the answer she wanted.
“Sorn, I must hurt you more if I’m to help you at all.” Ghav bent over Sorn so he could look directly into his eyes. “Chew these leaves. They will dull the pain somewhat.” The Healer pulled three leaves from a small clay pot filled with oil and stuffed them into Sorn’s cheek. “Chew,” he commanded and waited to see his patient’s jaw begin to move before he continued by unrolling a leather pouch filled with obsidian knives, metal tongs and tweezers, what looked like finishing nails and twine, needles and thread.
Ghav untied Sorn’s breeches and began to pull them away from the bloody gashes in his lower abdomen, then paused. “My lady, this will be an ugly business. I must clear his wound of clothing and I cannot pause for a lady’s delicate sensibilities.”
What’s he more concerned about, my reaction to the wound or Sorn’s privates? All she said was, “Get on with it.” Cele glanced at Sorn’s face. His breathing slowed a bit and his eyelids drooped over glazed eyes.
Ghav folded the front flap of Sorn’s pants down all the way, not quite revealing his genitals. Four gashes bled profusely, but only one appeared deep. That wound was enough to threaten Sorn’s life. Ghav pulled the obsidian knife from its sheath and started to set the tip to Sorn’s belly.
Cele’s hand shot out, grasping Ghav’s wrist. “What are you doing? Aren’t you going to sterilize that?”
Ghav stared at her, startled.
Right, Montrose. The wound is already filthy and I’m worried about a few more germs?
Cele released his wrist. “Sorry. It’s just that where I come from, we believe that clean wounds heal better.”
Ghav’s voice was a bit testy. “Here, also. May I continue?”
Cele nodded, then as Ghav was about to cut she asked, “Have you ever treated something like this before?”
“Twice.”
Successfully? She wanted to ask, but said nothing.
Ghav must have guessed her thoughts. “This is a serious wound, my lady, and the treatment for it is limited. A great deal will depend on Sorn.” Ghav lengthened the deep gash, cutting gradually down through the layers of tissue, careful not to further cut the bowel that lay beneath. He nodded toward his bota. “Get that and pour it in the wound.”
Cele picked up the skin and hesitated. She’d been drinking it with no ill effects, but the idea of pouring untreated, unsterile water into Sorn’s shredded belly went against the grain. “We really should boil this first.”
Ghav looked at her impatiently. “My lady, pour it now, or I will summon someone who will. I must cleanse the waste from his belly before I bandage the wound, and I must do it now before he loses more blood.”
Cele poured half the bota into Sorn’s wound.
“Now come over here help me turn him to his side.”
The two of them turned Sorn and Ghav pulled the edges of his wound apart. Sorn moaned. Bloody, vile smelling liquid poured out.
None of her experience had prepared her for this. Cele’s stomach clenched. No. I won’t be sick. I won’t. Not now. She didn’t want to be here, seeing this, doing this to a man who’d been so kind to her, who’d made her laugh. But she couldn’t leave him, either. Cele swallowed tightly and her stomach pulled back from her throat a bit.
They did it twice more, using two of Ghav’s three botas, before Ghav felt he could sew Sorn’s bowel. He selected a curved needle and a length of thread from his pouch. Cele pushed questions of sterile, dissolving sutures out of her mind. Ghav had to use what was available. He took small, delicate stitches, putting Sorn’s insides back together. She was amazed at how deftly Ghav worked with his huge hands.
When he finished stitching Sorn’s interior, Ghav rinsed the wound yet again. The liquid sank into the sand. It still carried blood and stank of fecal matter, but less than before.
“That was the last of my water,” he said. Ghav sat back on his heels and wiped a forearm across his brow, pushing his graying hair off his sweaty face. “I should do this again, but we won’t reach the spring till tomorrow morning, at best.”
Cele reached behind her for one of the squeeze bottles in her belt pack. “Use mine,” she said, pulling open the top. Unbidden, the memory of desperate thirst rose in her mind. The dry, furry tongue, the near delirium, the aching need. Her mouth itched; she felt parched already.
She pushed the unwelcome images away. They’d reach a spring tomorrow. Short rations weren’t the same as no water at all.
Ghav gave her half a frown, but he took the container. When the wound was as clean as he could make it, he packed a poultice of herbs over the wound and wrapped a bandage tightly around Sorn’s middle.
“Aren’t you going to sew him up?”
Ghav shook his head. “The wound needs to drain.”
*
Dahleven rinsed the wound on his neck. The water ran clear; the bleeding had stopped. Damn. Dahleven scrubbed at the wound till it bled again, then bent and emptied the skin over it. That’ll have to be good enough.
Knut called out, “My Lord!” The lookout nodded to where Halsten helped a slumping Falsom navigate the scree leading down to the wash bed.
Fender scrambled up and pulled Falsom’s other arm across his shoulders.
Falsom had barely settled to the ground, propped against a rock, before he started apologizing. “I don’t know what happened. I didn’t see them. I didn’t see a thing.” Falsom’s head wobbled wildly and Dahleven eased it back to rest against the rock. Falsom winced. “Agh, my head!” He put both hands up, awkwardly groping as though he couldn’t quite find it.
“Don’t punish yourself, Falsom. They must have Talents that blinded you to their presence.” The trader caravans that had been attacked reported certain Talents being suppressed and the victims suffered blinding headaches. One man had died from the effect.
Falsom had been lucky.
But he wouldn’t stay lucky if they remained here much longer. None of them would. Most likely they had encountered the Renegades by chance. Their enemies had probably seized an opportunity to attack what seemed to be a small group, until the other half of Dahleven’s company, the second group of four, arrived. The Renegades hadn’t liked the odds then, and had taken to the hills. Cowards.
Dahleven ran a hand down the back of his neck, wincing as much at his thoughts as the pain when he scraped his wound. We can thank that “cowardice” for saving our necks. He had two men down, and two more with wounds that might be fouled. Water was a good day’s march away unless they went back, closer to the Renegade encampment. That was too dangerous. The Tewas could return at any time with reinforcements. They had to move. Now.
Dahleven stood. “Halsten, Fender, make two litters with spears and blankets—”
“No! I can walk on my own.” Falsom started to rise, but Dahleven pushed him down easily. “Well, maybe with a little help, but I can walk.”
Dahleven hated to lose an additional two spears to the making of a second litter, not to mention the men needed to carry it. He looked closely at Falsom. The man’s eyes already focused more steadily and his head didn’t wobble as much. He might make it with help. “All right, you can walk.” Dahleven turned to Kepliner, whose
bandaged arm rested in a sling. “Kep, stay with him. Fender, Halsten, we’ll still need a litter for Sorn.”
Dahleven walked over to where Ghav and Lady Celia bandaged Sorn. His sworn brother’s face was white under his tan, contrasting sharply with his dark hair, and his face twisted with pain. Ghav wore his usual placid expression, but Dahleven had known the older man all his life, and they’d seen battle together before. The narrowing of the Healer’s eyes reflected his worry.
Nearly as white as Sorn, Lady Celia didn’t hesitate to follow the directions that Ghav gave her. When they finished, she stood quickly and turned toward him, but she was too close and tried to take a step back. The deep sand hampered her and she wavered. Dahleven reached out to steady her. Lady Celia’s face paled even further under her sun-pinked skin and her uncertain balance worsened. She was going to faint at his feet. He reacted instinctively, putting his arm around her to steady her against his body.
She was nearly as grimy as the rest of the company, but when her head fell against his chest under his chin, he smelled flowers again, as he had the night before. The scent of her hair and the feel of her body against his produced a familiar and unwelcome response. A post-battle cock-stand wasn’t unusual. But this is neither the time, nor the place, nor the person.
Dahleven dragged his mind away from the inclinations of his body, but he kept his arm around Lady Celia. “Ghav, we can’t stay here.”
He didn’t ask if Sorn could be moved. He’d seen enough wounds. Sorn obviously needed quiet and rest. He shouldn’t be jostled over the mountains. Dahleven wished he could let Sorn heal before forcing a march. If they could stay put just a day or two, that would give his friend a better chance to recover. But he didn’t have that choice. None of them did.
Lady Celia stiffened and tried to push away. Dahleven let her, but kept one hand on her arm to steady her. Color had returned to her face and her eyes sparked with anger. She’s feeling better.
“You’re going to move him? You can’t! He’s all torn up inside. He needs rest!” Lady Celia jerked her arm out of his grasp and stood stiff and rigid with anger. She seemed oblivious to the tears tracking through the dust on her face.
Dahleven resisted the impulse to reach out and wipe the moisture away. He couldn’t afford tender feelings toward this woman. He didn’t know who she was or why she was here. Just because she’d come from Midgard didn’t mean she was benign. He believed her explanations, as Sorn believed her, but wiser men than they had been led astray by a pretty face. He had a responsibility to get his men and his information back to Quartzholm. He couldn’t afford to trust her, to give her a weapon by explaining that he would give almost anything to restore Sorn.
“We haven’t got time for this.” Dahleven looked past her to Ghav. “We’ll move as soon as the litter is ready.” Then he turned away from the emotion on Lady Celia’s face.
A moment later she grabbed his sleeve as she jumped in front of him. “Don’t you walk away from me! This is important! Sorn is seriously injured. Moving him now could kill him. Don’t you care about that? You have a responsibility to him!”
Anger flashed hot and cold. Cold won. Dahleven grasped her wrist and pulled her hand from his shirt. He didn’t release her, but held firm and leaned close. His voice was tight and low with controlled rage. “Do not attempt to teach me my responsibilities, my lady. I know them better than you. Right now they include not allowing a larger party of Renegades to return and finish what these have begun.” Dahleven gestured broadly at the five bodies that lay across the wash from them.
Two of the dead lay belly up. Blood from a mortal wound stained the chest of one and the rictus of death had begun to distort his face; another no longer had much of a face at all. A surge of satisfaction washed through Dahleven as Lady Celia glanced at the dead Tewakwe and she paled, but she didn’t wobble or faint. The anger in her eyes receded, but didn’t disappear entirely.
Dahleven released her wrist. Her hand fisted tightly, as though she’d like to hit him, but she stood quite still, glaring at him.
Fendrikanin coughed then said, “The litter is ready.”
Lady Celia looked at Fender and the tension broke.
Dahleven nodded. “Good. Let’s move.”
*
Cele was grateful that Dahleven set a slower pace than he had in the morning, but it was still difficult for the men carrying the litter. No one complained; they all wanted to be further away from Renegade territory.
Movement took its toll on Sorn. Ghav stayed close, walking by the side of the litter when the way through the hills allowed it. He couldn’t shield Sorn from his pain entirely. The men carrying the litter did their best, but they climbed uneven ground and they couldn’t keep from bouncing him. Ghav dosed him with more of the herbs from his store, but a groan occasionally escaped Sorn’s lips when the going was particularly difficult.
After one such jostle, Cele jogged forward till she came even with Dahleven. “Is this the easiest path…you can find?” she panted, out of breath. “This is too hard on Sorn. Couldn’t we move faster…and easier on the flat?”
Dahleven glanced at her and shook his head. “Easier, but not faster—or safer. This way leads more or less directly to the pass we’re headed for. Going back down to the valley and then climbing back up would cost us time and still cause Sorn to suffer. And the Renegades watch the trade trail in the valley.”
Cele pressed her lips together. It wasn’t what she wanted to hear, but it made sense. And at least he had explained instead of just dismissing her.
She waited for the litter to catch up with her, then resumed walking beside it. She noticed Dahleven looking back at her, one eyebrow cocked. She didn’t think much about it; her attention was all for Sorn.
The vegetation changed as they climbed further from the desert floor. The passable ground widened and scrubby trees replaced the thornbushes, but the footing was still uneven. Cele walked to one side of the litter when she could, and Sorn held her hand. His kept his eyes closed, but she could tell from the pressure of his fingers when each new jostle increased his pain.
They traveled hand in hand until the party paused again for the men to change who carried the litter. The rotation started to repeat, and Cele offered to take a turn. She wanted to do something, and it was the only thing she could think of.
Dahleven took her hands in his and turned her palms upward. His hands were warm and firm and callused. Cele’s office worker’s hands were soft and pink and scratched from her few days in the desert. He shook his head. “No. Ghav has enough to do without you tearing your hands to rags.” Then he turned away to speak to Lindimer.
Cele’s anger flared at Dahleven’s dismissal. That he was right only made it worse.
*
The afternoon wore on. The leather straps of Sorn’s bota bags chafed Cele’s shoulders but she refused to complain, not when the rest of Sorn’s pack had been redistributed among the others. Everyone was carrying a heavier load than usual. Dahleven led them upward along the ridges, as straight east as the terrain allowed. It was a little cooler here than lower in the foothills, but the air was just as dry and Cele’s mouth cried out for moisture. She refused to give in to her thirst and didn’t allow herself relief until she saw the others drinking. They were all on short rations. At a normal pace they would have reached water by midmorning the next day, but they were moving slower now, and they’d used a lot of their water cleaning wounds.
They walked until the fading sun robbed them of enough light to travel safely, then they made another cold camp. They stopped at a wide spot in the lee of a cliff that rose thirty feet.
Ghav was by Sorn’s side as soon as his bearers put him down, close below the ridge face. As the Healer pulled back the blanket that covered Sorn, it was immediately apparent that infection had set in. Sorn’s abdomen was swollen and darkly discolored. Red streaks swept outward from his wounds and the bandages were putrid with drainage. Cele choked back a cry and her stomach roiled at the
vile smell.
Fendrikanin volunteered his water to cleanse the wounds, but Ghav refused it. He merely expressed foul fluid from the wounds and covered them again. Sorn groaned and clenched his hands in the dirt as Ghav worked.
Cele wanted to scream, but instead she knelt and clasped his hands in her own. His grasp hurt, but Cele welcomed the pain. If he hadn’t been protecting her, this might not have happened. This was worse than watching her mother die. Much worse. It hadn’t been easy to see her mother in pain, but at least Cele hadn’t felt responsible for the cancer.
Sorn’s clasp eased as Ghav applied fresh bandages. Then the healer left to tend Kepliner’s arm.
Ghav was halfway across the camp before Cele realized what was about to happen. “I’ll be right back,” she assured Sorn, then she jumped and ran to catch up with the Healer. “You should wash your hands before touching Kep’s arm,” she said in a low voice.
Ghav’s eyes narrowed. “Cleanliness is important, but you seem overly concerned about it, my lady. That’s fine for a lady’s chamber, but it’s a luxury we can’t afford in the field, especially when we’re already short of water.”
Cele put her hand on his arm. “Please, believe me. I know what I’m talking about. Back home we know a lot about this. You carry Sorn’s infection, his…fever, on your hands. You could take it to Kep’s arm if you don’t wash first,” she pleaded softly.
Ghav took an impatient breath, then let it out slowly as his expression became thoughtful. “All right. I’ll sacrifice some water to rinse my hands. We haven’t any soap with us. And when we’re safe in Quartzholm you will explain to me more fully what you think you know about healing.”
Cele poured water while Ghav scrubbed his hands together in the flow, shaking his head all the while. Then she returned to Sorn.
He slept. Thank goodness. Though his eyes had remained closed most of the day, she knew the pain had kept him awake. He was as exhausted as if he’d climbed every step himself.
Dangerous Talents Page 7