The Blood Curse (33 page)

Soll shook his head and gave a cheerful wave. “No, thanks. Nearly got ’em all.”

Jaumé worked as fast as he could, but his gaze kept sliding sideways. He saw Bennick come down from the outcrop and talk to Vught. They crossed to the fallen soldier. Bennick crouched by the man’s side. A few minutes later, Vught led the princess away. Jaumé craned his neck to see where he was taking her.

Hetchel and Soll hobbled the soldiers’ horses. Only one horse was dead. The one the dark soldier had been riding. Hetchel’s hand was bleeding and he couldn’t use his thumb properly.

A farm cart rattled past, piled high with possessions. The cart slowed. “Got a lot of horses,” the farmer said.

Soll turned to him, smiling. “Too many. Want some? I can give you a good price.”

The farmer laughed and shook his head. The cart rattled onward.

Soll went back to hobbling the horses, the smile gone from his face.

Jaumé glanced again at where the dark soldier lay. Vught and the princess had returned. The princess knelt beside the man, but Vught was striding towards him. “Boy, light a fire and get some water boiling.”

Jaumé hurried to obey.

CHAPTER SEVENTY-THREE

T
HE BOY BROUGHT
a pot of steaming water and some shirts torn into strips. The shirts were forest green. Lundegaardan. He set both water and shirts down carefully alongside Red.

Leader tossed something on the dirt. A roll of leather. Red reached for it, unrolled it. Britta saw bright needles and long, slender pincers and thin knives as sharp as razors.

“You’re going to stitch him up?” the boy asked, wide-eyed.

“I am. And you’re to help me.”

“And I will, too,” Britta said firmly.

Red glanced at her, and shrugged. “Wipe his face, then. Clean the blood off, so I can see what I’m doing.”

Britta took a piece of cloth, dipped it in the steaming water, wrung it out. She wiped Karel’s forehead while Red threaded a needle. The gash bled sluggishly. The edges had curled back. She could see Karel’s skull.

“Jaumé, take the cloth, keep wiping. You, push the edges together for me like this.” Red demonstrated, placing his palms on Karel’s forehead.

The boy hurried to obey, taking the cloth from her, coming to kneel at Karel’s head.

Britta took a deep breath and laid her hands carefully on Karel’s face, one almost covering his nose, one near his hairline, and gently pushed. Karel’s skin didn’t seem to want to close over the wound. She pushed harder.

Red leaned over Karel. Britta winced as the needle penetrated Karel’s skin. She looked away, at Red’s face. He was concentrating hard, his brow furrowed, the tip of his tongue caught between his teeth.

It took Red almost twenty minutes to sew the wound together. Karel didn’t stir. He was still alive, though. His pulse twitched beneath the skin at his throat, faint and steady.

Red sat back and surveyed his handiwork. The line of stitches curved across Karel’s forehead, rising from his left eyebrow to bury itself in his hair near his right temple. Red shrugged and gave the needle to the boy. “Got a pot of water boiling on the fire? Put this in it.”

Britta picked up the cloth the boy had abandoned, wet it, and carefully wiped Karel’s face. Dark, sticky crusts of blood had dried around his eyes and on his cheeks.

“Right, let’s look at this shoulder.”

The arrow had caught Karel side-on, at the top of his right arm. The shaft jutted out a couple of inches; the arrowhead was buried deep in the muscle.

Extracting the arrow took less time than stitching Karel’s forehead. Red sliced into the flesh on either side with one of the razor-sharp knives and yanked the arrowhead out. It left a deep, bloody hole. Red scowled at it thoughtfully. “Jaumé, fetch that needle again, will you?”

The boy ran off, darting through the horses, and came back holding the needle.

“Good lad.” Red stitched the edges of the hole together and bound Karel’s arm and shoulder with strips of torn shirts. “Not too tight,” he said, whether to her or the boy, Britta wasn’t sure. “Don’t want to stop circulation. But we want to hold it all in place. Don’t want the stitches to pull out when he moves.” He frowned. “Infection’s going to be the problem. Not much we can do about that, ’cept keep everything clean.”

Karel still hadn’t stirred. Britta checked his pulse—beating steadily—and felt through his bloody hair, trying to find where Leader had kicked him. Her fingers found a large lump. “What if his skull’s broken?”
What if he’s dying as he lies here?

“Can’t do anything for a broken skull. Don’t think it is, though.” Red reached over and lifted Karel’s eyelids. “Pupils the same size, see?”

Britta’s fear subsided slightly, burrowed beneath her breastbone and sat there like a clenched fist.

Red turned to Karel’s leg, and grimaced. “This’ll be difficult.”

He cut Karel’s trews away from his left thigh and examined the injury. The tips of two blades were visible, protruding a few inches. Red carefully gripped one blade and tried to wiggle it from side to side. The throwing star didn’t move. “Stuck deep in the bone.” He grimaced again, thought for a moment, pushed to his feet and walked off.

The boy busied himself cleaning the instruments Red had used, tidying them away. Britta reached for Karel’s hand and held it in both of hers. A large hand, lean and brown-skinned, with a swordsman’s calluses. A fighter’s hand.

But there was no strength in Karel’s hand, only a frightening limpness.
Don’t die
, she begged him, her eyes on his face. Even bloodied and unconscious, Karel looked stern. It was the winging black eyebrows, the hawk-like nose, the slant of his cheekbones. Britta stared hard at him, willing him to stir, to groan, to blink his eyes open. But he didn’t. He lay as if dead.

Red returned carrying a short, stiff piece of wire and a loop of rope. He bent the wire into a crude hook at one end and twisted it into an eye at the other, his fingers white-knuckled with effort, then he tied the rope through the eye and knotted it firmly. “All Stars have a hole in the center.” Red opened a round leather pouch at his waist, held a throwing star out to the boy. “See?”

The boy nodded.

Red slid the weapon back into his pouch. He bent over Karel’s leg and inserted the hook into the wound. Blood welled as he probed, trickling down the curve of Karel’s thigh. “If I can just... ah, there it is. Now it becomes a matter of brute force.” He stood, placed one booted foot on Karel’s thigh, and yanked upward on the rope. The throwing star didn’t move.

Red muttered a curse under his breath, wrapped the rope around his hands, and yanked again.

Still, the throwing star didn’t move.

Red yanked a third time, his teeth gritted. A fourth time. A fifth, grunting with effort.

“It moved!” the boy cried.

“You think?” Red was red-faced, panting.

“Yes,” Britta said, gripping Karel’s hand tightly. The tips of the throwing star were a quarter of an inch further out. Blood flowed from the wound.

Red yanked again. Another quarter-inch of the weapon emerged. Another yank, another quarter-inch. “Almost out of the bone.” He bent, took hold of the rope just above the wire’s eye, and pulled upward firmly. For a second, the throwing star held fast in Karel’s leg, then it slid free.

Red staggered slightly, but kept his balance. Blood began to flow swiftly from the wound. Britta released Karel’s hand. She grabbed a cloth and pressed firmly down, stemming the blood.

“You did it!” the boy cried.

Red blew out a breath. “Not finished yet. We need that needle again.”

By pressing hard on either side of Karel’s thigh, Red managed to close the gaping slit where the throwing star had been. “Hold it like this while I stitch,” he told Britta. “Lad, wipe away that blood.”

Britta put her hands where Red’s had been, and pressed hard. “Did you boil the wire in water?” she asked, while the boy mopped up the blood.

Red glanced at her, and nodded. He threaded the needle and crouched opposite her. This time, Britta didn’t wince from sight of the needle piercing Karel’s skin. She watched Red stitch, her arms shaking with the effort of holding the wound closed.

Red placed the last stitch, and laid down the needle. “Keep pressing,” he said, reaching for the pile of torn shirts. “Those stitches won’t hold otherwise.”

Britta gritted her teeth and obeyed. Her arms burned, but she would do this until they fell off, if it meant Karel lived.

Red chose some bandages, slid them under Karel’s knee and worked them up his thigh. “Keep pressing,” he said again.

Britta and the boy watched as he wrapped the bandages around the wound, sliding his fingers under the fabric, checking the pressure. Firm, but not too tight. At last Red was satisfied. He sat back on his heels. “Done.”

The boy was gazing at Red with something akin to awe.

“Thank you,” Britta said.

Red shrugged. He pushed to his feet, rolled his shoulders, stretched.

Britta lightly touched the bandage. “When it heals... will he be able to walk?”

“Maybe.” Red’s expression said,
Maybe not
. He looked away from her. “Right, lad, let’s clear this up.”

This
was more than the items Red had used on Karel. There was a pile of bloodied arrows she’d not noticed before. Red gave them to the boy to wash.

For each of those arrows, a man had died. In her mind’s eye, she saw Prince Tomas lying sprawled among the rocks, a bloody hole in his head.

She glanced at Red. He stooped and picked up the throwing star. If Karel died, it would be because of him. And if he lived, it would be because of him.

M
ORNING RIPENED TOWARDS
noon. Britta sat in the dirt, holding Karel’s limp hand. The Fithians set no one to guard her. She watched Leader and Red remove the dead horse’s bridle and saddle and wrench the arrow from its eye socket, watched Leader go through the soldiers’ saddlebags, watched Red examine the cleaned arrows and strap them on a packhorse, watched the boy trot to and fro, scattering handfuls of dirt on the ground, hiding the bloodstains. Leader crossed to her once—she braced herself—but he ignored her, bent and picked up Karel’s sword, carried it over to the rubble of rock, and flung it away. She saw Pox a few times through the milling horses. His task seemed to be to keep passersby away.

The only sounds were the horses snuffling and shifting their weight, the wind moaning through the rocks, the crunch of wheels when the occasional wagon passed, Pox’s voice as he exchanged greetings with people. How could everything be so calm, so quiet, so normal? And why were they still here? What was Leader waiting for?

Britta frowned and looked around, peering through the horses’ legs. There were Leader and Red and the boy, and Pox. Plain was dead—Karel had killed him—but she couldn’t see Curly, and she knew he was alive. And where was Gap-Tooth? Was he dead? If he was, his body hadn’t been with the soldiers. But then, Plain’s hadn’t been, either.

Belatedly, it occurred to her to count the horses. Seven mounts for the Fithians, plus the piebald mare and the boy’s pony, and the packhorses. Twelve mounts for the Lundegaardan soldiers... No, there were only five. And Karel’s dead mount. Which left six missing horses.

The boy brought her bread and cheese and a waterskin. “Thank you,” Britta said.

His gaze flicked to her and quickly away. He looked like a wild animal, wary.
I don’t bite, child
. And then she remembered sinking her teeth into Pox’s hand and huffed a faint laugh. The boy didn’t hear it; he’d already gone, running back through the horses.

The sun reached its pinnacle in the sky, and still they waited. Red crossed to her, the boy trotting at his heels, and crouched and checked Karel’s pupils, his pulse.

“Is Gap-Tooth dead?” Britta asked.

“Gap-Tooth?” Red tilted his head. “You mean Luit?”

Britta shrugged. “He didn’t have a lot of teeth.”

“That’s Luit.” Red looked amused. “Gap-Tooth, huh?”

“Is he dead?”

Red ignored the question. “What do you call the rest of us?”

They matched gazes for a moment. Britta debated the merits of antagonizing him. “Leader,” she said. “Curly. Red. Pox.”

“Pox?” Red laughed. “I’ll have to tell him that.”

Britta blinked. The killer had a sense of humor?

Red pushed to his feet, and turned to go.

“Is Luit dead?”

Red looked down at her. The laughter was gone from his face. He was a Fithian again, cold-eyed. “He’s dead.”

Britta met his gaze squarely, refusing to look away. “What are your names?”

Red stared down at her. After a moment, he shrugged, as if it didn’t matter whether she knew or not. “Bennick. And Jaumé.” His hand rested briefly on the boy’s hair. “Vught. That’s Leader to you. Hetchel.” A jerk of his head indicated Pox, standing on the other side of the horses. “And Soll.”

B
RITTA REPEATED THE
assassins’ names silently, fixing them in her memory. Vught. Hetchel. Soll. Bennick. And the boy, Jaumé.

Not long after her conversation with Red—Bennick—a wagon approached with a rattle of wheels. This time the wagon didn’t pass. It halted. Britta peered through the horses’ legs, saw Hetchel’s boots, and another man’s. Vught strode to join them. The horses milled, moved, parted. She caught a glimpse of Vught, Hetchel, and Soll. Behind them was an open wagon.