Elizabeth Vaughan - Warprize

I wrinkled my nose and Heath grimaced right back at me. There was something about Arneath that made my skin itch. He’d been made head of the Palace Guard recently by Xymund, over the heads of more qualified men. I avoided him whenever I could.

“I’ll be out in time.”

Heath rolled his eyes. “I’ve heard that before. Have a care, little bird.” With that, he lifted the tent flap.

I stepped into the tent.

The first thing to hit me was the smell. Herbs, blood, and death. The men were crammed in close, with more pallets than cots. There were no apprentices here, no helpers to air the place out or fresh linens or help with bathing. I made do with what I had, which was precious little.

When I had first come into their midst, no one would let me touch them, much less speak to me. Their language was fluid and fast, and I’d a hard time trying to pick up the meaning. It had taken persistence and sheer stubbornness on my part, but eventually a few allowed me to tend them. While they were all so different, ranging from fair complexions to deep tan, to almost yellow, one thing held true. They all bled red, and they all responded to my medicines. Thanks to the Goddess, a few spoke the trade tongue rather well and were willing to translate.

I let my eyes adjust, greeted the two guards stationed inside, and moved further into the tent. There was a silence when I stepped in, the tension palpable. Once they saw it was me, their relief was subtle, but clear. It was the signal that they would be permitted to bathe, and wash clothes and bedding as best they could. Unlike my Xyian patients, these men preferred being clean. There was even some sort of prayer that they murmured as they poured the water.

“Lara.”

I turned and saw Rafe making his way to me, a smaller man, thin, with fair skin and deep black hair and brown eyes. His face seemed always lit with a smile. One of the youngest, he had been the first to let me treat him, and to help me learn the language. There were still gaps in my understanding, words that I missed, or used incorrectly. But I was understood most of the time. These men did not seem to believe that I could treat them. I certainly had not been able to help them deal with the strange headaches they suffered from. But I had proved myself as to other hurts.

“Rafe, I hope that you are feeling better.” I spoke slowly, trying to get the correct sounds out of my mouth. I looked carefully at the wound that ran down the side of his face. It appeared to be healing well.

Rafe quirked his mouth. “You still sound like a child at lessons.”

He followed as I moved to the center of the tent, where there was a small table. I sat down my supplies, rummaged in my basket and produced ajar, which I handed to him. “Rub this on the gash, Rafe. It will reduce the scar.”

He took the jar, but frowned. “Why so? It is an honorable scar.”

“It will still be honorable if it heals flat and tight.” These men had very strange ideas about injuries. Rafe scowled, but kept the jar.

The men about us were already stirring, but Rafe shifted his weight, making no move to go bathe. A shadow passed over his face.

“Is something wrong?” 1 asked.

He hesitated and replied softly. “There is a new man here,” and jerked his head toward the back of the tent. I could see some men clustered around one of the cots. “If you would please…”

I took my basket and headed in that direction. Best to see what I had to deal with now, before I started to see to the others.

As I approached, some of the men drifted away. But two large men remained standing by the cot. With my eyes fixed firmly on my patient, I lowered the basket to the ground, knelt, and got a good look.

He was an enormous black man, spilling over the sides and ends of the cot. Black as night, black as wrought iron. The rumors were true. I caught my breath, and for one fleeting moment wondered if he would belch fire. But common sense came to the fore, as I took in his condition. Wrapped in a cloak and blankets, his eyes were open but unseeing. Sweat dripped from his forehead and close-cropped black hair, hair like I’d never seen before. Whatever his color, it seemed he suffered as any other.

The rough bandage was down close to the groin and my mouth went dry. Please, Goddess, not another gut wound. I reached out my hand and one of the men grabbed my wrist.

“What are you doing?” His voice was hard and clipped, but I could understand him. Dark, black eyes bored into me as his grip tightened. His broad, round face was grim, and while not as dark as the man on the cot, he was darker then most. I couldn’t help a brief thought—would I get to see a blue one?— before the man wrenched my arm again.

“I am a healer.” I focused on his eyes.

He snarled. “You are a bragnect.”

I did not know the word, but suspected that it was one that was not taught to children. Careful not to return the anger, I did not pull away. “I can help him.” I kept my gaze steady on his face. “I will help him. ”

He paused, studying me.

A sound came from the darkness. “Please, Joden. She is a healer.” Rafe came up behind us, his voice soft and serious. “We fought her off at first, but she can help.”

Joden glanced at him. “This? This is a warrior-priest?”

Rafe shook his head. “Even better, she is a healer.” He used the word from my language, rather than his own. “When she first came, she seemed mad and we tried to drive her away, but she has persisted.” He turned his face slightly, to display his scar. “See? She has helped many, Joden. I will swear it to the open sky, if you wish.”

Joden looked from me to the wounded man. He released my wrist with a huff of disdain. “If you harm Simus, I will kill you.”

I gestured with my hands. “Get him off this cot and onto a pallet.” Joden started to pull the blankets away. “Uncover him, and use wet cloths to wipe his face, arms, and chest. We must get the fever down. Leave the wound and the bandage to me.”

One of the younger men stepped forward to help. This one had skin that was a lighter color than Joden’s, but his black hair fell in braids.

“Rafe?” I sat back on my heels. “I mean no offense, but does he heal as others do? Will my medicines aid him, as they do the others?” He looked puzzled, as did the men around him. I cleared my throat. “I’ ve never worked on one such as he.”

“There is no difference…” He began. I lay my hand on his forehead, and Rafe’s gaze followed my gesture. “Do you mean his skin?”

I nodded, and pulled my hand back, giving it a quick glance to see if any of the color had come off on my fingers.

Rafe snorted. “There’s no difference beyond looks,” He cast a sly eye over at Joden. “Though there’s some that say Simus has more than his fair share of charm.”

Joden grunted, but I could see a slight smile. I dug in the basket, and found a small bottle of orchid root which I handed to the other man, the one with the braids. “You are?”

“Prest.”

“See if you can get him to take two swallows of this. No more. It will ease him for when we clean the wound.”

Prest nodded.

“I will return when I am done with the others.” I stood. “Roll up the tents sides.” I called out. “Let’s air the place as best we can.” We had done this before, to add some light and fresh air to the tent. The guards were not happy, but they let me do this when I felt the need. As the walls were lifted, I could see the guards that ringed the tent on the outside. Xy-mund was taking no chances.

As the men started moving, I got up and visited my other patients, checking wounds, using my salves and potions where needed. At first, I’d been pushed away, treated rudely whenever I tried to help. It had taken time, but I was tolerated by most, and welcomed by a few. But now there was a difference. While the men treated me well, I could tell that their attention was on my newest patient. Some who had never spoken to me before even went so far as to try to ask me about the man.