Elizabeth Vaughan: Warsworn

I started to wiggle off, but Marcus would have none of it. “You are to stay off those feet, you are.”

“Marcus—”

Rafe swung down off his horse. “Point it out to me, Warprize and I’ll get you handfuls.”

Epor and Isdra came up beside us. “Problem?” Isdra asked, her long silver braid hanging down her shoulder. Her skin was a light gold in the sun, and her slanted grey eyes were quietly amused. Epor didn’t bother to hide his smile. His bright gold hair and beard shown like the sun. He always reminded me of the paintings of the Sun God in the temple back home.

“Herself wants to be picking weeds.” Marcus grumbled.

“Bloodmoss.” I corrected him. “That’s the one, Rafe. Let me see.”

Epor snickered slightly as Rafe bent to the task of getting the plants. I noticed that Isdra gave him an amused look and reached over to nudge his leg. He caught her hand, and raised it to his lips. I look away, embarrassed at such a public display.

Rafe held up a handful of leaves and plants, their torn roots dangling. “Which one, Warprize?”

I heard a pounding of hooves behind us, even as I reached for the plants. Marcus heaved a sigh. “That’ll be theyoung’un’.”

It was Gils, all right, riding his horse at breakneck speed along the army, grinning like a madman. It cheered me to see his simple pleasure in racing his horse like the wind. Marcus grumbled, but the others smiled and made room as Gils galloped to my side.

“Cadr came to see me, Warprize! To ask for help with a bad boil.” He smiled broadly at me, his curly red hair dancing in the breeze, his words spilling out. “I told him that I would ask you, that I had to consult with my Master.”

I grinned back at him, the young Firelander who had declared himself my apprentice. While Keir had decreed that he had to keep his place as a warrior for now, his secondary duties were to act as my helper. At least until we reached the Heart of the Plains. I’d used every spare minute to give him lessons. “Good. With any luck I can show you how to lance it. But first, Gils, remember what I told you about bloodmoss?” Gils nodded, but I didn’t give him time to answer. I grabbed the soft yellow leaves out of Rafe’s hands, scattering the rest. “It’s there, right there, Gils. Get some for me.”

The army continued past as he swung down to join Rafe in picking the plants. The others had gone on alert, something I doubt they were even aware of, moving their horses to encircle us. Even though we were traveling in the center of the Warlord’s army, their instincts were to safeguard. There was no danger in being left behind, since the army was moving at a walk, and was spread out over what seemed to me to be miles.

“Prest, do you have any ehat leather to spare?” Epor asked.

Prest cast him a look over his shoulder. “You have a need?”

“The handle of my club needs rewrapping.”

“He fancies ehat for the grip.” Isdra explained.

“Would take a piece the size of an ehat to wrap that fool weapon of yours.” Marcus groused.

I glanced over at Epor, who had his club fastened to his back in a harness. It was a long thick piece of wood, half again as long as my arm, with metal studs along the length of the top and leather wrapped high on the handle. “What’s wrong with his weapon?” I asked.

Rafe popped up next to my leg, bloodmoss in two hands. “Marcus doesn’t approve, Warprize.”

Marcus grunted. “Too slow and unwieldy.”

“For you,” Epor responded, as if this were an old argument. “I prefer a weapon where if I hit the enemy, the enemy goes down and stays down.” Epor gave me a saucy grin and a wink.

I gave Rafe a questioning look, and he laughed at my confusion. “Warprize, a club is a two-handed weapon, best used by a big man with strength in his arms and chest. Like Epor or Prest.”

“Not you?” I asked.

Rafe shook his head. “I’m one for speed. Quicker with a sword or dagger. Isdra, Gils or I would strike twice for every one of Epor’s blows.” His eyebrows danced as he gave Marcus a quick glance. “Or once for every three blows from Marcus with those daggers of his.”

Epor laughed, his blond hair gleaming in the sun. “Ah, but in need, even you or Isdra could use it two-handed.”

Rafe nodded. “Maybe. If I were desperate.”

“Or insane,” Isdra added.

Prest dismounted, and dug through his packs, pulling out a fold of dark leather. He handed it to Epor, who nodded his thanks. “I’ll replace it, Prest, after the next ehat hunt.”

“What exactly is a—”

Gils popped up and handed me a bunch of leaves, laughing up at me. “How much of this do you want?”

I smiled at him. “As much as I can get, Gils. Do you remember what it can do?”

He gave me a scornful look. “I’s know, Warprize.” He bent to his task, his voice taking on a chanting tone. “Bloodmoss is for packing wounds. It grows at the site of great battles. It will not bind to the flesh, will not stick in the scabs. It seems to aid healing, prevent souring of the flesh and will close the wound. It absorbs as much blood as it can, and when you are done with it you should scatter it about, for the plant will use the blood to take root and grow.” He stood, his hands full of more leaves.

Marcus groaned. “A blood-sucking plant. More knowledge than I need.”

I was pleased. But Gils’s memory had never been a problem in his lessons. Firelanders were blessed with perfect memories, since they had no written word. No, it was the practical application of the information that had been Gils’s difficulty. My feet had been a good example.

It’s one thing to talk about cleaning and treating a soured wound. It’s another to work on a wiggling patient who couldn’t help but jerk her feet at every touch. Finally, in frustration Marcus had me lie on my stomach, and he and Keir held my feet as Gils cleaned them. The boy had done the best he could, but the right foot had become an angry, red, and pus-filled wound. Which forced poor Gils to try to clean it out with an angry and worried Warlord of the Plains hanging over his shoulder, watching his every move.

I leaned forward, holding my hand in front of Marcus’s face. “It’s wonderful, Marcus. Give me your knife and I’ll show you how it works.”

“Skies above.” Marcus jerked his head back and the horse danced beneath us. “It’s more like you’ll cut your hand off. Not with my knife!”

Isdra laughed, and moved her horse closer. “Show me, Warprize.” She pulled her knife and sliced deep into the meat beneath her thumb. Blood welled up quickly.

I took the leaves and twisted them, crushing then-fibers. A strong scent of mold rose into my nostrils. “Take this and press it to the cut.”

Isdra wiped her blade clean on her trous and sheathed it, then used her fingers to press the mass to the cut. The leaves turned color almost immediately as they drank up the blood, changing to a pale green. Gils craned his head to see, and Isdra lowered her hand to let him get a good look. At my nod, she pulled the leaves away. The skin was healed, with only an angry red line left to show she’d been hurt. Isdra held her hand up to show the others, and let the used leaves fall to the ground.

Prest and Rafe were clearly impressed, and Rafe started to gather the crop in earnest. Gils squatted, staring at the bloody leaves intently. I watched for a minute, then smiled. “Gils, I don’t think it will take root while you watch.”

“Oh.” He was clearly disappointed as he started to gather more.

“And what do we have to be careful of when we use this plant?” I asked him gently.

He frowned a bit, then his face cleared. “Not to use it on a dirty wound. It will seal the dirt inside, if you are not careful.” He bit his lip. “I could not have used it on your feet.”