The Dragonstone (4 page)

H
oy! What th’—?” Men on the fringe of the clamoring crowd turned ’round to see—

“Make way for the Dara.”

—a small, yellow woman in bronze scale pressing her way through the ranks to make a path for—

“By gar, ’tis an Elf or two.”

—the even smaller female who followed.

The tall warriors stepped aside, for here come among them were two the likes of which they had never seen: an ebon-haired, armed and armored woman of saffron skin and slanted eyes of black—

“Adon’s foam, but she’s yellow.”

“Top o’ her head won’t even reach my chin.”

“But th’ one behind her—”

—and a chestnut-haired Elf of ivory and alabaster, her tilted eyes hazel—

“—why, she can’t be no more’n chest high t’ me.”

—both females dressed manlike, as if they had traveled far.

A quietness fell upon the raiders as they parted ranks to form a corridor for these exotic strangers to pass through, the stillness broken only by the drumming of the rain on the roof and an occasional thunderbolt. Aiko’s hands rested on the pommels of her two swords and her dark eyes scanned these warriors as she led Arin toward the unconscious man on the bar.

Wide-eyed, Orri, the last raider between the females and their goal, stepped aside. Aiko, too, stood away as Arin came to the bar and gazed at the man lying there. Slender and tawny-haired, he was perhaps in his early thirties, and his fair skin was flush with fever. As others crowded near, Arin laid a hand to the man’s forehead,
then gasped, “
Vada!
” She turned to make her way around to the other side; men stood in her path.

“Out o’ th’ way, Svan, Bili!” bellowed Orri. “Can’t y’ see she needs t’ pass?”

Svan stumbled back into Bili just behind, and they both nearly fell, spilling splashes of ale from their mugs. Tangle-footed, they managed to move aside to let Arin by.

With dark gaze Aiko looked up at Orri, the warrior woman seeming taller than her five feet two. “Captain?”

Orri nodded, his ear catching the hint of a lilting accent in her spoken word.

“Have your warriors give back, Captain. The Dara will see to your wounded comrade…if it is not too late.”

As Orri bellowed for his men to move hindward, the door banged open and Yngli came splashing in, wind and rain following, a white-haired man coming after and carrying a leather knapsack.

“Here be Thar!” cried Yngli, closing the door with a flourish to shut out the storm. “Now we’ll get Egil tended to, good and proper.”

Yngli’s words were greeted with a cheer as the white-haired man set down his knapsack and stripped off his wet cloak.

Arin, now on the far side of the bar, paid no heed to the uproar, but instead scanned Egil’s face. An angry red gash sliced downward from his forehead to his cheek, his left eye completely destroyed. Arin glanced up at Orri. “Hadst thou no bandage?”

Orri spread his hands wide. “He ripped it off in his nightmares, Lady, in his fever.”

“Hadst thou no healer with thee?”

“We bind our own wounds, Lady, just as we bound his,” bristled Orri. “But we were too busy fighting off Duke Rache and his men most o’ th’ way back—flaming arrows and quarrels and sling bullets and such—till finally we managed t’ set fire t’ their sails and left them cursing behind, then lost ’em in th’ dark. But as t’ Egil, every able man was needed and none were free t’ see t’ his hurt. ‘Sides, he was fightin’ th’ Jutlanders as well, even though he was wounded and fevered and could see but from one eye. And when th’ fight ended, well then we
tended him—salt water on his wounds t’ keep ’em free o’ fester, bandages. But Egil ha’ ill dreams, Lady, mayhap made worse by th’ fever, and he j’st kept pullin’ free th’ dressin’, and finally we let be.”

As Arin acknowledged Orri’s words, Thar came to the side of the wounded man. The old healer’s eyes widened slightly at the sight of the Dylvana and her yellow-skinned companion, but he shook his head as if clearing it of vagaries and then began examining Egil.

Arin glanced up at Thar. “The eye, what remains, it must come out.”

Thar nodded. “Be ye a healer, Lady?”

“I have some skill at it,” replied Arin. “Yet I have no herbs and simples at hand, nor tools.”

“I ha’e mine,” said Thar, gesturing at his leather knapsack. “But he be y’r patient, Lady. J’st tell me—or whoe’er else—what it might be ye need.”

Arin canted her head in acceptance, then turned to Tryg, the taverner, filling mugs. “Hast thou a crate on which I can stand? I need be at a level to work on his wounds.”

Tryg motioned for Olar to take over the duty of dispensing ale, then with a practiced eye, measured the Dylvana’s four feet eight inches of height. He stepped into the storage room, emerging moments later with a wide wooden box and set it to the floor. The Dara smiled as she stepped upon the crate, then said, “I will need a knife, glowing red with heat. Two, if thou canst provide. —And a bottle of thy strongest brandy.”

Tryg reached under the counter and pulled forth a flask and set it at her side, saying, “This be th’ best I ha’e.” Then he caught up two knives and stepped to the small charcoal burner he used to heat the poker for mulling wine.

Arin uncorked the brandy and sniffed. Satisfied, she poured some in her palm and washed her hands with it and looked across at Thar. “Hast thou wire nips? Something to pluck away the flesh when seared? And a needle and gut to sew up the sword gash? And clean cloth for bandages and other needs?”

Thar rummaged through his knapsack and pulled forth
a curved bronze needle and thin strand of gut thread and pair of bent-wire tweezers. Too, he fetched out a rolled length of washed muslin.

Under the bar Arin found a candle and holder and soon had the taper lit. She then began passing the bronze needle back and forth through the flame.

“Ah,” murmured Thar, his eyes taking in all she did. “Burnin’ away th’ bad vapors, aye?”

Arin nodded. “I’ll need a piece of clean white cloth to lay these on.”

Thar took up the muslin and tore off a square and spread it out. Arin placed the flame-cleansed needle and gut thread on it, then took up the tweezers and began passing them through the flame. “How be the knives?” she called out to Tryg.

The taverner looked into the fire, then held up a hand palm out. “Soon.”

“We’re goin’ t’ need t’ set th’ leeches on him, too, y’know,” said Thar.

“Leeches?”

“T’ bleed th’ fever away. Lady.”

Arin shook her head. “Nay, healer. Leeches will but weaken him at a time he will need his greatest strength.”

“But we always bleed for fever,” protested Thar.

Arin fixed him with an eye. “Dost thou oft cure the ill by doing such?”

“A good half o’ them,” responded Thar with some pride.

“Then that means thou loseth half as well, neh?”

“We lose a share o’ them, aye, but that’s t’ be expected.”

“Nay, healer. By bleeding, thou weaken the afflicted when they can least spare strength. Instead thou shouldst fortify the blood of the sick and not drain it away.”

“Fortify?”

“Aye.”

“How?”

“They be borderin’ on ruddy red!” called Tryg.

“How?” Thar asked again.

“Thou hast the means nearby,” said Arin, and she beckoned to Aiko.

“Dara?”

“Ride swift to the high fell and gather a handful of the blue flowers we saw at the foot of the glacier. Take up as well some pure snow and pack the flowers therein. Then return within a candlemark.”

Aiko glanced left and right and then leaned forward and hissed, “Dara, I would not leave you alone among these
iyashii
men.”

The Dylvana made a sharp gesture of negation. “Go now, Aiko. I will be safe, and this man needs aid else he will die, and he is perhaps the one we need.”

Yngli took up his cloak as well as Orri’s lantern and stepped to Aiko’s side. “Though I don’t own a horse, I’ll ride wi’ ye, double that is, t’ light y’r way if ye’ll ha’ me. I know a shortcut t’ th’ fell.”

Aiko looked at Yngli, then at Arin. At the Dylvana’s nod, Aiko strode back to the table and donned her own cloak while Yngli lighted the lantern, then she gestured for Yngli to follow.

As they left the room, Thar turned to Arin and raised a questioning brow.

Arin set the flame-cleansed tweezers down next to the bronze needle, then wetted her fingers and snuffed out the candle. “When we rode down into Mørkfjord, we saw in the high fell at the foot of the glacier small blue flowers nodding on their stems.”

“Blue flowers?…Ah, blue-eyed ladies.”

“Blue-eyed ladies in thy tongue; arél in mine. Yet by any name a tea brewed from their fresh petals is a potent foe of fever.”

“Th’ knives be cherry red and some, m’Lady,” called Tryg.

Arin took a deep breath and slowly let it out as she looked down at Egil. “Hast thou a sleeping draught, Thar?”

The man shook his head. “Nay, Lady. Egil’ll j’st ha’e t’ bear up.”

Arin sighed and then turned to Orri. “I shall need six of thy strongest.”

“Six?”

“One on each limb and two t’ hold his head, Orri,” said
Thar. “Can’t ha’e him jerkin’ about when th’ burnin’ knife goes in.”

“Aye.” Orri gestured to five more men, then stepped to the bar himself.

“A moment, Captain,” said Arin, and she took up the flagon and again used brandy to wash her hands, indicating for Thar and Tryg to do likewise. Then she turned to Orri. “Now, Captain, take hold.”

“Arms and legs, lads, and hold hard. He’ll thrash quite a bit. Bili, help me up here.”

The men grasped Egil’s limbs, and Orri and Bili stood opposite one another and braced his head by jaw, temple, and pate.

Arin glanced across at Thar. “Art thou ready?”

At the healer’s nod, Arin held out a hand to Tryg, and using a square of clean cloth he took up a knife by the handle and carefully handed it to the Dylvana, its blade glowing yellow-hot.

Arin grasped the handle through the cloth and picked up the tweezers, then said, “Peel back his eyelids, healer; the rest of ye hold firm.”

*   *   *

In the stable at the Blackstein Lodge, by Yngli’s lanternlight Aiko pulled tight the saddle cinch. She drew her cloak hood over her head, and with Yngli following, led the steed outside, where rain fell in torrents and lightning strode across churning skies. She mounted up and then gave a stirrup and an arm to Yngli, and he swung up behind her. As he did so there came the faint sound of agonized screams muted by the storm and distance. Yngli shuddered and looked far downslope at the light shining out from the windows of the Cove. And then Aiko put spurs to the horse and they rode away through the black night.

W
ithin a candlemark of plucking the flowers, drenched and mud spattered, Aiko and Yngli returned to Mørkfjord, Yngli bearing a leather sack filled with snow, the blue-petaled blossoms within. As they strode to the dock, the rain pattered down gently, the rage of the storm having moved off to the east, though now and again the sky was lit by the backflare of distant lightning. Yngli opened the door to the Cove and followed Aiko in, the small man holding up the bag and declaring to one and all, “Hoy, everyone, we’re back wi’ our bouquet.” A shout greeted the announcement as Yngli and the yellow woman shed their dripping cloaks.

“Ah, good and well done, Aiko. Good and well done, Yngli,” said Arin, looking up from her red stitchery as she sewed Egil’s sword gash shut. She’d had to cut the flesh anew so the wound would grow back together, and her fingers and hands were slathered with his fresh blood. “Thar, separate the flowers from the snow. Tryg, put a kettle over the charcoal. We’ll use pure melt to make the tea.”

Yngli stepped up to the bar and handed the bag to Thar as Arin continued to stitch. Then he slapped himself on the chest and gestured to Aiko and called out, “Hoy, Tryg, give me and her a tot o’ brandy. We’re soaked t’ th’ bone and dead chill.”

Tryg grunted at Olar, and the fisherman fetched a flask and two cups and filled them nearly to the brim.

The small man took up both cups and handed one to Aiko, then he quaffed a stiff drink from his own.
“Whuk!”
he choked, then began hacking and coughing. Bili pounded him on the back repeatedly till he caught his
wind and voice again. With his eyes watering he looked ’round the Cove and finally declared, “
Whoo!
Good stuff.”

As the laughter died down, Yngli glanced at Egil, then turned to Orri. “How were it, Captain? Egil, I mean.”

Orri shook his head, and for the first time Yngli saw that the raider had a bloody nose. “By gar, he woke up when we put th’ hot knife t’ him. Berserk he was. It took eleven o’ us j’st t’ hold him down. Broke my nose, I think. Then she”—Orri nodded toward Arin—“soothed him with a song and got him drunk on brandy till he passed out. Adon’s blood, Yngli, look at him: he’s happy as a clam, drunk as he is, or would be if he were awake.”

“I think not,” said Thar, shaking his head. “Were he awake he’d be in pain, no matter th’ brandy.”

Arin cinched the final stitch and tied off and clipped the gut. “There. It is done. Thar, wouldst thou bandage this man’s hurts?”

Thar took up the muslin to swathe Egil’s wounds; as he did so he examined the work. “As fine a job o’ tackin’ as could be, Lady—tight, close, tiny—I c’d ne’r do as well. He’ll ha’e a scar, though a fine one, what wi’ th’ splendid work ye ha’e done.” He began carefully wrapping cloth about Egil’s head, covering forehead, eye, and cheek, leaving the man’s mouth and nose and good eye free.

“He will be in pain for some days to come,” said Arin as she washed her crimson hands and arms in the basin Tryg had brought. “Hast thou no sleeping draughts at all? Nought to relieve the ache?”

Thar shrugged and muttered, “Nought,” as he finished with the wrapping.

Arin sighed. “Then we must needs make some, can we find the ingredients.”

“What is it ye need?” asked Thar, tying the last knot.

Above the glowing charcoal the teakettle began to hiss and steam.

“At the moment, healer,” said Arin, looking ’round while toweling off her hands and forearms, “I need to make the arél tea. As to the draughts, we will speak of them after.”