John Flanagan: The Royal Ranger

He drew his saxe and cut a metre-long strip from the hem of her cloak. He tied it round and round her thigh, above and below the head of the javelin, pulling it as tight as possible, then tying it off firmly to staunch the steady flow of blood.

He sat back on his heels, frowning at the metre-and-a-half-long shaft of the javelin. He couldn’t move her with that still in place. But he didn’t want to pull it free from the wound until he had his medical kit to hand. He’d have to break it off short, he realised, even though doing so would undoubtedly cause Maddie intense pain. He took several deep breaths, then seized the shaft in both hands, jerking his left hand down quickly and powerfully, holding the short end as steady as he could with his right.

The shaft broke with a loud snap. Maddie screamed once, then fell silent again. He studied her face. Pale as a ghost. But her eyelids fluttered. She was still alive.

He knelt on one knee and pulled her up to a sitting position. Then he bent forward and, grabbing her belt, heaved her up over his right shoulder, her head hanging down his back, her feet in front of him. He took a long, deep breath, knowing what was coming, then surged to his feet, using the big muscles in his thighs and calves to lift her.

Searing cramps hit him immediately, his thigh muscles knotting in agony as they took the strain. He bellowed in pain, his cry echoed by Maddie’s involuntary scream as he moved her. He stood with her over his shoulder, swaying uncertainly. Then he took a step towards the base of the cliffs, waiting to see if the pain would surge through his tortured muscle again. It didn’t, so he took another step. This time, one thigh muscle cramped and he gasped in agony, then forced himself to take another step. Then another.

He found it helped if he gave vent to the pain, so he screamed as he staggered across the beach and up the uncertain footing of the path. He stumbled and slipped and slid but somehow he remained on his feet. And with every third step, he yelled as loud as he could.

He made it past the two switchbacks, knowing that if he looked up and saw how far he had to go, he would never make it. So he kept his eyes down on the treacherous rocks and shale that threatened to trip him and send him sprawling. One foot in front of the other, yelling to dispel the pain in his thigh muscles. Another foot. Slip and recover. Then go on. Another step. Another stumble. Keep going. Keep going! Now he was yelling the two words instead of just bellowing with pain. He heard Tug’s encouraging whinny and it sounded much closer than he expected it to be.

Then his lowered eyes saw the top of the path, and the long grass that grew along the clifftop, and he realised he had made it. Instantly Tug was alongside him, whinnying and neighing softly. He gripped the saddle to support himself and guided the little horse to a clear spot, where he laid Maddie down. He removed her cloak and rolled it under her head as a pillow. Then he hunted around the area, chopping dry branches from a stunted bush, finding other dry branches that had blown on the wind, and built a small fire.

His movements were much freer now, although an incautious action could still trigger cramping again and his muscles ached from the aftereffect of the cramp. It was similar to a severe bruise, he thought. He found the medical pack and unrolled it, preparing a long bandage roll and the small pot of the special wound salve that all Rangers carried. He threaded a needle with silk thread and laid it down on the spread-out canvas roll. Once he started, he would have to move quickly, removing the javelin head from the wound, anointing it with the healing salve, then sewing the lips of the wound together. Finally, he would wind the bandage round and round her upper leg, keeping it tight enough to stem the flow of blood from the wound, but not so tight that it would restrict the healing flow of blood through the injured limb. Recent events had taught him only too well of the disastrous consequences if he shut off the blood flow entirely.

Once he was ready to begin, he moved quickly and positively. He cut the blood-soaked leggings away with his saxe, exposing the bare skin around the wound.

His throwing knife was resting tip first in the hot coals of the fire. Years ago, the healer named Malcolm had told him that this would destroy the tiny malignant organisms that could penetrate the wound and cause infection. He waited till it glowed red hot, then removed it, waving it in the air to let it cool. With his left hand, he loosened the makeshift bandage around Maddie’s thigh, unwinding it gently and watching as the blood began to seep out once more. He seized the shortened shaft of the javelin and tugged gently, hoping against hope that it might slide clear. But the barb caught in the flesh inside the wound and held it. Maddie stirred, crying out in pain. He gritted his teeth and slid the throwing knife into the wound, keeping it in contact with the javelin’s head, sliding it down until he could feel where the barb was caught, then carefully working it around to free the barb.

The javelin moved several centimetres. Maddie cried out in pain once more. He stopped, wiped the perspiration from his brow with his left hand, then went back to work, using the knife blade to shield the barb and stop it catching again. Slowly the javelin head slid clear of the wound, although, inevitably, it caused damage on the way out. As it came out, a gush of red blood followed it. Will hurled the javelin to one side, then mopped at the wound with a clean cloth. He smeared the salve onto a pad of cotton and thrust it into the wound, working it around to spread the healing ointment in all directions. Then he pinched the lips of the wound together and went to work with the needle and silk thread. Maddie flinched and cried out each time he punched the needle through her skin. He shook his head helplessly.

“Sorry, my girl. But it has to be done,” he muttered.

He drew the last stitch tight, then quickly bound round and round the upper leg with the bandage he had prepared. The blood was still seeping slowly from the wound and it stained the first few layers of bandage red, then pink. But the flow had slowed considerably, till it was little more than a trickle. The stitches and the bandage contained it, and the wound salve was inside the injury, ready to work its healing way.

Just as long as Maddie could survive the shock of the wound, and his subsequent ministrations.

She was barely breathing. Her pulse was light, like the heartbeat of a tiny bird. He knelt beside her, holding her hand, head bowed. The horses stood over the pair of them, watching with concern in their big, compassionate eyes. Tug could feel Will’s worry. Bumper could feel Maddie’s pain.

“Don’t die, Maddie. Don’t die. Please don’t die. I can’t lose you too. Please don’t die.”

He repeated the words over and over like a manic litany as he kept watch over the stricken girl.

She saved my life, he thought. How can I face Horace and Evanlyn if I let her die? Then he went back to his mumbled plea, over and over again.

“Don’t die, Maddie. Don’t die, Maddie. Please don’t die.”

But there was nothing more he could do for her, he knew. He could only wait, and repeat that exhortation over and over again. He looked at that pale face—far too pale, he thought—and in his exhaustion it turned into Alyss’s face, lying still and lifeless. Then his vision cleared and he knew it was Maddie and he felt she was slipping away and his heart was a giant pit of sorrow inside his chest. He couldn’t bear the idea of losing her, not after she’d healed the black pain of his losing the love of his life.

“Don’t die, Maddie. Don’t die, Maddie. Please don’t die, Maddie.”

The words ran together and tumbled over one another until they became a meaningless blur. But still she lay there, white faced. Will had seen death many times before, on a dozen different battlefields, and he knew that this was how it looked.