A Hound in the Woods

Hold Him Down

                                                        Weakened and wasted to skin and bone

The injured man that lay in the back of Ray's wagon wore a boiled leather brigandine with steel gorget and vambraces. The armor was ill fitting, perhaps stolen or acquired off of a dead man. Granted, the man was very tall and probably as strong. The falling rain started to re-wet the dried blood and mud that covered him. He would need to be washed to help prevent the spread of infection, that much was clear.

"Help me take him to my table," Angharad swung a foot up to the wagon platform to hoist herself up into the wagon to get him out of the wagon. She took the mans hands and pulled him forward, his left arm was heavier and rotated too freely for her liking. He was heavy, and being unconscious made him even heavier. His head lolled around as he was brought upright. Ray caught the man in front until Angharad could climb down and they could work together to drag him into the cottage.

Angharad and Ray positioned themselves on either side of the man and wrapped their inside arm around the mans ribs to brace him to carry him inside.

"One, two, three," Ray counted down. They heaved the mans great weight off of the cart and drug him inside. It took great effort to hoist him onto the table. Angharad panted to catch her breath and look over the man before she set to work removing the mans soiled armor and clothes. He stank. His wounds had a sweet, stale odor. Infection had already begun to set in.

"Do you think he will live?" Ray asked.

"It's too soon to say," Angharad tossed the vambraces aside. "I'm going to need help, Ray." There was no way she could even attempt to set the bone of his leg without help. Smaller bones, like the ones in the fingers, were simple enough to set. Plenty of broken fingers had been seen and set in this very kitchen, and even the arm of a child, but never a leg.

"How many men?" Ray asked.

Angharad sighed, thinking about how many men it would take to help her. "At least four strong men," she ran a knife through the shoulder straps of the mans armor.

Ray nodded. "I'll be back within the hour."

She heard the cart rumble into motion and roll down the path toward the settlement. She took her knife and ran it up the leg of his trousers to his waistband. The wound was fully exposed now and could be cleaned for setting. With a wet rag, she wiped away the grime and blood from the perimeter of the wound so it would be ready when the men arrived to help her. The gash in the leg was longer than her hand. It was ripped open from the inside out from the bone forcing its way through muscle, fat, and flesh.

All of a sudden, a fit gripped the man and he began choking. No, no, no, she thought. She shook the mans chest. There was no change, he was still struggling to breathe. She pressed her ear to the mans chest, his heartbeat was weak and she feared that it would stop at any time. Angharad climbed up onto the table and straddled the mans torso. She pumped her hands down over his heart to try and force it into a steady rhythm. His chest rose and fell with her hands and eventually stopped fighting her movement to match her. His breathing evened out and he fell back into stable unconsciousness. 

She rinsed her rag in a bowl of water and began to wipe his face clean. The dried grime softened and gave way to reveal his face. He had several cuts and bruises, he had ben in a serious accident. Or a serious fight. A large scar emerged on the right side of his face. The more she wiped, the larger the scar was. It was from a burn, she could tell by the pink puckered flesh and stretched regrowth tissue. This injury has been long healed. More scars were found on his body as she cleaned, each one giving credence to the thought that this man had lived a long and hard life.