The Book of Terrus: The Wise and Powerful

Chapter 13 - A Bed of Stars

Once she started stitching, suddenly the world seemed to narrow down to that one task. Magda was right; it was like trying to sew leather. Inch by inch Lhara tied Uncle Torl's flesh back together over the newly set bones of his leg. Halfway through, she realized that Torl was no longer groaning. Magda reassured them though that he had merely passed out.

There was no time to pause once Torl's leg was closed. A sprinkling of powered yarrow to prevent more bleeding, a paste of garlic to ward off infection, and it was on to the next victim of The Battle of Trosk. The clansman with the open stomach wound proved to be in even more serious condition than Lhara had first thought.

"If he coughs up blood..." Magda murmured softly to Lhara under her breath as they worked to sew him back together too. They had no way of knowing just how deeply the sword had gone, or what damage it had done. Thankfully the clansman was far too busy screaming his lungs out for him to hear Magda's words.

It was one bloodied, broken man after another, each being set upon the creaking kitchen table and tended as best they could be. Magda led the way where she could, and directed Lhara where she could not. By the time they came to the white-faced Factionist, Quella had already stripped him on his black head wrap, shirt and vest in the search for other injuries. The blow to the head seemed to be his only ailment, but it was also troubling. As Magda brushed aside his blood-stained white hair to clean the gash, the man did not stir.

The Wise Woman shook her head, strands of similarly snowy hair escaping to stick to her sweaty, wrinkled brows. "There may be bleeding inside his skull. If so, the pressure of it will destroy his mind, and likely kill him."

"Is there nothing we can do?" asked Lhara. She was running out of clean rags to offer Magda.

"There is one thing..." Magda seemed hesitate to elaborate. "It is dangerous, and almost as liable to kill him as the blow he already took. I've only seen it done once before." She frowned. "We must wait. If come the morning he still has not woken, then we may need to make a way for the pressure to escape...with one of Owen's drills."

A picture of what Magda was alluding to appeared in Lhara's mind, and she shuddered. She could scarcely imagine how such a thing might actually do any good. Ironically enough, even as she worried on his behalf, the pale Factionist wore an expression of absolute repose. Lhara imagined that he must not be able to hear them, if his mind was even still able to hear and understand.

The sun was already beginning to hang heavy in the sky outside by the time the last of the wounded were tended. Magda's little cottage was completely overtaken by cobbled together sickbeds. Blankets, pillows and rolls of Argali wool were brought in to make the men as comfortable as they could be. Only when the sunlight turned the dull gold of mid-afternoon did Lhara at last let her thoughts catch up to her enough to think on the inn.

Wiping her hands on the bloodied apron tied over her leggings, Lhara stepped outside. The normally sweet mountain air smelled of smoke and iron. A few people lingered in the square, listlessly carrying half-filled buckets of water from the well to dump on stubborn embers.

Quella slowly approached Lhara, her daughter at last returned to her rightful place on her mother's hip. The child gummed her fingers, looking at Lhara with enormous, unconcerned eyes.

"Devina had Marden and Yelaina taken to the barn, along with the others," she said softly.

"Has anyone...prepared them yet?"

"No. They'll wait for you, Rhena and Eima."

"What about Yelaina?"

Quella's eyes went glassy, and she blinked rapidly. "Your family would have been hers before the autumn winds. I'm sure her da would agree, if he were here."