by Don McQuinn
The torn, bleeding man panted into the ripped, raging face of the red-eyed animal.
The boar screamed and pushed forward, slashing with the tusks. Sheer strength forced Conway backward. The buried sword kept the animal at bay.
Conway felt himself weakening. From fingertips to shoulder sockets, muscles melted with fatigue.
The boar came on, not caring that it was killing itself in its need to kill its tormentor.
A twist tore the murdat from Conway’s hands. The boar staggered sideways at the unexpected loss of resistance. Falling to its side, it kicked the ridiculously tiny hoofs in the air, then rolled back, prepared to rise.
The dogs thundered down the narrow trail, fell on the thrashing boar in a snarling, snapping heap. Conway thought he heard Mikka yelp. There was so much blood and sweat in his eyes he couldn’t see to be sure. There was another yelp as he wiped a forearm across his face to clear his vision. A blooded Karda and Mikka had the boar down. The handle of the murdat still protruded from the boar’s chest. A length of exposed blade was almost as much a danger to the dogs as the pig.
Conway half rose, falling forward, dropping onto the sword with all his weight and the last bit of strength he could muster.
The boar screamed. And kicked. Its death throes sent Mikka spinning. Conway closed his eyes and hung onto the murdat as if it anchored him to life.
He was still clutching it when he recognized Lanta’s voice. “Let go now,” she was saying. “It’s over. I’ll make you well, Matt Conway. I’ll make everything fine. I’ll tend to you.”
Lovely words. Lovely voice. So sweet.
He felt himself flowing into unconsciousness, too weary to ask himself why he struggled against the languorous, seductive inner voice whispering, “Sleep. Believe. Surrender.”
He was almost certain it was an inner voice.
Chapter 23
Opening his eyes, Conway jerked painfully.
Weak, gray light. Cold.
What was this dim, unwelcoming place?
The sea.
He strained to understand. How could that be?
Rain. The reek of a fishing boat. And movement. Slow, rolling movement. He needed solid bearings or he was going to be violently ill.
His head ached.
His horse. The dogs.
A boar.
Remembrance burst on him. He sat up, gritting his teeth against waves of pain.
He was on a bed of boughs and skins. Above the blanket that was now fallen to his waist, his body was a map of scratches. Most merely broke the skin; some could have been knife slashes. The flesh paralleling the worst of them rose in angry red welts. A large square bandage was held to his right temple by two leather thongs. The cloth was damp, earthy smelling. A poultice, then.
More examination showed he was naked under the blanket, and his legs had fared no better. In fact, there was another bandage on his right thigh. He lifted it carefully to peek at a nasty wound that could only have come from the boar’s tusk. It had penetrated rather deeply. He had no idea how or when it got there.
The fish smell was from the translucent Whale Coast cloth that formed the roof and one wall of his quarters. Such as they were. He appeared to be in a shallow sort of grotto formed of three massive boulders. There was a ground-level entrance hole, a pinned-up fold in the cloth wall. He’d have to literally crawl through it.
While he considered that possibility, Lanta’s head appeared there. When she was far enough advanced to lookup, her surprise at seeing him sitting upright made Conway smile. The change of expression hurt enough to make him aware his face was scratched up, as well.
She flashed him an answering smile, hurrying forward. When she was in, she reached back for a thick-walled wooden bowl. Raindrops gleamed an its curved sides and steam curled out of it. At his first sniff, his stomach growled like an aroused dog.
Speech came hard. Finally, he managed, “You all right? Mikka. Where’s Mikka? My horse?”
Lanta said, “I’m fine. Sylah sewed up Mikka and the horse. They’re healing. You shouldn’t be sitting up. You’ll break open those scratches.” She gestured with the bowl, and he remembered that only a blanket covered his nakedness. He clutched it around him, wincing again at the pull of torn skin.
Frowning, Lanta hurried to his side, putting down the bowl, pushing his hands away. “See, I told you,” she said, scolding. “A lot are weeping again.” She reached for the blanket. He flinched. Startled, she paused, then laughed aloud. “Shy? Now? Who do you think bathed and medicated you? I’m a Healer; I’ve spent my life at this.”
“And nearly worried herself sick over you, nevertheless.”
They both turned to see Sylah inside the shelter, getting to her feet, brushing her robe. Tate followed close behind. She was talking before she was completely inside. “I wish you could have seen yourself when we found Lanta working on you next to that boar hog. You looked like somebody tried to whittle you a whole new body. And the lump upside your head was on its way to being a famous eggplant. On top of that, we had to wrestle your horse. He was still groggy as a goat, but he was determined to protect you. Poor animal’s getting a lot of practice looking at you lying in the dirt.” The humor of the remarks failed to disguise her relief. She moved to touch his cheek, then kissed his forehead.
Lanta spooned stew and held it up to Conway. “Eat.” It was an order. He complied eagerly.
Between bites, he said, “How long was I out?”
Sylah pointed upward, drew an arc. “Quite a while. A combination of too little sleep and the exertion. Not to mention the blow. I’m concerned about your horse. And Mikka’s going to limp for a few days; a bad shoulder cut.”
“My horse? What’s wrong?”
“The head injury doesn’t seem to be a problem. He’s limping, though. Lanta’s been applying baths and salves.”
Looking at the small Priestess, who steadfastly kept her gaze concentrated on the soup, he was chagrined to notice how badly her exposed hands and wrists were scratched. Some of the injuries were as deep and ugly as his own. He said, “Lanta, I never asked about you. Are you all right? You’re well enough to be doing all this?”
Coloring, she mumbled assurances. He went on, “I’m grateful. For all of us. I have to go see the animals. You understand.”
Lanta opened her mouth to object, but Dodoy’s scuffling entrance interrupted her. Once inside, the boy grimaced. “Phoo! This place stinks.”
Tate said, “Don’t say that. This is special cloth.” She made him look at it, showed him the quilt like composition. “No one knows how the people on the Whale Coast make it, but the story says a boy made the first piece. He wasn’t strong enough to please his father, and he was small. But one day he learned how to use mussels from the sea and other secret things he discovered—all by himself—to make this material. No one can tear it. See, he showed his father you don’t have to be big to be important and useful.”
Dodoy said, “It’s not just the smelly cloth. It’s all the things she put on him, too. Is he going to die?”
“Sorry.” Conway took the bowl from Lanta and drained it. “Maybe next time. For now, I’m going to check on Mikka and my horse. Lanta, I’ll take over treating them, if you’ll show me what to do.”
The women all argued that he should stay in bed, but he shooed them all out so he could dress. It was harder work than he expected, but he thought of the new Matt Conway, the one who confronted challenges. It didn’t seem to help much, but he finished dressing, anyhow.
Karda was waiting outside the entry hole, and he washed his master’s face thoroughly before Conway could struggle to his feet. Shouted orders and protests, marred by laughter, went shamefully disobeyed as the dog cavorted around him like a monstrous puppy. When Conway had Karda calmed down, Lanta led them to a nearby cranny where the injured animals waited. On the way, she told how they’d explored and decided to establish camp there. “We’ve a stream a hundred yards or so that way,” she said, gesturing, “and
a small spring up the hill. We’re well hidden, far off the trail. The rain’s already erased our tracks. Sylah doesn’t think you should be traveling for a day or two. The animals need rest, too.”
The horse whickered softly at Conway’s appearance, and Mikka got to her feet, limping to him to be fussed over. Karda watched, wagging his tail. The horse’s injury was the most troublesome. He moved with great care, favoring the swollen leg, but carrying his head at a strange angle, as well. Lanta explained that the kick not only opened a wound, but seemed to have caused neck muscles to stiffen. She said, “I’m almost out of salve. I’ll have to use less on him, if I’m to have enough for you and Mikka.”
“Use it on them, I’m fine.”
“That’s not considerate, that’s foolish.” The words were clipped, sharp. “If you’re not important to yourself, you’re necessary to us. If you need the only salve I have left, so be it. There’ll be no argument.”
She ducked away from Conway, scurrying to a ceramic jar he hadn’t noticed. Her face still tinged pink, she busied herself with Mikka. The dog’s wounds were ugly, but, as Lanta medicated them, she explained, “They’re clean. They don’t threaten organs or mobility.” She moved swiftly, hands sure, and then she was examining the horse. He turned his head when she lifted his foreleg, his luminous eyes speculative.
Speaking in a soft, comforting voice, she examined the fetlock carefully, saying, “There’s still a bit of swelling here, but the heat’s gone. I was worried about wind puff, but it seems all right.”
“Wind puff? That’s his ankle.”
Lanta’s startled confusion drove home the enormity of Conway’s miscue. He wished he could pull the words, and their exposure of his ignorance, back.
She said, “We call it wind puff. You know, when they get a swelling or a separation around a tendon. What do you call it? Do your people always say ankle instead of fetlock?”
“Uh, no. Not everyone. We call that other thing a wind swelling. Yes. Mostly wind puff, but sometimes wind swelling.” He was sweating. It got in the scratches, stung like fire.
Lanta turned back to the horse. “Now, let’s see about that shoulder.” She stepped in front of the animal and gripped the foreleg with both hands at the knee, lifting it, bending it forward. He tossed his head, sagging. She released him immediately, moving to stroke his neck. “Poor thing. I hurt that shoulder, didn’t I? Well, we’re going to make it all better.” Easing the hand down his neck, she gestured for Conway to hand her the salve.
Looking in the jar, he saw the small amount left, and ladled up a large dollop on his fingers. Lanta took half of it. “The rest is for you,” she said glaring.
He recognized finality when he saw it. “Can’t you make more salve?”
She was thoughtful. “I saw willows by the stream. And wild garlic. But I don’t have anything for the salve, itself.”
“We’ve got a pig; you use the lard, don’t you?”
“From a wild boar? There wouldn’t be much. And it’s far away.”
“I’ll get it. It’s still fresh.”
She looked at him from the corner of her eye. “Fresh meat. I’m so tired of…” Shaking her head, she set her jaw. “No. You’re not up to that. I’ll get Tate. We’ll do it.”
“I can do it.” He stopped petting Mikka. She butted his hand before turning away to lie down with a resigned sigh.
Lanta said, “We can do it. Together,” and ended the discussion by walking away. He hurried after.
Butchering turned out to be more than hacking away with the murdat. Conway made as if to remove a ham, and Lanta practically screamed at him to stop. From then on, he followed directions. She had him cut circles around all four legs, just at the knee joints. Another cut circled the neck, a bit forward of the shoulders. From there, a slit the length of the body ended at the vent. Smaller lines were drawn from the leg cuts to join the body cut. Then she showed him how to slip a small knife under the hide, and, lifting a small section at a time, separate the two. When he asked why they needed the skin, when there was no time to tan it, “You’ll see,” was all she’d say.
Showing him where to cut, she had Conway open the body cavity. She had him remove the liver, producing a cloth for him to lay it on. With her shortknife, she cutaway the leaf lard by the kidneys. As she’d said, there wasn’t much. She examined it closely, holding it to the light. “Looks healthy. Springtime wild boar. Lean.” She put it beside the liver.
When she was satisfied they had all the meat she wanted loaded on the pack horse, she made Conway pick up the offal and carry it away. She explained. “The animals will clean it up soon, but we’re taking no chances. Anyone looking for us who found parts of a butchered animal would immediately pay more attention to this area. We leave nothing near the trail.”
Rain started to fall. As they made their way back uphill, Conway remarked that it would help hide any sign of their activity. She favored him with the pleasantly surprised smile teachers reserved for slow learners who make a breakthrough. He didn’t know if he should be proud or furious.
Chapter 24
They arrived in camp to find Sylah and Tate both glowering. “What do you think you’re doing?” Tate demanded.
Conway waved at the horse. “Lanta needs lard for salve. We all need fresh meat. I went after it. She wouldn’t let me go alone.”
Sylah said, “I’d think not. You should have both stayed here.”
“And let the meat go to waste?” Conway asked blandly.
It earned him a smile of mixed appreciation and exasperation. “I didn’t say I wasn’t glad you went. I said you shouldn’t have.”
Lanta visibly relaxed. She said, “I’ll fix a broth with some of the meat. While it’s cooking, I can make a salve.”
Sylah agreed. “Whatever meat you don’t use, I’ll dry.” She paused, studying Conway. “You. I want you to rest.”
Tate heard the concern behind the sternness. She said, “I’ll take nightwatch, Matt. Get some rest.”
Conway wanted to argue. His body disagreed. He was asleep as soon as he stretched out.
The next morning, while Sylah and Tate constructed a drying oven, Lanta had Conway cut her four stout poles about three feet long and sharpen one end of each to a point. By the time he finished that, she had two fires going. One was a good deal smaller, several feet away from the larger. She showed him where to drive the poles into the earth; they formed a rectangle enclosing the larger fire. Next she cut long strips from the green hide, using them to lash the truncated legs of the boar’s skin to the posts. Sagging in the middle, it looked like a bloody, hairy hammock. Conway watched in frank horror as she poured water into it and added vegetables. When she began cutting chunks of meat and pitching them into the mix, he couldn’t remain silent.
“You’re going to cook that way?”
She continued, unconcerned. “As you said, we have no need for the hide. A low fire keeps it from burning through, the meat cooks slowly, and all the fat next to the skin enriches the stew. You’ll like it.”
He swallowed noisily. The hair was already frizzling. An unfortunate shift in the wind sent the smoke billowing around him, and he moved with a speed and grace that stressed every scratch and ache of his body. And that he ignored in his haste.
Lanta was already arranging rocks to provide footing for a metal pot over the smaller fire, which was declining to a bed of coals.
She said, “This fire needs to be small, as well, or it destroys the power of the salve ingredients. Heat’s the enemy of many medicines.”
Leaving him alone to watch the stew, she returned quickly with a leather bag. Scrambling around in its depths, she retrieved a bundle of rather grubby looking sticks and a squat ceramic jug with a wooden plug. Conway was assigned the task of cutting up a few pieces of the bundle, which, it developed, were strips of willow bark. For a moment he considered the dichotomy of using his blade, a metal of such technical advance, to make Bronze Age medicine. Then Lanta’s work demanded his att
ention. The jug held garlic. She crushed it to a pulp with a small mortar and pestle. Willow shavings and garlic went into the pot with the lard.
Conway thought he saw a flicker of uncertainty touch her features for a moment before she rummaged in the bag once more. This time she produced a box as long and wide as her hand and about two fingers deep. It held a flour-fine powder. Measuring carefully, frowning with concentration, she added it to the mixture. Seeing Conway’s curiosity, she said, “Valerian. Some call it heal-all. It relaxes the muscles.”
“Do I seem all that tense?”
Laughing, she rose. “Not you. Poor Mikka though. And the horse.”
It was his turn to laugh. “So I get relaxed because my animals are overwrought, is that it? Great.”
She made a face at him and turned her attention back to the pot. She stirred the melted lard, sniffing judiciously, tasting once. Conway watched in silence to match hers, a quiet so companionable the aching and burning of his injuries slipped away unnoticed. He nodded off once, recovering with a start, finding himself lightheaded. The sensation passed quickly, leaving a faint nausea and a warm flush that lingered until he got to his feet.
Lanta arranged the melted fat to sit near the coals, then rose. “This needs to steep a while. Come, let’s see what Sylah and Tate are doing.”
He caught her arm, causing her to turn to him. Her surprise seemed almost fearful, and he spoke quickly to allay it. “I want you to do something for me.” She continued to look up at him, still unspeaking. If anything, she seemed more apprehensive. He hurried on. “Just now you said ‘the horse.’ I want him to have a name.”
Even though she shook her head, she seemed relieved. She said, “The Dog People believe that’s bad luck.”
“I know. He’s with me now, not them. I want you to name him.”
“Me?”
“You healed his shoulder before, and these new injuries. I want him to have a name, and you’ve earned the right to give it to him. Please?”