That’s not a good idea. While the arrow is in it acts as a plug; you need to leave it until you get to a physician.”
He sighs. “Fine. Check to see if it came out of the back cleanly, will you?”
“I think it did. Look,” I say, and his jaw tightens.
“I can’t.”
“Kirin, it’s there—”
“Errin. I can’t,” he says through clenched teeth. He pulls the helmet from his head and drops it beside him, then unfastens his cloak, ripping it from his shoulders and balling it atop the helmet. His short, tightly coiled hair glistens with sweat. He keeps his head turned away from his leg.
I sheathe my knife and do as he asks, my stomach giving an odd lurch when I get closer to it. At least six inches of wood have cleared his flesh. Up close it’s horrific. The metal tip is remarkably clean.
“Yes,” I tell him, swallowing.
“Is the head attached still?”
“Yes.”
“With rope? Wire? Wax? Can you see how?”
“Wax, I think. Possibly glue?” I lean forward and look. “Wax. From good candles.”
He sighs softly. “Thank the Gods. Could you snap the head off?”
“Why?”
“I need to look at it. Check it for poison.”
“If I disturb the wound, I might tear it.”
He shakes his head. “Please, Errin. I have to know. It should come clean and easy.” He sounds terribly calm about it, but his hands are shaking, his face grey and strained, and my stomach drops again.
I think back to when I was an apothecary in training, the times I watched physicians clean festering wounds, or dig shards of metal and wood out from injuries so my preparations could be used to treat them. I can do this.
I rip the length of his trousers along the seam before I wrap my left hand around the shaft and brace it against the back of his knee, ignoring the sharp intake of breath it causes. Then I grasp the tip in my other hand. I’m not a healer, I’ve never had to break a bone to reset it, but I can imagine it must be a little like this, this terrible responsibility, and the knowledge you are going to cause someone pain with your bare hands. My stomach lurches again as I look at the arrowhead. If it didn’t come off on impact, it has to be stuck on firmly. There’s no way he won’t feel this.
Taking a deep breath, I close my eyes and jerk my right hand quickly, feeling sick as the head snaps cleanly away and Kirin screams.
When I look at him, sweat is streaming down his face.
“Kirin,” I say, but he holds a hand up weakly.
“Check the end of the arrow,” he says, his voice sounding strained and far away. “Is there any wax still attached? What about splinters, any loose bits of wood, or cracks?”
“None. I’m sorry, Ki—”
Without warning he grips the shaft of the arrow just above the fletching and pulls the arrow out. Then he collapses, rolling face down on the mud, lifting himself a moment later to vomit.
I leave him to it, pulling out my knife again and opening out his discarded cloak, cutting a strip from the top of it, where it’s cleaner, and tying a tourniquet below his knee. The flow of blood slows immediately and I rip a second strip free, using it to clean the wounds. They’re neat, thank the Gods.
“You’re lucky,” I say as I saw at the thick wool, hacking off two more strips to make pads, and a third as a bandage. “And stupid.”
“Sorry,” Kirin says, spitting on to the dirt.
“You should never do that. Ever. You had no idea of what might have happened. You might have bled out in moments.”
“I’d rather die here than in a medical tent.” He takes the two pads from me and holds them to the wounds while I wrap the other strip over them, holding them in place. When I’m done, I look at him, and notice he’s wearing an amulet, dull in the wintry light. Real gold, then. I see the three stars on it and bite my tongue.
“What are you doing here, Errin?” Kirin asks, wiping his mouth on the remains of his cloak and staring as though I might disappear at any moment. “Where’s Lief?”
The sounds of fighting are quieter now; whether it’s the distance or one side winning I don’t know. “You really need to have that wound seen to properly. It could get infected.”