Disciple, Part I: For Want of a Piglet

by L. Blankenship

  “Come on, you fucking cowards!”

  My head spun from the pain and his voice hazed out. Hands dragged me, this time. Blood pulsed under my grip as I clutched my wounded right arm. A hand pried at mine, forced it off. I felt kir pour onto my agony and the distinctive clench and twist of a blood-stop working on my flesh.

  “Kate!” Ulf shook me. “Kate, we need you! Ilya needs you!”

  The haze parted a little. I had half a heartbeat to glimpse the underside of a grandfather tree’s torn-up roots and the shelter it gave us. “Kate, it’s Ilya,” Ulf told me, pulling me up to sitting. “They tore him bad.”

  “Use a…” I wobbled, a little dizzy. When I tried to raise my right hand, all I got was pain.

  “The charm couldn’t stop it.”

  That jolted me clearer. Ilya lay just beside me, in a spreading puddle. I pulled my medicine bag over my hip and groped in it left-handed. His arm, at the elbow, was a ragged tear that bone peeked through. Blood gushed in time with his racing pulse, slowed by the blood-stop but still draining him.

  Too much for a charm, yes, they’d punctured the artery. For all my time in the battlefield surgery, we’d gotten no bleeders like this. They all died on the grass they fell to. I didn’t have a memory to call up for this, I realized with a stab of fear.

  My hand found another blood-stop, pulled it out. Ilya looked up at me, tear-streaked, eyes crinkled in pain, hissing breath through his teeth. He was pale and weak from lost blood, and still bleeding. I was the only one who could help him.

  Tucking the charm under my ring and pinkie fingers, I called my kir to my hand. Ilya’s patterns responded, weak and stumbling, his meridian thready. In the raw meat of his arm, my thumb and index finger found the broken artery near the meridian and I pinched it shut.

  At a nudge, the blood-stop charm unknotted and this was something I wasn’t sure I could do. I focused the charm solely on the one artery, and funneled its kir onto a small clump of whorls with the memory of a freshly cauterized amputation to shape it.

  I thought I smelled a bit of singe, but that may have been the memory.

  When I let go, the seal held. Ilya’s meridian still wavered, above the wound, and below the gash it faded. He’d lose the arm. I couldn’t stop that, and I couldn’t finish that job either. Not until I could get the hatchet.

  Ilya still gasped for breath, terribly pale, his eyes unfocused. I found his pulse in his clammy throat, racing but weak. He’d lost a lot of blood.

  “Water!” I looked for Ulf, for anyone, but they stood in a ring, holding off the lamia. Puck was a few steps away, too exhausted to care. One of our water skins lay on the dirt, too — mine, in fact. I tried to get up, got a fresh stab of pain from my own wound that made my head spin, and crawled on my knees instead. Dragging it back, I pulled the stopper with my teeth.

  Ilya coughed when I poured water into his mouth, but he swallowed some. He swatted at me, or tried to, and moaned in pain. I saw the charm-hand nub on him and grabbed at his wrist. He tried to shoo me off, but I leaned across and caught him. His day’s kir was unspent, I could feel it through his Blessing.

  I lost my balance, one-handed, and fell across his broad, heaving chest. “Get off!” he gasped. “Can’t breathe… can’t…”

  Master Parselev had saved a few men who’d come close to dying on the table. Even once the wounds were closed, the lack of blood could kill a man. He hadn’t shown me how he’d done it, not in detail, but Ilya didn’t have long. I tugged at his kir and it came, rushing out of his Blessing into my arm in a warm glow. My own damaged kir surged as the flood passed through, and I clenched my teeth against the pain.

  I remembered the densely packed, dancing whorls of healthy blood flow and poured both Ilya’s kir and my own into him.

  His body shuddered under me the same moment as I felt my pain slip through my focus, twisting the charm. I grabbed after the kir as it slid from me, its new pattern askew. Caught a handful or two that was still mine, pulled it back. But the tainted charm splashed into Ilya and maimed his patterns, multiplied by a double dose of kir.

  He screamed, throwing me off with another convulsion. Ilya clawed at his chest with his good arm, wounded limb feebly scrabbling at the dirt, as I tried to stop him. Ilya was too strong for me to stop him from scratching himself. The charm, set in its faulty pattern, struck his weakened meridians and they sputtered.

  I couldn’t see for a moment, and then the tears gushed out and the sight of him shuddering with pain cording his throat was too much. With the little kir I had left, I put my palm to his head and struck. Clumsy as a hammer, but it knocked him out.

  Ilya went limp, passing out of pain’s reach. His voice trailed off as his breath ran out, then turned to a hoarse gurgle in his throat. Still glowing with kir, the meridians around his heart faltered. I bit my lip as I watched my patient, companion, and friend die from my fumbling. I burned it into my memory, tear-blurred, anguished and all.

  “Kate?” Kiefan asked, from behind me. “What happened?”

  I covered my face with both hands and sobbed.

  Chapter 12

  Lamia lounged by the kir fount, drinking when they pleased and taking turns circling our windfall. A tall pine’s roots had torn up a little hollow when it fell, and a smaller fallen tree alongside provided us a bit of low wall.

  The sparkling kir and its siren call made my throat all the drier. I had run out of tears after killing Ilya. I could hardly bring myself to speak at all. Somehow, they still trusted me to hold Puck’s reins, in the elbow of the roots and the tree trunk. My right bicep pounded under my torn sleeve. Ulf had cut off my layered woolens and I’d wiped the clotted tooth marks with witch hazel. He’d bandaged me. I could move my hand a bit, but kept it tucked in my belt for warmth.

  “Two arrows left,” Ulf said. “Lost the rest when they knocked me down.” He’d used a blood-stop on himself and bandaged his own bites. Wise not to let me try anything, I supposed.

  “Save them. Sundown’s still a mile off.” Kiefan said, intent on the fount.

  “There’s ten of them, m’lord. It would be suicide.”

  “They could finish us now, if they wished.”

  A moment’s silence, and then Ulf said, “They’re better fed.”

  I closed my eyes, seeing Boristan dragged off again. And poor Acorn.

  Kiefan said, “But they won’t let us go.”

  “No.”

  Three lamia charged our windfall with more snarls and Kiefan swept Ulf back with one arm. Anders was half a step ahead, counter-charging, and the two knights drove back two of the beasts. The third raced in closest and angled its charge at the last moment, leaping up onto the low tree trunk and running its length, snapping at Puck’s head as it passed.

  Puck spooked back with a scream and reared. I lost his reins and saw only hooves above me; cringing, I crawled and was nearly hit when Puck came down. The pony dropped his head and I saw teeth; I flinched back under his feet. The men yelled. Puck shrilled and kicked — he’d had enough of all this and who could blame him. I wrapped my arm around my head and looked for an opening, some chance to get out from under his hooves.

  Anders caught his bridle; Puck lunged to bite and Anders slapped his palm flat on the pony’s forehead, square on his little white star. Kir moved, I felt it. Puck froze, head lifting, ears perked, eyes locked on his. Anders nodded to the pony and took his hand away. Puck whuffed and mouthed his bit. Anders started unbuckling the packs.

  I crawled out and stood. Kiefan and Ulf looked as puzzled as I.

  And it was an excellent chance to attack us again; two lamia took it, and Kiefan swung around on one of them. It peeled off with a snarl. The second got closer, made to take the same route along the tree trunk as its pack-mate, but Puck lunged with his teeth bared. The lamia spooked, this time, fell off to the outside and scrambled away.

  Anders patted the pony’s shoulder.

  “Could’ve charmed him earlier,” Kiefan said.

  �
��Never did that before,” Anders replied, getting the tarp roll off Puck. “You need a horse de-wormed, I know that one. Never tried charming before. He needs the weight off, though. Looks like we’re staying here tonight in any case.”

  No fire. No camp. The overcast sky blanketed us in shadows quickly as the sun set, and the fount’s glow was soon the strongest light under the trees. I wrapped my cloak tight around myself, and sat atop one of the bedrolls we had left. Should the final attack come, being bundled up was no safer than trying to run. Better to not be tangled in a blanket, better to run and be pulled down. A quicker death, perhaps.

  What would they tell my mother?

  “Kate?” Kiefan’s hand found my arm and he knelt beside me. I clasped his hand as the other touched my cheek, cupped it to be sure where I was for a kiss. Then he whispered, “We’ll survive this night. And I hope you forgive me for Ilya, someday.”

  I breathed a bitter laugh. “Forgive you? I’m the one who failed him.”

  “We should’ve skirted the fount. You should not have had to overreach yourself.”

  I stroked his scratchy cheek. “Anything might have happened. You can’t say there was no chance he’d be bitten, out here. It was my fault.”

  He hugged me and I felt a moment’s safety; then he went back to the front line.

  I sat alone. Ulf had his dagger, and leaned against the sloping tree-trunk to watch for flank attacks. Puck stood guard with him, biting at any lamia who came near. They didn’t care to let him succeed. Kiefan and Anders took to letting the mock-charges get far closer before reacting, and killed a couple more lamia thus. The harrying slowed, then.

  Pain ground out of my bitten arm, my sprained shoulder. I could feel the swelling, with my left hand, but the joint was still sound. My bandage needed checking, but would have to wait. I focused on clenching my right hand in a fist, wincing and gritting my teeth through the jolts and jabs.

  With no moons to track the night’s progress, I don’t know how much I slept. Puck dozed on his feet and I suspect the men did too.

  Sometime before dawn, it began to snow. Wind breathed through the pines’ high branches. Flakes pattered down steadily. Snow caught the sparkling kir fount’s light and made a misty glow of it.

  The silence was nearly peaceful.

  “Have you seen any?” Kiefan asked.

  Anders jerked awake, I think, on his feet. “No, no sign.”

  “Only the snow,” Ulf said. “Not much night left.”

  “Give Puck his breakfast, he’ll need it. Kate, something for the rest of us?”

  There was trail bread aplenty, and cold ham. We drank some water from one of the skins.

  “And this is what happens next,” Kiefan said as he brushed crumbs from his hands. “Kate takes the documents and some food. She rides Puck. Anders, can you charm him to run till they’re safe or he drops?”

  Quietly, Anders said, “Don’t need a charm for that.”

  My throat was too tight to speak as Kiefan continued. “We attack. We show these animals what they should be afraid of. And we make an opening for Puck to get through. Ulf? You shoot from up there.” He jerked his chin toward the crown of the windfall’s roots. “Are we agreed?”

  I squeezed out a tiny, “No?”

  “You’re the smallest. Puck can run the fastest. Would d’Ovio Alain disagree with my logic?” Kiefan asked, referring to the book we’d studied together.

  “Don’t…” I had packed away my memories of Ther Boristan screaming as the lamia tore at his arms, but I could still picture it all too clearly. Kiefan, Anders, Ulf.

  Kiefan hung the leather bag on my shoulder. Ulf put some bread in my medicine bag. I hugged him, and he said something kind, and then I hugged Kiefan longer, tighter. He had to pry me off.

  Anders stood with Puck, and dawn was clearly here. The snow had paled to nearly white. He put me on the pony and threw a rope around my waist, then Puck. “Just to be sure,” he told me, softly. “Hang on tight. Stay low, there may be branches. I told Puck what I could — horses see things differently. If he stops and you’re off the path, find running water and follow it down.”

  Puck’s back put me a little taller than Anders; I caught him with my good arm and hugged him too. He gave me a quick squeeze back and said, “Don’t tell anyone you did that.”

  It seemed ludicrous, given the moment. “I can hug my friends if I wish.”

  Anders started to tease in return, there was enough light to see that, but it died in his mouth. He only looked at me as he tightened the rope’s knots. Then he turned to Kiefan. “Ready?”

  “Shepherd, guide my sword.”

  The lamia clustered around the fount, watching. Kiefan and Anders took deep breaths, crouching to run, steeling their nerves; my hands shook around handfuls of Puck’s mane. With a yell, they charged. At Blessing speed, they were halfway to the fount before the lamia could believe their eyes.

  The boldest pack-mates answered the charge, and the snow swirled in the wake of two of the saints’ Blessed carving through fur and bone.

  “Go, Kate! Go!” Ulf shouted.

  I kicked Puck hard and he sprinted across the fresh powder. He galloped toward the water, cut right through a gap I barely saw and passed between the pond and the fount. I glimpsed furious green eyes as lamia turned to give chase. One leaped up at the pony’s shoulder and an arrow thumped into the monster’s neck.

  Puck ran into the pines. I threw myself down and gripped his neck as best I could with both arms. Two lamia raced alongside us, on either side, and one suddenly crashed in a shriek and a glimpse of fletching.

  Needled branches scratched at me, then vanished. I forced my eyes to open and risked looking up. Puck loped alongside the stream, down the forest path we’d followed up to the fount weeks ago. The way twisted, but wasn’t so steep as above the pond. The pony still leaped now and then over little drops and I rattled against him each time.

  When he landed, the last lamia slammed into his rump. Claws caught on my cloak and teeth sank in as the beast lost its balance. Puck stumbled, whinnying, and bucked. I yanked at my cloak pins as the lamia’s weight dragged at my neck and got them free as it choked me. Puck kicked again as the beast fell, taking my cloak along, and the pony bolted. I checked over my shoulder; the lamia lost a few moments scrambling out of my cloak, and chased. Puck pulled away, though, across a brief flat stretch. He puffed out even clouds of breath.

  Puck threw me against his neck when he braked hard, skidded, and I nearly lost my grip. Then the kir hit, like a curtain, and as the pony slid to a stop I was slack-jawed and casting about for the source. Behind me, the lamia shrieked a challenge as it all but sat on its rear to stop.

  A massive cougar, all rippling golden hide and hazy kir, charged past Puck up the hill. The cat roared in reply and a bright fist of kir smashed the lamia into a red cloud. The cougar leaped up onto a jut of rock and pirouetted, tail slinging wide for balance, to look back. When his kir-lit golden eyes met mine, I knew he wanted me to follow. I kicked Puck, and he obeyed.

  I heard, behind us, more horses and men’s shouts. As Puck galloped back upstream I twisted to look. They were a dozen, maybe more, wearing a mix of forest green surcotes and black military tabards and carrying strung bows. They saw me, and Puck, and their shouts got louder. I waved and pointed up the hill, tried to yell back but they couldn’t have heard me.

  Puck crested the last rise and veered toward the pond. We broke some sort of stalemate and the nearer lamia turned, hackles bristling. Kiefan shouted, “Kate, no!” from beyond the fount and I spotted him, back-to-back with Anders. My mind couldn’t grasp why there was a lamia against Anders’ leg, in the moment I had before the circling beasts rushed him. The weaker one. And the nearer ones charged Puck. Where was the cougar?

  With a hiss, an arrow took one lamia down mid-gallop. The scouting party thundered up and the lamia routed before the onslaught. I turned Puck, kicked him, and we circled tight around the pond, crossed the fount again to
reach the two knights first. I sawed at the rope that held me and nearly fell off in haste.

  Kiefan snatched me in a brief, rib-creaking hug, and I was babbling at him. “Are you hurt? Let me see. Are you bleeding? Anders?”

  One lamia had died with its jaws locked on Anders’ thigh, at the knee. His strength drained along with the focus of combat, leaving him a rag doll; Kiefan caught him. Blood dripped from Anders’ sword arm as his blade fell.

  “Get it off him. Then to the fount,” I said, untying my medicine bag.

  Kiefan wedged his fingers between fangs and yanked, ripping the lamia’s lower jaw off clean. Anders toppled flat as blood gushed free. Bright, arterial spurt stained the grass, sinking my hopes with it. But Kiefan was already dragging him to the fount, and getting help from a rescuer with captain’s brasses. I followed.

  The kir fount’s little pool was barely ankle deep and its diamond glitter quickly shifted to ruby. No time for doubts, nor mistakes. Anders was dying before my eyes. I sat beside him in the kir-water, slopped up a mouthful from the clearer side by the spring, and held his wound in the fast-running flow. Surrounded by raw kir, Anders’ whorls and patterns came up strong and colorful, stumbling and broken as they were. The torn meridian pulsed bright as he bled, and I reached into the ripped flesh. My fingers found the artery and pinched it.

  My memory raced through all of my surgeries, the handful of medical books, all my master had told me, for what to do. How to fix, not just cauterize. And my mind cleared, calmed, as the fount’s kir moved through me. With my other hand, I traced the continuation of the meridian up from his ankle and dug into the wound. Somewhere outside my focus, they were holding Anders down while he screamed.

  Both ends of the broken artery in my fingers, I pinched and — they couldn’t meet, could they? Torn as they were? I tugged, feeling the kir move around me and into the flesh, coaxed with little massaging circles, and found my pinched fingers touching. The reunited meridian pulsed, weak and stuttering for lack of blood. His skin had gone deathly pale; I called on my kir… my kir?