the Ashon army into battle. Then, the village of Nys had been an important staging ground, changed from a sleepy border town into a strategic location. With the war over and the army shifting its defensive focus to the north, Nys reverted to little more than another village.
The injured soldier fell from the saddle just inside the wall. Blood streaked his metal plate, running down his right flank in a stream. The sides of the horses heaved as it breathed and I wondered briefly just how far they had ridden. Four other soldiers remained atop their horses, swords sheathed at their sides. A black plume on the helm of one of the men marked him a minor lord. The armor on the other men was dented, corroded lines etched into the metal. Something about the markings almost triggered a memory.
I hurried toward the fallen man, my satchel coming off my shoulder and unbuckled before I even realized it.
“What happened?” I asked, running my fingers along the seams in the plate. Practiced hands removed what I could of the chest plate and I saw the puncture wound in his side. Sticky blood spurted from it and I marveled at the fact that he still lived.
“You the apothecary?” the lord asked. His voice had the lilting arrogant inflection of one born in Tellis.
I glanced up at him briefly. His eyes narrowed as he looked at me, and the air of superiority written upon his face mixed with something else. Anxiety? Fear?
“No,” I answered, ignoring him as I turned back to the injured man.
He thrashed on the ground, legs jerking wildly. The shape of the wound was likely made by a Pells’ blade. Probably tainted with poison as well. I suspected too much blood loss but the bleeding had likely prevented the poison from spreading. Either way the man would likely die.
“Can you help him?”
“Quiet!” I told the lord, spreading the contents of my satchel on the ground.
The man smelled rank, the poison already working through his system and out his pores.
There was little I could do, but I tried regardless. Too many had already died in this damn war, too many by my own hand. If I could use my skills to heal rather than harm, I would.
“Water!” I demanded and, to my surprise, one of the soldiers jumped from the saddle with a flask of water.
I poured it into the wound, flushing as best as I could. I suddenly wished for the cocal Baldon had quickly purchased. Without it, I was not certain I could fully staunch the bleeding. Then I grabbed a handful of milkthorn and trackel leaves and crushed them between my palms, rubbing it quickly into a powder. Had I more time, a mortar and pestle would have done a more uniform job mixing the two, but I did not dare unpack those from the satchel.
I cursed the crude work as I rubbed it into the wound; the man’s blood smearing across my hands and spurting up my arm. I prayed that it would work. The warriors of Pells used many poisons on their blades, but precious few could be found in this area.
Motioning to the soldier that had brought the water, I made him hold pressure while I prepared a needle and then quickly stitched the wound. As I pulled the edges of flesh together, careful not to pucker the skin too tight, the bleeding finally slowed.
“Bandages,” I said.
The soldier kneeling next to me shook his head. “We have no supplies.”
“None?” What kind of soldier carries nothing with him? Especially men clearly coming from Pells?
“No. We were just coming from—“
I didn’t let him finish. “Then get me a tunic or a blanket. Anything.”
The soldier started to stand when the lord spoke. “Use yours,” he said.
I looked up at him, suddenly remembering the brusque way I had spoken. No different than any soldier, but I was not a soldier. At least, not to him. Instead of arguing, I pulled my tunic up over my head and tore off one of the sleeves. After rinsing this with water, I pressed the makeshift bandage onto the man’s side.
“He’ll
The injured soldier fell from the saddle just inside the wall. Blood streaked his metal plate, running down his right flank in a stream. The sides of the horses heaved as it breathed and I wondered briefly just how far they had ridden. Four other soldiers remained atop their horses, swords sheathed at their sides. A black plume on the helm of one of the men marked him a minor lord. The armor on the other men was dented, corroded lines etched into the metal. Something about the markings almost triggered a memory.
I hurried toward the fallen man, my satchel coming off my shoulder and unbuckled before I even realized it.
“What happened?” I asked, running my fingers along the seams in the plate. Practiced hands removed what I could of the chest plate and I saw the puncture wound in his side. Sticky blood spurted from it and I marveled at the fact that he still lived.
“You the apothecary?” the lord asked. His voice had the lilting arrogant inflection of one born in Tellis.
I glanced up at him briefly. His eyes narrowed as he looked at me, and the air of superiority written upon his face mixed with something else. Anxiety? Fear?
“No,” I answered, ignoring him as I turned back to the injured man.
He thrashed on the ground, legs jerking wildly. The shape of the wound was likely made by a Pells’ blade. Probably tainted with poison as well. I suspected too much blood loss but the bleeding had likely prevented the poison from spreading. Either way the man would likely die.
“Can you help him?”
“Quiet!” I told the lord, spreading the contents of my satchel on the ground.
The man smelled rank, the poison already working through his system and out his pores.
There was little I could do, but I tried regardless. Too many had already died in this damn war, too many by my own hand. If I could use my skills to heal rather than harm, I would.
“Water!” I demanded and, to my surprise, one of the soldiers jumped from the saddle with a flask of water.
I poured it into the wound, flushing as best as I could. I suddenly wished for the cocal Baldon had quickly purchased. Without it, I was not certain I could fully staunch the bleeding. Then I grabbed a handful of milkthorn and trackel leaves and crushed them between my palms, rubbing it quickly into a powder. Had I more time, a mortar and pestle would have done a more uniform job mixing the two, but I did not dare unpack those from the satchel.
I cursed the crude work as I rubbed it into the wound; the man’s blood smearing across my hands and spurting up my arm. I prayed that it would work. The warriors of Pells used many poisons on their blades, but precious few could be found in this area.
Motioning to the soldier that had brought the water, I made him hold pressure while I prepared a needle and then quickly stitched the wound. As I pulled the edges of flesh together, careful not to pucker the skin too tight, the bleeding finally slowed.
“Bandages,” I said.
The soldier kneeling next to me shook his head. “We have no supplies.”
“None?” What kind of soldier carries nothing with him? Especially men clearly coming from Pells?
“No. We were just coming from—“
I didn’t let him finish. “Then get me a tunic or a blanket. Anything.”
The soldier started to stand when the lord spoke. “Use yours,” he said.
I looked up at him, suddenly remembering the brusque way I had spoken. No different than any soldier, but I was not a soldier. At least, not to him. Instead of arguing, I pulled my tunic up over my head and tore off one of the sleeves. After rinsing this with water, I pressed the makeshift bandage onto the man’s side.
“He’ll
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