“She agrees!” the Princess stated in a bright and casual tone. “And so does her tall friend from across the sea.”
Vaelin saw Sherin grit her teeth as the Skeltir raised a questioning eyebrow at her. “I agree to your terms.” She sighed, getting to her feet and continuing in a brisk tone Vaelin remembered very well. “Fetch my saddlebags and take me to the boy. From what I’ve heard of his condition, time is against us.”
* * *
◆ ◆ ◆
“A bolt in the gut from sixty yards,” Varnko said. “Punched through his mail but didn’t sink in all that deep. He plucked it out and laughed, even kept it as a token. Then this . . .” The Skeltir trailed off and gestured at the youth lying on the furs. The boy had perhaps fifteen years, though his emaciated condition and hollowed cheeks made him appear simultaneously older and younger. He lay with his eyes half-closed, breathing shallow and ragged. A thin film of sweat covered his body, naked but for the bandage on his stomach.
Sherin crouched and gently removed the bandage, unleashing the sweet, throat-catching stench of corruption. Vaelin thought the boy’s injury the most festered wound he had seen on a living soul, a dark irregular circle an inch across, oozing with pus. Purple tendrils of infection radiated from it, snaking across the lad’s belly and no doubt deep into his innards. Vaelin knew the Fifth Order had many remedies that would ward off infection and, if administered swiftly, might save a limb from the bone saw or a wounded brother from the pyre. But he had never seen a soul so riven with it live more than a few days. The fact that this boy had lingered for weeks seemed miraculous.
“Filth on the bolt, presumably,” Sherin said, peering close at the wound. “Perhaps some form of poison too.”
“Our healers tried packing it with maggots,” Varnko said. “Seemed to clear up for a bit, then worsened.”
“Maggots work on wounds to the extremities,” Sherin said, reaching for one of her saddlebags. “Where the infection can’t get too deep. Try them on an injury like this and there’s a chance they’ll eat their way into his gut. It’s fortunate your healers didn’t kill him.”
She extracted a small thin-bladed knife from the bag along with a number of bottles. “I need more light in here,” she said, glancing around the small tent. “Also, a steady supply of freshly boiled water, preferably in copper pots. Plus sheets of gauze, or any fine material to ward off the flies.”
“You’re going to cut him?” Varnko asked.
“Some of the infected flesh needs to be cut away.” Sherin pressed a hand to the boy’s feverish forehead and grimaced. “But his chance of survival lies with the curatives I’ve brought, and it slips further from his grasp with every second I waste talking to you.”
* * *
◆ ◆ ◆
“You have a name?”
Vaelin looked down at the flask the Skeltir offered him and decided refusing would be impolite. The liquid it held was both surprisingly pleasant and familiar. “Cumbraelin red,” Vaelin said, handing it back. “You have expensive tastes.”
“So that’s where you’re from. The Land of Wine, my people call it. Not very original, I know, but they only heard of the place recently. Tell me, is it true it rains there every day?”
“Not every day. Just most.”
The Skeltir grunted and drank again, turning to regard the large herd of horses in the corral. Having left Sherin to her ministrations, the Jade Princess had abruptly adopted a demeanour of regal authority and announced she would be taking up residence in Varnko’s tent, demanding refreshment and attendants as she strode away, nose held at an imperious angle.
Varnko watched her go and called out instructions to a nearby Stahlhast, the man swiftly mounting up and riding off towards the town. “He’ll find a maid amongst the slaves,” he said, then frowned and corrected himself. “The artisans, I mean to say. You strike me as a man with a good eye for horses. Come take a look at mine.”
Vaelin had to admit the horses were remarkable, all tall at the shoulder and long of leg and neck, mounts suitable for both hunting and war. “See the grey,” Varnko said, pointing. “Derka, the pride of my herd. The finest blood runs in his veins. Centuries of breeding to produce the perfect mount.”
“An impressive beast,” Vaelin agreed, watching the way the other horses veered from the grey’s path, long silver mane trailing as