Half a War

Wounds

Men lay on the floor, spitting and writhing. They begged for help and muttered for their mothers. They swore through gritted teeth, and snarled, and screamed, and bled.

Gods, a man held a lot of blood. Skara could hardly believe how much.

A prayer-weaver stood in the corner, droning out entreaties to He Who Knits the Wound and wafting about the sweet-smelling smoke from a cup of smouldering bark. Even so there was a suffocating stink, of sweat and piss and all the secrets that a body holds and Skara had to press one hand over her mouth, over her nose, over her eyes almost, staring between her fingers.

Mother Owd was not a tall woman but she seemed a towering presence now, less like a peach than the deep-rooted tree that bore them. Her forehead was furrowed, stray hairs stuck with sweat to her clenched jaw, sleeves rolled up to show strong muscles working in her red-stained forearms. The man she was tending to arched his back as she probed at the wound in his thigh, then started to thrash and squeal.

‘Someone hold him!’ she growled. Rin brushed past Skara, caught the man’s wrist and pressed him roughly down while Sister Owd plucked a bone needle from her loose bun, stuck it in her teeth so she could thread it, and began to sew, the man snorting and bellowing and spraying spit.

Skara remembered Mother Kyre naming the organs, describing their purpose and their patron god. A princess should know how people work, she had said. But you can know a man is full of guts and still find the sight of them a most profound shock.

‘They came with ladders,’ Blue Jenner was saying. ‘And bravely enough. Not a task I’d fancy. Reckon Bright Yilling promised good ring-money to any man could scale the walls.’

‘Not many did,’ said Raith.

Skara watched flies flit about a heap of bloody bandages. ‘Enough to cause this.’

‘This?’ She hardly knew how Jenner could chuckle now. ‘You should see what we did to them! If this is the worst we suffer before Father Yarvi gets back I’ll count us lucky indeed.’ Skara must have looked horrified, because he faltered as he caught her eye. ‘Well … not these boys, maybe …’

‘He was testing us.’ Raith’s face was pale and his cheek scraped with grazes. Skara did not want to know how he got them. ‘Feeling out where we’re weak.’

‘Well it’s a test we passed,’ said Jenner. ‘This time, anyway. We’d best get back to the walls, my queen. Bright Yilling ain’t a fellow to give up at the first stumble.’

By then they were hauling another man up onto Sister Owd’s table while the minister rubbed her hands clean in a bowl of thrice-blessed water already pink with blood. He was a big Gettlander not much older than Skara, the only sign of a wound a dark patch on his mail.

Owd had a rattling set of little knives strung on a cord around her neck, and she used one now to slit the thongs that held his armour, then Rin dragged it and the padding underneath up to show a little slit in his belly. Mother Owd bent over it, pressed at it, watched blood leak out. He squirmed and his mouth opened but he made only a breathy gasp, his soft face shuddering. Sister Owd sniffed at the wound, muttered a curse, and stood.

‘There’s nothing I can do. Someone sing him a prayer.’

Skara stared. That easily, a man condemned to death. But those are the choices a healer must make. Who can be saved. Who is already meat. Mother Owd had moved on and Skara forced herself up beside the dying man on trembling legs, her stomach in her mouth. Forced herself to take his hand.

‘What is your name?’ she asked him.

His whisper was hardly more than a breath. ‘Sordaf.’

She tried to sing a prayer to Father Peace to guide him to an easy rest. A prayer she remembered Mother Kyre singing when she was small, after her father died, but her throat would hardly make the words. She had heard of men dying well in battle. She could no longer imagine what that meant.

The wounded man’s bulging eyes were fixed on her. Or fixed beyond her. On his family, maybe. On things left undone and unsaid. On the darkness beyond the Last Door.

‘What can I do?’ she whispered, clutching at his hand as hard as he clutched at hers.

He tried to make words but they came out only squelches, blood speckling his lips.

‘Someone get some water!’ she shrieked.

‘No need, my queen.’ Rin gently prised Skara’s gripping fingers from his. ‘He’s gone.’ And Skara realized his hand was slack.

She stood.

She felt dizzy. Hot and prickly all over.

Someone was screaming. Hoarse, strange, bubbling screams, and in between she heard the burbling of the prayer-weaver, burbling, burbling, begging for help, begging for mercy.

She tottered to the doorway, nearly fell, burst into the yard, was sick, nearly fell in her sick, clawed her dress out of the way as she was sick again, wiped the long string of bile from her mouth and leaned against the wall, shaking.

‘Are you all right, my queen?’ Mother Owd stood wiping her hands on a cloth.

‘I’ve always had a weak stomach-’ Skara coughed, retched again, but all that came up was bitter spit.

‘We all have to keep our fears somewhere. Especially if we cannot afford to let them show. I think you hide yours in your stomach, my queen.’ Owd put a gentle hand on Skara’s shoulder. ‘As good a place as any.’

Skara looked towards the doorway, the moans of the wounded coming faint from beyond. ‘Did I make this happen?’ she whispered.

‘A queen must make hard choices. But also bear the results with dignity. The faster you run from the past, the faster it catches you. All you can do is turn to face it. Embrace it. Try and meet the future wiser for it.’ And the minister unscrewed the cap from a flask and offered it to Skara. ‘Your warriors look to you for an example. You don’t have to fight to show them courage.’

‘I don’t feel like a queen,’ muttered Skara. She took a sip and winced as she felt the spirits burn all the way down her sore throat. ‘I feel like a coward.’

‘Then act as if you’re brave. No one ever feels ready. No one ever feels grown up. Do the things a great queen would do. Then you are one, however you feel.’

Skara stood tall, and pushed her shoulders back. ‘You are a wise woman and a great minister, Mother Owd.’

‘I am neither one.’ The minister leaned close, rolling her sleeves up a little further. ‘But I have become quite good at pretending to be both. Do you need to be sick again?’

Skara shook her head, took another burning sip from the flask and handed it back, watched Owd take a lengthy swig of her own. ‘I hear I have the blood of Bail in my veins-’

‘Forget the blood of Bail.’ Owd gripped Skara’s arm. ‘Your own is good enough for anyone.’

Skara took a shuddering breath. Then she followed her minister back into the darkness.