The Royal Ranger

Fifty-five

Will lay awkwardly on the stacked firewood. He tried to rise, but the branches shifted and gave way beneath his hand and he floundered awkwardly.

He could see Ruhl approaching. The flaming branch in his hand lit his face with a demonic glow and Will could see the contorted expression, where hate and revenge were mixed in equal proportions. In another minute, he would hurl that flaming branch into the fire and Will would be enveloped in the flames.

He cursed the savage, crippling cramps in his arms and legs that restricted his movement so badly. He tried to rise again and failed once more. But he managed to crawl away a little, so that he was on the edge of the stacked timber. His right hand clawed at the sand as he scrabbled to drag himself clear and it closed over a familiar shape.

It was the hilt of Maddie’s saxe, lying on the sand where she had dropped it minutes before. Clumsily, he reversed the knife so he was holding it by the blade. Ruhl was only metres away, the flames on the brand licking angrily, ready to incinerate Will.

Awkwardly, gritting his teeth against the cramping pain, Will threw the saxe.

As it left his hand, he knew it was the worst throw he had ever made. Impeded by the cramping of his stiff muscles, he flicked it clumsily, without the precise control that he normally would put into such a throw. It struck Ruhl—he was too close for the throw to miss—but it struck him hilt first, hitting him on the forehead above his right eye.

The blow was painful, but in no way lethal. The heavy brass pommel cut his eyebrow and blood trickled down into his eye. Instinctively, Ruhl flinched away, and trod on a branch that had rolled clear of the stacked firewood.

It was an uneven branch, bent and twisted halfway along its length, so that it turned and rolled awkwardly under his foot. He stumbled backwards, then tried to recover, throwing his weight forward.

But, distracted by the blood in his eye, he overcompensated and lost his footing. He found himself falling forward, towards the pile of oil-drenched firewood stacked around the stake. The loosely stacked branches gave way under him as he hit them and at that instant, he realised that he still had the flaming branch in his hand, and that it was underneath him.

There was a second’s pause as he scrabbled for a handhold in the shifting branches. Then the firewood ignited with an explosive WHOOF!

Ruhl screamed as the flames shot up, enveloping him instantly, catching his clothes and hair. He struggled to rise again but the stacked branches collapsed further, defeating his efforts. He tried to scream again but the burning air and flames scorched his throat and lungs and he made a terrible, inhuman grunting noise.

Will, on the far side of the fire, felt the flames licking eagerly towards him. Instinctively, he avoided Ruhl’s mistake of trying to find purchase among the shifting, moving branches. Desperately, he rolled sideways, clear of the flames. As he felt the sand underneath him, he continued to roll, moving farther and farther away. His face was burnt. His eyebrows were singed away and his beard and hair were badly frizzled. But he was clear. And feeling was returning to his arms and legs. Painfully, he dragged himself further away from the fire, his horrified gaze fixed on the twisting, jerking, blackened form in the middle of the flames. He tried to shut out the awful grunting, gagging sounds that were coming from it.

Then, at last, they stopped.

Will pushed himself up to a sitting position, his pain-spasming legs stretched out in front of him. Gradually, the cramps were becoming less and less severe. But he still could only move clumsily. Now that he had time to think, he wondered dully where Maddie had gone. He remembered that she had shoved him aside, out of the path of Ruhl’s javelin. But he hadn’t seen what had become of her. Odd, he thought, that she hadn’t tried to help him escape the fire. He twisted his head, looking around for her.

“Maddie?” he said, his voice no more than a croak. Then he saw the dark figure crumpled on the beach a few metres away.

He shoved himself to his feet, fighting against the suddenly recurring cramps that stabbed his muscles as he moved too quickly, and lurched towards her, a huge, inarticulate cry of pain and rage and sorrow coming from his throat and echoing off the cliff face.

He dropped to his knees and felt his heart stop as he saw the cruel javelin buried in her thigh. Sheets of blood had soaked her clothes, looking black under the moonlight. Her face was deathly white and she had lost an inordinate amount of blood. He knew there was a major artery in the thigh, but he thought it was on the inside, and the blood was seeping out, not pumping and spraying as it would with a severed artery. He shuffled forward on his knees and put his fingers to her throat, feeling for a pulse.

There was none.

Again, he let out that terrible, heart-torn cry of pain and sorrow.

He felt a slight flutter under his questing fingers. Then the pulse began to beat. Faintly, weakly. But there. Maddie was alive and his heart surged with relief.

Then it lurched again, this time from fear. She was alive. But she was badly injured and she had lost a lot of blood. She was still losing it, and he had no medical supplies, no bandages, no way of staunching the flow. He had to remove the javelin from the wound. But he knew that as soon as he did, she would lose blood twice as fast as she was now.

He thought of the medical pack that he carried among his saddle bags and looked up at the cliffs above him.

“I hope you brought the horses, girl,” he said. He let out a piercing whistle.

Ten seconds passed, then he heard an anxious whinny. Looking up, he saw Bumper and Tug peering over the crest of the cliff at him. He lurched to his feet, holding up a hand to stop them coming further.

“Stay,” he ordered. He knew they would never manage that rough, rock-strewn path down. He would have to carry Maddie up to them. His brain began working, planning coherently now. Ruhl had taken his saxe and throwing knife when he was captured and he remembered seeing the slaver toss them down beside the camp fire. He was going to need them. He turned, wincing as cramp hit him again. It seemed that if he moved incautiously, stretched a muscle or turned the wrong way, the cramps would strike without warning. But they were becoming less and less savage the more he kept moving and kept the blood supply flowing back to his muscles. He limped down the beach to the camp fire, trying to ignore the terrible stench of burning flesh that came from the fire round the stake. It was dying down now, and he could see the blackened, deformed shape in the pile of embers. He shook his head and turned away, searching for his knives. He found them and buckled on the belt and scabbard, then limped painfully back up the beach to Maddie.

He drew his saxe and cut a metre-long strip from the hem of her cloak. He tied it round and round her thigh, above and below the head of the javelin, pulling it as tight as possible, then tying it off firmly to staunch the steady flow of blood.

He sat back on his heels, frowning at the metre-and-a-half-long shaft of the javelin. He couldn’t move her with that still in place. But he didn’t want to pull it free from the wound until he had his medical kit to hand. He’d have to break it off short, he realised, even though doing so would undoubtedly cause Maddie intense pain. He took several deep breaths, then seized the shaft in both hands, jerking his left hand down quickly and powerfully, holding the short end as steady as he could with his right.

The shaft broke with a loud snap. Maddie screamed once, then fell silent again. He studied her face. Pale as a ghost. But her eyelids fluttered. She was still alive.

He knelt on one knee and pulled her up to a sitting position. Then he bent forward and, grabbing her belt, heaved her up over his right shoulder, her head hanging down his back, her feet in front of him. He took a long, deep breath, knowing what was coming, then surged to his feet, using the big muscles in his thighs and calves to lift her.

Searing cramps hit him immediately, his thigh muscles knotting in agony as they took the strain. He bellowed in pain, his cry echoed by Maddie’s involuntary scream as he moved her. He stood with her over his shoulder, swaying uncertainly. Then he took a step towards the base of the cliffs, waiting to see if the pain would surge through his tortured muscle again. It didn’t, so he took another step. This time, one thigh muscle cramped and he gasped in agony, then forced himself to take another step. Then another.

He found it helped if he gave vent to the pain, so he screamed as he staggered across the beach and up the uncertain footing of the path. He stumbled and slipped and slid but somehow he remained on his feet. And with every third step, he yelled as loud as he could.

He made it past the two switchbacks, knowing that if he looked up and saw how far he had to go, he would never make it. So he kept his eyes down on the treacherous rocks and shale that threatened to trip him and send him sprawling. One foot in front of the other, yelling to dispel the pain in his thigh muscles. Another foot. Slip and recover. Then go on. Another step. Another stumble. Keep going. Keep going! Now he was yelling the two words instead of just bellowing with pain. He heard Tug’s encouraging whinny and it sounded much closer than he expected it to be.

Then his lowered eyes saw the top of the path, and the long grass that grew along the clifftop, and he realised he had made it. Instantly Tug was alongside him, whinnying and neighing softly. He gripped the saddle to support himself and guided the little horse to a clear spot, where he laid Maddie down. He removed her cloak and rolled it under her head as a pillow. Then he hunted around the area, chopping dry branches from a stunted bush, finding other dry branches that had blown on the wind, and built a small fire.

His movements were much freer now, although an incautious action could still trigger cramping again and his muscles ached from the aftereffect of the cramp. It was similar to a severe bruise, he thought. He found the medical pack and unrolled it, preparing a long bandage roll and the small pot of the special wound salve that all Rangers carried. He threaded a needle with silk thread and laid it down on the spread-out canvas roll. Once he started, he would have to move quickly, removing the javelin head from the wound, anointing it with the healing salve, then sewing the lips of the wound together. Finally, he would wind the bandage round and round her upper leg, keeping it tight enough to stem the flow of blood from the wound, but not so tight that it would restrict the healing flow of blood through the injured limb. Recent events had taught him only too well of the disastrous consequences if he shut off the blood flow entirely.

Once he was ready to begin, he moved quickly and positively. He cut the blood-soaked leggings away with his saxe, exposing the bare skin around the wound.

His throwing knife was resting tip first in the hot coals of the fire. Years ago, the healer named Malcolm had told him that this would destroy the tiny malignant organisms that could penetrate the wound and cause infection. He waited till it glowed red hot, then removed it, waving it in the air to let it cool. With his left hand, he loosened the makeshift bandage around Maddie’s thigh, unwinding it gently and watching as the blood began to seep out once more. He seized the shortened shaft of the javelin and tugged gently, hoping against hope that it might slide clear. But the barb caught in the flesh inside the wound and held it. Maddie stirred, crying out in pain. He gritted his teeth and slid the throwing knife into the wound, keeping it in contact with the javelin’s head, sliding it down until he could feel where the barb was caught, then carefully working it around to free the barb.

The javelin moved several centimetres. Maddie cried out in pain once more. He stopped, wiped the perspiration from his brow with his left hand, then went back to work, using the knife blade to shield the barb and stop it catching again. Slowly the javelin head slid clear of the wound, although, inevitably, it caused damage on the way out. As it came out, a gush of red blood followed it. Will hurled the javelin to one side, then mopped at the wound with a clean cloth. He smeared the salve onto a pad of cotton and thrust it into the wound, working it around to spread the healing ointment in all directions. Then he pinched the lips of the wound together and went to work with the needle and silk thread. Maddie flinched and cried out each time he punched the needle through her skin. He shook his head helplessly.

“Sorry, my girl. But it has to be done,” he muttered.

He drew the last stitch tight, then quickly bound round and round the upper leg with the bandage he had prepared. The blood was still seeping slowly from the wound and it stained the first few layers of bandage red, then pink. But the flow had slowed considerably, till it was little more than a trickle. The stitches and the bandage contained it, and the wound salve was inside the injury, ready to work its healing way.

Just as long as Maddie could survive the shock of the wound, and his subsequent ministrations.

She was barely breathing. Her pulse was light, like the heartbeat of a tiny bird. He knelt beside her, holding her hand, head bowed. The horses stood over the pair of them, watching with concern in their big, compassionate eyes. Tug could feel Will’s worry. Bumper could feel Maddie’s pain.

“Don’t die, Maddie. Don’t die. Please don’t die. I can’t lose you too. Please don’t die.”

He repeated the words over and over like a manic litany as he kept watch over the stricken girl.

She saved my life, he thought. How can I face Horace and Evanlyn if I let her die? Then he went back to his mumbled plea, over and over again.

“Don’t die, Maddie. Don’t die, Maddie. Please don’t die.”

But there was nothing more he could do for her, he knew. He could only wait, and repeat that exhortation over and over again. He looked at that pale face—far too pale, he thought—and in his exhaustion it turned into Alyss’s face, lying still and lifeless. Then his vision cleared and he knew it was Maddie and he felt she was slipping away and his heart was a giant pit of sorrow inside his chest. He couldn’t bear the idea of losing her, not after she’d healed the black pain of his losing the love of his life.

“Don’t die, Maddie. Don’t die, Maddie. Please don’t die, Maddie.”

The words ran together and tumbled over one another until they became a meaningless blur. But still she lay there, white faced. Will had seen death many times before, on a dozen different battlefields, and he knew that this was how it looked.

Dawn began to streak the eastern sky over the sea. He could hear birds moving and calling, fluttering through the low bushes and long grass, rustling the branches and leaves as they hunted unwary insects. The day was a normal day, just like the day before. But it would always be different because he would remember this day as the day he lost Maddie.

“I’m hungry. What’s for breakfast?” she said.

His head jerked up and he looked at her. Her eyes were open and she was smiling at him. It was a weak smile, but a smile nonetheless. He felt his heart lurch wildly inside his chest, with hope and relief and joy.

“What’s for breakfast?” he repeated numbly. “After all that you’ve put me through, that’s all you can say?”

She shrugged, then winced as the movement caused her pain.

“What can I tell you? I’m my father’s daughter.”

He began to laugh. And somewhere, the laughter turned to tears and he was sobbing uncontrollably—immense sobs that racked his entire body and floods of tears that coursed down his cheeks. And he knew the tears were the ones he had never been able to shed for Alyss. They were for her. And they were for Maddie. And they were for him.

Most of all for him.

And as the sun rose behind him, he remained bent over Maddie, sobbing, the tears falling onto her cheeks below him until she patted his hand awkwardly and comforted him.

“It’s all right, Will. It’s all right now.”

It was full daylight when Tim Stoker found them. He had left the cave to come in search of them. He had found the bodies of the two men Maddie had overtaken the night before and equipped himself with the spear that one of them had dropped.

He stood before them, armed with the oversized weapon that was way too large for him.

“Will Treaty,” he said, “is Ranger Maddie all right?” He was doubtful because, if she was, he had no idea why the bearded Ranger would be leaning over her, weeping softly.

Will looked up at the worried young face and smiled. It occurred to him that he hadn’t smiled—really smiled—in a long, long time.

“She’s fine. Who are you?”

“I’m Tim. So can you take us home now?”