Magic of Thieves (6 page)

CHAPTER FIVE

I couldn’t have moved just then even had I known what action to take. Fortunately, I didn’t have to. With enraged shouts, the other outlaws leapt from their hiding places and felled the woodsman before he could prepare another bolt. My view was momentarily blocked as they wrestled him to the ground. There followed a short frenzy of motion, a series of strangled screams, and when next I got a look at our enemy, he lay still upon his back. I stared stupidly at the blood-soaked tunic clinging wetly to his chest. Our own men had as much blood spattered on their clothes and hands, but none appeared to be theirs.

“There’s one will never trouble us again,” Illsman said, grimly swiping a speck of blood off his chin.

I couldn’t tear my eyes from the lifeless corpse lying in the grass at the outlaw’s feet. The world seemed to be spinning around me. I was vaguely aware of frantic muttering sounds in the background—the terrified priest chanting a desperate prayer. I couldn’t focus on his words, but dropped to my knees and doubled over. My stomach heaved and then I was vomiting my breakfast onto the ground and all over my boots. I wretched until my belly was empty, then as I drew in one deep breath after another, the dizziness subsided and I became aware again of the world around me.

I saw that Dradac had collapsed to his knees, face drained pale and forehead resting against a tree. Nearby, Illsman was stripping the woodsman’s corpse of weapons and anything of value. Meanwhile, Seirdric and Nib were advancing, blades drawn, on the two remaining strangers. The plump priest stood immobile, eyes squinted tightly closed and face turned heavenward, his lips moving in silent prayer. He made no move to flee or to defend himself as the brigands closed in. The same could not be said of his young companion.

“Run, Honored One. I’ll defend you!” the boy cried, leaping boldly forward to shield his master. With determined force, he struck out with the only weapon he had, his travelers pack. Nib was caught unprepared as the heavy pack slammed into him and knocked him from his feet. Seirdric was not so easily felled. Before the boy could gather his strength, the outlaw slashed a knife down the lad’s skinny ribs.

Yowling in pain, the boy dropped his pack and collapsed heavily to the ground. There, he curled into a tight ball, clutching his wounded side. A steady stream of blood appeared from beneath his hands. Behind him, the priest found the courage to turn and flee toward the near trees. Illsman snatched up the dead woodsman’s crossbow and steadied it against his shoulder, aiming at the priest’s retreating back, but no bolt was ever loosed.

“Stop!” Dradac shouted. “Let him go.”

Illsman hesitated and during that pause, missed his opportunity. The priest had put the trees between them and was lost from sight.

“Why did you stop me?” Illsman growled. “I had a clean shot. Now we’ll have to chase him down.”

Dradac clutched his shoulder and spoke through gritted teeth. “Forget the old man—it’s unlucky to murder a priest. Besides, he doesn’t know the forest. He’ll stumble around in circles for days before he finds his way free of the trees, and once his safety is secured, I very much doubt he’ll have the courage to return.”

A low moan nearby distracted me from the outlaws’ conversation. I followed the sound to the priest boy, who writhed in pain a few yards from me. I don’t know what instinct or pity made me move toward him, but I did. He lay on his side, hands fumbling uselessly at his injury. To his credit, he wasn’t crying out. Instead, he sucked in his breath in ragged gasps against the pain. His hands were trembling, his knuckles white where he clenched handfuls of his gray robe in his fists, vainly attempting to slow the flow of blood.

His feeble efforts moved me and, unthinkingly, I began to assist him. Trying to remember what little I had learned from our camp healer about tending such injuries, I tore the hem of the boy’s robe, ripping free a long strip of coarse cloth. With effort, I lifted him a few inches from the ground and shifted him enough to twine the bandage twice around his waist, pulling it tight over his injured side to staunch the bleeding. He gasped at the movement and the painful pressure against the wound, but I ignored his reaction, feeling a small surge of satisfaction when I saw the blood flowing less freely. The boy’s face was growing pale as milk.

He opened violet eyes to peer into my face, and I was immediately struck by his gaze. It held none of the panicked dread I’d expected. Slowly, cautiously, I opened my magical sense to the turmoil of his emotions, only to discover there
was
no turmoil. Intrigued, I dug deeper but could find no fear in him, only a silent cry of determination and a strong will to live. Alongside this, hot waves of agony rippled through him, and I instinctively withdrew before the pain could reach through him and touch me.

I became aware once more of my companions. Dradac, his voice taut with pain, was giving orders. “Seirdric, stay behind and dispose of the bodies. I don’t want anybody stumbling over this mess and wondering how it got here. Nib, you’ll help him and Illsman will accompany me back to camp. I don’t know that I can make it there on my own.”

There were murmurs of agreement as the men leapt to obey his orders. And then they noticed me kneeling over the boy.

“What have you done here, hound?” Seirdric came over to frown down on me. “The boy should’ve bled to death. Now I’ll have to finish him.”

“No, leave him be,” I said, not stopping to consider where I found the courage to speak so firmly. “He’s no older than me. Let’s give him a chance.”

“Sure, a chance to stab us all in the backs,” Seirdric snorted, drawing his knife.

Unthinkingly, I moved to shield the boy from his reach, but the big man shoved me aside easily.

Desperate for support, I cried, “Dradac, help me!”

“What is it, Ilan?” the giant asked impatiently. On his feet and leaning weakly on Illsman’s shoulder, his face was sleeked with sweat at the effort it cost him to stand.

I felt genuine concern for him but had to trouble him anyway. “The priest boy still lives,” I said. “Let me try and help him.”

The giant looked beyond me to the boy’s crumpled form. “Wake up, hound,” he said. “That one’s beyond saving even were we of a mind to. Come now and lend me your arm before I collapse.”

But I wouldn’t be swayed. “Just let me try,” I begged. “I know I can save him.” I actually knew nothing of the sort, but I wouldn’t admit to doubts.

To my surprise, Dradac gave in, ordering Nib to carry the boy. He added, “I doubt he’ll last out the day, but if he’s another priest… Well, I won’t have his blood on my hands. We’ll let him die in a more comfortable bed at least, if the trip doesn’t kill him.”

The rest of the day was difficult. Between the two of us, Illsman and I were able to get Dradac back to camp with Nib trailing behind, carrying the unconscious priest boy. At first, Dradac leaned heavily on Illsman and I for support, but eventually his legs could no longer hold him. He was too heavy for Illsman to carry alone and so I was sent ahead to fetch what help I could. Eventually, with a strong man at either end of him, we were able to drag the giant in. After that point I lost track of what befell him, for I had to worry about the priest boy.

I chose an out of the way spot at the clearing’s edge, near the stream draining from the pool below the fall. I would have liked to put the injured boy under some sort of shelter, but the cave would be too dim and I knew I’d need good lighting. After Nib deposited the lad on the hard ground, I persuaded him to stand by while I cut a pile of pine boughs for him to roll the boy onto. After that, the outlaw disappeared, leaving me alone to care for my charge and to wonder what I had got myself into.

I was glad to see the boy’s bleeding had stemmed, but nervousness tinged my relief. I fiercely wanted him to live, even as I wondered at the strength of my determination. Yet now I was left with the question of what to do for him next. I sought out Javen, the camp healer. Healing was perhaps too optimistic a word for what Javen did, but he was a cobbler in his old life and was accustomed to stitching up the outlaws after their brawls or when someone took a blade. If any of us were ill, it was Javen who prepared the bitter draughts that occasionally helped but more often didn’t.

I hadn’t far to look. I found him examining Dradac, who was laid out near the mouth of the cave. But when I explained my need, Javen only responded distractedly with, “We’ve our own to see to just now, hound.” The most I could extract from him was a promise to look in on the boy after he finished removing the bolt from Dradac’s shoulder. I doubted a healer’s presence would be needed by then, for it was unlikely the boy could survive that long.

Frustrated, I returned to my charge. I guessed he must have awakened temporarily during my absence because he had obviously been thrashing around. He was unconscious again now, but his weak efforts had loosened his crude bandage and fresh blood was visible, soaking through the cloth. I realized with dismay that I could rewrap him, but each time he moved, he would begin bleeding all over again.

As I looked on, he stirred in his sleep, gave a pained whimper, and was still again. Even as he slept, his pale, sweat-streaked face was drawn into a grimace of pain. I felt a wave of pity for him because he looked so young and helpless and, clenching my jaw, I went to work with renewed determination. I wouldn’t think of failure.

The noises I heard in the background told me they were removing the bolt from Dradac’s shoulder now, but, concentrating on my own task, I tried not to hear the giant’s cries. I removed the boy’s gray robes and clumsily worked him out of the tunic he wore beneath them. Then I bellowed for Nib, and incredibly, the outlaw answered my summons. With an authority that surprised even me, I ordered him to heat a kettle of water and fetch me anything that might serve as clean bandaging. He moved quickly to obey and I didn’t stop to wonder why he followed my bidding. My mind was taken up with the task at hand.

I wadded the boy’s dirty robe and applied it with pressure to the gash in his side, attempting to hold back the blood. I longed for Brig to appear just then and take this responsibility off my hands, but he didn’t materialize and I knew he wouldn’t. He was visiting the camp at Molehill and the vagueness I felt when reaching for him told me what a long distance separated us.

Nib returned with the objects I required and surprised me by crouching nearby to await further commands. I was glad of his company. His presence wouldn’t allow me to display fear or doubt. When I peeled the blood-soaked bandage back from the boy’s wound, a crimson stream trickled out, and I despaired. How could I clean the wound when it wouldn’t stop bleeding? Reapplying the cloth, I rubbed the sweat from my brow with one arm, buying myself a little time.

Nib suggested helpfully, “Don’t know much about these things, but it seems to me you should wait for the blood to clot before you take the bandage away.”

“I know that,” I lied, as I looked down on the boy I was struggling to save and asked myself why I was doing this for a complete stranger. I didn’t even know his name.

The minutes ticked by. I expected the boy would slip away at any moment but his breathing held steady. His bleeding had miraculously ceased by the time Javen appeared—I had little idea how. At the healer’s request, I stayed nearby over the next hour, watching as he bathed and stitched the priest boy’s wound and applied fresh bandaging. Javen warned me it was unlikely my charge would survive the night.

At length, the healer departed, declaring he had done all he could. As soon as he had gone, I began constructing a shelter of sorts around the boy. It hardly felt right to let him lay out in the cold all night. Dusk was falling as I tramped into the forest to collect a heap of pine boughs and elder branches. I propped these limbs against one another and bound them with bits of twine, as Brig taught me, to form a flimsy shelter over the ground. More than likely it would blow over with the first gust of wind, I thought, standing back to eye the completed work.

About then I became aware of a savory scent wafting on the evening breeze. One of the men had killed a wild boar and was now roasting it over the campfire. The sight and smell of the food set my empty stomach rumbling and, with a backward glance, I left my little shelter and went to the fire where for a short time I forgot my worries over a greasy slab of meat.

After eating, I remembered Dradac. Abandoning my place at the fire, I ducked into the cave, but on entering, found the giant sleeping deeply, laid out on a thick pallet of animal skins. His face was relaxed and I was relieved to see he wasn’t in pain at the moment. I decided not to wake him and slipped silently back out into the gathering darkness.

I fetched bread and water for the priest boy, but found when I peered into his shelter that he still slept. A mercy, I supposed, as I sank to the earth to eat the dried bread myself. On finishing, I was assailed by a great weariness. The day’s events had been more than I was accustomed to. The camp was silent around me, the other men having departed either to their beds or to their watches. I thought of turning to my own bed, but it seemed wrong to crawl into a warm, safe place while the injured boy slept out here. I moved my sleeping pallet out of the cave and into the shelter, piling my blankets and animal skins over the boy.

Just enough space remained for me to crawl inside and curl up on the hard ground beside him. Rocks jutted into my flesh and insects crawled over me, but I was accustomed to such discomforts. Harder to ignore was the chill that descended as the ground cooled. I shivered and wrapped my arms around myself, eventually slipping into a shallow, miserable sleep.

I was awakened sometime during the night by the commotion of the priest boy groaning and tossing around. A thrashing elbow caught me in the face. I shoved aside the last remnants of sleep clouding my brain and reached out for him. Although he stilled at my touch, his rapid panting never slowed.

“Hurts…” He gritted out weakly.

“I know,” I said. “But you need to relax. Squirming will only make it worse.”