The man's eyes rolled up in his head. He let out a weak groan and fell back, his right leg still trapped under the fallen horse. Will stepped back to regain his breath. The second strike had probably been unnecessary, he realised. But he had enjoyed it.
'So much for you,' he said to the still form. 'And the horse you rode in on.' Thirty-seven Malcolm was worried. The venom had been in Halt's system for several days now and at any time, he could go into the final stages. He was peaceful for the moment, and his temperature was normal. But if he became agitated and feverish again, tossing and turning and calling out, that would signal that the end was only a few hours away. Will was racing against time to bring back the Genovesan before Halt reached that stage. Their best guess was that Tennyson's camp would be about four hours away. Four hours there and four hours back.
In one hour, Halt could be dead.
He glanced over to the tall young warrior, sitting hunched over his knees, staring into space. He wished there was something to do to help Horace, some encouragement he could offer. But Horace knew the situation as well as he did. And Malcolm wasn't in the habit of offering false hope and soothing words at a time like this. False hope was worse than the small hope they did have.
Halt gave a low moan and turned on his side. Instantly, Malcolm was alert, watching him like a hawk. Had he simply stirred in his sleep? Or would this be the beginning of the end? For a few seconds, Halt lay still and his anxiety began to abate. Then he muttered again, louder this time, and began to thrash about, trying to throw the blankets off. Malcolm hurried to his side, dropping to his knees and putting his hand on the bearded Ranger's forehead. It was hot to the touch – far too hot to be normal. Halt's eyes were screwed shut now but he continued to cry out. At first, they were just inarticulate sounds. Then he suddenly cried a warning.
'Will! Take your time! Don't rush the shot!'
Malcolm heard Horace's quick footsteps as the young man moved to stand behind him.
'Is he all right?' Horace asked. In the circumstances, it was a ridiculous question. Halt was anything but all right and Malcolm drew breath to give a cutting reply. Then he stopped. It was a natural reaction on Horace's part.
'No,' he said. 'He's in trouble. Hand me my medicine satchel, please, Horace.'
The satchel was actually within easy reach but he knew it would be better for the young man to think he was helping. Horace passed the leather case to Malcolm, who searched quickly through it, his practised fingers going quickly to the phial he needed. It contained a light brown liquid and he used his teeth to remove the stopper.
'Hold his jaw open,' he said briefly. Horace knelt on Halt's other side and forced the Ranger's mouth open. Halt struggled against him, trying to toss his head from side to side to avoid his touch. But he was weakened by the ordeal of the past few days and Horace was too strong for him. Malcolm leaned forward and allowed a few drops of the brown liquid to fall onto Halt's tongue. Again, the Ranger reacted, arcing his back and trying to break free.
'Hold his mouth shut until he swallows,' Malcolm said tersely. Horace obliged, clamping his big hands over the Ranger's mouth and closing it. Halt tossed and moaned. But after some time, they saw his throat move and Malcolm knew he had swallowed the draught.
'All right,' he said. 'You can let go.'
Horace relinquished his iron grip on Halt's jaw. The Ranger spluttered and coughed and tried to rise. But now Horace had his hands on his shoulders, holding him down. After a minute or so, his movements gradually began to weaken. His voice died away to a mumble and he slept fitfully.
Malcolm signalled for Horace to relax. There was perspiration on the young warrior's forehead and the healer knew it was from more than just exhaustion. It was nervous perspiration, brought on by his fear for Halt and his uncertainty. Powerful emotions, Malcolm knew, and capable of taking a heavy physical toll.
'Malcolm,' Horace said. 'What's happening?'
He had recognised that this was a new phase in Halt's suffering. Malcolm had told them that Halt would go through various phases but he hadn't described this, the final phase, in any detail. But Horace knew that any change in behaviour or condition could only be bad news now. Halt was deteriorating and Horace wanted to know how bad the situation was.
Malcolm looked up and met his worried gaze.
'I'm not going to lie to you, Horace. He's calmer now because of the drug I just gave him. That'll wear off in an hour or so and he'll start to thrash around again. Each time he does, it'll be worse. He'll drive the poison further and further through his system and that'll be the end.'
'How long can you keep giving him the drug?' Horace asked. 'Will could be back here at any time.'
Malcolm shrugged. 'Maybe twice more. Maybe three times. But he's weak, Horace, and it's a powerful drug. If I give it to him too often, it could kill him just as easily as the poison.'
'Isn't there anything you can do?' Horace said, feeling tears stinging his eyes. He felt so… helpless, so useless, standing by and watching Halt sink deeper and deeper. If the Ranger were in a battle, surrounded by enemies, Horace wouldn't hesitate to charge to his aid. He understood that sort of situation and could cope with it.
But this! This terrible standing by, waiting and watching, wringing his hands in anguish and able to accomplish nothing. This was worse than any battle he could imagine.
Malcolm said nothing. There was nothing for him to say. He saw the anger in Horace's eyes, saw his face flushing with rage.
'You healers! You're all the same! You have your potions and spells and mumbo jumbo and in the end, it all comes down to nothing! All you can do is say wait and see!'
The accusation was unfair. Malcolm wasn't like the general run of healers, many of whom were mountebanks and charlatans. Malcolm dealt in herbs and drugs and knowledge of the human body and its systems. He was undoubtedly the most skilled and learned healer in Araluen. But sometimes, skill and knowledge simply weren't enough. After all, if healers were infallible, nobody would ever die. Deep down, Horace knew this, and Malcolm, knowing that he knew, took no offence. He understood that the warrior's anger was directed at the situation, at his own feeling of utter helplessness, and not at Malcolm himself.
'I'm sorry, Horace,' he said simply. Horace stopped his tirade and released a long breath, his shoulders sagging. He knew his words had been ill considered. And he knew too that Malcolm must feel an even worse sense of helplessness than he did. After all, this was what Malcolm was trained for and he could do nothing. Horace made a small sideways gesture with his hand.
'No. No,' he said. 'You've nothing to apologise for. I know you've done your best for him, Malcolm. Nobody could have done better. It's just…'
He couldn't finish the sentence. He wasn't even sure what it was he had been going to say. But he realised that his words spelt his acceptance of the fact that Halt would die. There was nothing more they could do for him. If Malcolm couldn't help him, nobody could.
He turned away, his hand up to his eyes, hiding the tears there, and walked away. Malcolm started after him, then decided it might be better to leave him. He turned back to Halt and dropped to his knees beside him once more. He frowned in concentration, staring at the Ranger. In another half an hour, the brown liquid would begin to lose effect and Halt would go into another paroxysm. He could ease that, but it would be a temporary solution. The attacks would continue and get worse. It was a downward spiral.
Unless…
An idea was forming in his mind. It was a desperate idea but this was a desperate situation. He breathed deeply several times, closing his eyes and concentrating. He forced his mind to ignore side issues and to focus on the main problem, turning the idea over in his mind, seeking the faults and the dangers and finding many of both.
Then he considered the alternative. He could keep Halt comfortable for a few more hours – maybe two or three – in the hope that Will would return. But he knew what a remote chance that was. Even if Will caught the Genovesan before that, he would tra
vel more slowly on the return journey with a prisoner. In four hours, Halt would probably be dead. Not probably, he amended, almost certainly.
He came to a decision and rose, walking towards the young warrior who was leaning miserably against a tree some metres away. He saw the drooping shoulders, the bowed head, the body language that told him Horace had given up. Then he felt a sudden stab of doubt. Did he have the right to give him this renewed hope – hope that might well prove to be misplaced? If he buoyed Horace's expectations and Halt still died, how could he forgive himself?
Would it be better to simply accept the situation, do what he could for Halt and let nature take its course?
He shook his head, a new resolve forming in his mind. That was not his way. It never would be. If there was the slightest chance to save a patient, then he would take it. He would fight to the very end.
'Horace?' he said softly. The young man turned to him and Malcolm saw the tears that streaked his face.
'There might be something…' he began. He saw the hope in Horace's eyes and held up a hand to forestall him. 'It's a very slim chance. And it might not work. It could even kill him,' he warned. For a moment, he saw Horace recoil mentally from that outcome, then the warrior recovered himself.
'What do you have in mind?'
'It's something I've never done before. But it might work. The drug I gave him is a very dangerous drug. As I said, it could kill him, even without the poison. But if I were to give him enough so that he was almost dead, it might save him.'
Horace frowned, not understanding. 'How can you save him if you almost kill him?' And Malcolm had to admit that, put that way, it seemed a crazy plan. But he stuck to his guns.
'If I take him right to the edge, everything in his body will slow down. His pulse. His breathing. His entire system. And the effects of the poison will slow down as well. We'll buy him time. Maybe eight hours. Maybe more.'
He saw the effect those words had on Horace. In eight hours, Will would almost certainly be back – if he had managed to capture the Genovesan. Suddenly, Horace felt a terrible doubt. What if the Genovesan had killed Will? He pushed the thought aside. He had to believe in something today.
Will would be back. And if Halt were still alive, Malcolm could cure him. Suddenly, there was hope, where there had only been black despair.
'How do you do it?' he asked slowly. Malcolm chewed his lip for a second or two, then decided there was no easy way to express what he had in mind.
'I'll give him a massive overdose of the drug. But not quite enough to kill him.'
'And how much will that be? Do you know? Have you ever done this before?'
Again, Malcolm hesitated. Then he took the plunge.
'No,' he said. 'I've never done this before. I don't know of anyone who has. As for how much should I give him, frankly, I'll be guessing. He's weak already. I think I know how much to give him but I can't be sure.'
There was a long silence between them. Then Malcolm continued.
'It's not a decision I want to make, Horace. It should be made by a friend.'
Horace met his gaze and nodded slowly, understanding. 'It should be made by Will.'
Malcolm made a small gesture of agreement. 'Yes. But he's not here. And you're Halt's friend too. You may not be as close to him as Will is, but you do love him and I'm asking you to make that decision. I can't make it for you.'
Horace heaved a deep sigh and turned away, looking out through the trees to the empty horizon, as if Will might suddenly appear and make this all unnecessary. Still looking away, he said slowly:
'Let me ask you this. If this were your friend, your closest friend, would you do it then?'
Now it was Malcolm's turn to pause and consider his answer.
'I think so,' he said, after several seconds. 'I hope I'd have the courage. I'm not sure I would, but I hope I would.'
Horace turned back to him with the ghost of a sad smile on his face.
'Thanks for an honest answer. I'm sorry about what I said before. You deserve better than that.'
Malcolm waved the apology aside.
'Already forgotten,' he said. 'But what's your decision?' He indicated Halt, and as he did so, the Ranger began to stir again, muttering in a low voice. The first dose of the drug was beginning to wear off. Malcolm realised that this was an important moment, a window of opportunity.
'The drug's wearing off,' he continued. 'It's out of his system. That makes it easier for me to work out the right dosage. I don't have to allow for what I've already given him.'
Horace looked from Malcolm to Halt, and came to a decision.
'Do it,' he said. Thirty-eight Dusk was rolling in over the ridge when Abelard raised his head and gave a long whinny.
Horace and Malcolm looked at the small horse in surprise. Ranger horses didn't normally make unnecessary noise. They were too well trained. Kicker looked up curiously as well, then lowered his head and went back to his grazing.
'What's wrong with Abelard?' Malcolm asked.
Horace shrugged. 'He must have heard or scented something.' He had been sitting by the fire, staring into the coals as they alternately glowed and dulled in the inconstant wind that gusted through the trees. He rose now, his sword ready in his hand, and walked towards the edge of the copse where they were camped.
As he did so, he heard an answering whinny from some distance away. Then an indistinct shape appeared over the horizon to the south.
'It's Will,' he said. 'And he's got a prisoner.'
The outline of horse and rider had been blurred by the fact that Will was riding with the Genovesan, tied hand and foot, stomach down across the saddle bow in front of him.
He trotted Tug down the slope towards the copse, raising his hand in greeting as he saw Horace step clear of the trees. In front of him, the Genovesan grunted uncomfortably with each of Tug's jolting strides.
Malcolm had left the camp fire to join Horace in the open and he rubbed his hands in anticipation as he saw that the young warrior was right. Will had a prisoner, and the purple cloak was clear evidence that it was the Genovesan.
Will reined in beside them. He looked worn out, Horace realised, although that was no surprise, considering what the young Ranger had been through in the past few days.
'How's Halt?' Will asked.
Horace made a reassuring gesture. 'He's okay. It was touch and go for a while there. But Malcolm has put him into a deep, deep sleep to slow the poison down.' He thought it was better to put it that way than to say Malcolm had to nearly kill him to slow the poison down. 'He'll be fine now that you're back.'
Will's face was drawn with weariness and his eyes were bloodshot. But now that his worry about Halt had been answered, there was an unmistakable air of satisfaction about him.
'Yes, I'm back,' he said. 'And look who I ran into.'
Horace grinned at him. 'I hope you ran into him hard.'
'As hard as I could.'
Horace stepped forward to lift the Genovesan to the ground, but Will waved him back.
'Stand clear,' he said. He gripped the collar of the prisoner's cloak and heaved him up and away, nudging Tug to step to the opposite direction as he did so. The assassin slid down from the horse's back like a sack of potatoes. He hit the ground awkwardly, tried to keep his feet and failed, thumping into a heap on the ground.
'Careful!' said Malcolm. 'We need him, remember!'
Will snorted derisively at the Genovesan, squirming weakly, trying to regain his feet.
'He's fine,' he said. 'It'd take more than that to kill him. And we only need him talking, not standing.'
At Malcolm's signal, Horace stepped forward and heaved the Genovesan to his feet. The prisoner snarled at him in his own tongue and Horace regarded him from a very close range. Something in the warrior's eyes seemed to register with the assassin and he stopped his stream of abuse.
'What's your name?' Malcolm asked him, using the common language. The Genovesan switched his glare to the healer and shrugged conte
mptuously, saying nothing. It was an insulting action and it was also a mistake. Horace's open hand slapped hard across the side of his head, jerking it to one side and setting his ears ringing.
'Make no mistake, you vulture,' Horace said. 'We don't like you. We have no interest in making sure you're comfortable. In fact, the more uncomfortable you are, the better I'm going to like it.'
'Your name?' Malcolm repeated.
Horace sensed the man's shoulders beginning to rise again in that same dismissive shrug. His right hand went up and back, this time bunched into a fist.
'Horace!' Malcolm called out. He needed the man conscious to answer his questions. Horace kept his fist raised. The Genovesan's eyes were riveted on it. He'd felt the casual power behind the young man's slap. A punch would be a lot worse, he knew.
'He can still talk with a broken nose,' Horace said. But now the Genovesan seemed to decide there was no point to taking more punishment for the sake of concealing his name.
'Sono Bacari.'
Again, he shrugged. It seemed to be a favourite action with the man and he could imbue it with enormous contempt, Horace noted. It was as if he were saying, 'So my name is Bacari, so what? I only tell you because I choose to.' The arrogant attitude, and the dismissive action that accompanied it, antagonised Horace even further. He lowered his fist, and when he saw Bacari smile to himself, suddenly kicked the man's legs from underneath him, sending him sprawling heavily on the ground again, the fall driving the wind out of him. Horace placed the flat of his foot on the man's chest and pinned him down.
'Speak the common tongue,' he ordered.
Horace glanced at Will, who had dismounted and was leaning wearily against Tug's side, watching with a suspicion of a smile on his face. Like Horace, he felt not one ounce of compassion towards the Genovesan. And he knew it would be important for the man to understand that they would not spare him any pain in finding out the information they were seeking.
'If he doesn't behave, kick him in the ribs,' Will said.
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