Benjamin Tate - Well of Sorrows

Tom lurched to his feet, trotted toward the wagons, noting that the fires had been put out on two of them, that the third had burned out of control. Someone had shifted the rest of the wagons away from the one that still burned.

Aeren and the Alvritshai were standing off to one side, three of them surveying the plains, watching, bows ready, the others talking to Aeren in animated voices, arguing with him. Tom wondered what they were arguing about Then he spotted Ana. She was climbing out of one of the wagons in the back, the one that held Tobin. “Ana!” he said, turning to head toward her.

“Tom! Thank Holy Diermani!” She crossed herself, hand clutching the pendant beneath the shirt on her chest, and then Tom was there, kissing her. It was a brief kiss, fierce and not perfunctory.

“Arten needs some rags, water, wine, and a stick,” Tom said as soon as it broke. “He needs to remove an arrow from Brant’s shoulder.”

“Where’s Colin? And Karen?” she asked, rummaging in the back of the wagon.

“They’re fine. What about Tobin?”

“He was in one of the wagons in the back. He’s still feverish, and he tried to get up to help, but he’s too weak to do more than exhaust himself. Did you see Miriam?” When Tom shook his head, she continued, while handing him rags, a thin dowel, and a skin of wine. “She heaved the kids out of the burning wagon-the one we lost-then started throwing out whatever supplies from inside she could get her hands on. She stayed inside a little too long and got burned.”

“How bad?”

“Not bad enough to fret over. She’s more concerned about the hair she singed off.” She rolled her eyes. “Now go. I’ll send someone with a bucket of water.”

Tom hesitated, the shock of everything that had happened starting to seep in. He felt his body trembling, tasted bile at the back of his throat because he knew that there were more than a few people dead. He’d seen their bodies on the grass.

Ana gripped his arm, her face stern. “Tom. We don’t have time. Brant doesn’t have time.”

Tom sucked in a large breath, noisily, swallowed the acrid taste in his mouth, and turned without a word. As he jogged across the remains of the camp between the wagons, horses whinnying and snorting, people dashing to and fro, or sitting stunned on the grass, he saw Walter on horseback, grouped together with six other men-three Armory men and three others-also mounted.

And armed.

Walter saw Tom coming, said something, his face black with hatred, with purpose. The rest nodded.

Then they spun their horses and charged out across the plains, toward where the dwarren had fled.

“Walter!” Tom roared, lurching forward, but Walter ignored him. “Walter, goddamn it!”

He halted, juggled the rags and wine in his hand, then spat another curse under his breath. Walter and the others were nothing but figures in the distance.

“Tom!”

He turned toward Arten, dashed forward and spilled the supplies near Brant’s side.

“Where are Walter and the others going?” Arten asked.

“I don’t know,” Tom spat, furious. “They didn’t confer with me before they left.”

Arten grunted. “Give me the dowel.” He took the rounded chunk of wood and placed it between Brant’s teeth. “Bite down on this. It will keep you from biting your tongue off.”

Brant nodded. Arten had already ripped the wounded man’s shirt free, exposing the wound, the shaft of the arrow still protruding from it.

“What do you want me to do?” Tom asked.

“Hold him. I’m going to have to break the fletching off the arrow in order to push it through, and it’s impossible to do that without moving the arrow. He’s going to struggle.”

Tom placed his hands on Brant’s chest. As he did, one of the older children rushed forward with a bucket of water, the contents sloshing over the side as he dropped it to the ground near Arten, then stepped back and crouched down so he could watch.

Arten took the arrow in both hands, Brant hissing through the stick in his mouth. “On three,” he said, catching Tom’s gaze in warning. And then, without counting, he snapped the shaft of the arrow.

Brant screamed and bucked, throwing Tom off his body and into the grass. Tom heard Arten curse as he scrambled back to Brant’s side, grabbing hold of the younger man again. Brant twisted beneath Tom’s and Arten’s grip, body arched as he tried to roll away from the pain in his shoulder, but then he collapsed back, his scream dying down into harsh pants. Sweat and tears streaked his face, and his skin had turned a ghastly white. He’d bitten so hard into the dowel there were indentations in the wood. Fresh blood welled from his wound, thick and viscous. His skin felt hot and feverish beneath Tom’s hands.

“Now,” Arten said, his voice unnaturally calm to Tom’s ears, “we need to push it through. Ron, hold down Brant’s legs.” The commander didn’t even look as Ron slid in beside Tom and gripped Brant’s legs. Instead, he looked directly at Brant himself. “I’ll push it through as fast as I can, but you need to hold still. Once it’s out, I’ll have to clean the wound and dress it.”

Brant nodded, his breath harsh as he drew it in and out through his nostrils. Tears still welled from his eyes, and sweat plastered his hair to his scalp.

Arten nodded in return, and both Tom and Ron leaned into Brant’s shoulder and legs.

“Here we go,” Arten said.

He took hold of the shaft of the arrow and pushed.

Brant growled, whimpered, bit down hard on the dowel, and caught Tom with wide, haunted, pleading eyes. Tom stared into them, into their warm hazel depths, and grimly held on as Brant began to shudder. The whimpering growl grew, escalating toward a scream, and Tom saw Brant’s eyes begin to dart around in desperation, saw them squeeze shut, then flare open as Arten did something that interrupted Brant’s growl with a moaning bark of pure pain Then he saw consciousness flicker in Brant’s eyes, saw it struggle to remain and then die.

Brant’s body slumped to the ground, and as it did, Arten slid the splintered end of the arrow free of the fresh wound beneath Brant’s armpit. Blood gushed from both cuts, but Arten had already set the arrowhead aside, the wood stained black. He began cleaning the wounds with the wine and water, using the rags to stanch the flow. He held the rags tight, pushing with his weight, and after a long moment withdrew them.

When new blood welled up through the cuts, he cursed.

“I’m not a doctor,” Arten said, pressing the rags down hard again. “But if we can’t get the blood flow to stop-”

He didn’t need to finish.

Ron suddenly gasped and lurched back, tripping over his own feet and falling to the ground. Tom spun, half standing, then halted.

Aeren stood a few paces away, Eraeth and another of the Alvritshai flanking him. He stared down at Brant, then held something toward Tom, murmuring in his own language. Tom hesitated, then stood and accepted what Aeren offered.

A small, clear, glass vial filled with what looked like pinkish water.

Tom looked at Aeren in consternation, but the Alvritshai motioned toward Brant, mimicked pouring the water over Brant’s wounds.

Tom returned to Arten’s side. “He wants us to pour this over the wound,” he said, as he began to remove the cork from the top of the bottle. It was sealed with wax, so he used the knife Arten had given him earlier to break it.

“And you’re going to use it?”

“We don’t have a choice. The blood isn’t stopping, and they haven’t given us any reason to distrust them so far.”

Arten didn’t respond, but he did pull the rags back from the wound and let Tom dribble some of the liquid onto the cuts.