The loss of two of our own hurts, but even through the pain of more death, the people stand a little taller, and I imagine the spark I see in their eyes is a tiny glimmer of hope.
I help Logan carry Keegan, the guard with the stab wound in his leg, to the medical wagon. Blood pours from his wound, and he shivers uncontrollably. Sylph meets us at the wagon’s entrance, her dark curls thrust into a messy bun, her sleeves rolled up.
Another bruise spreads across her left wrist like an indigo stain.
“Your wrist!” I say.
She shakes her head. “One of the injured was thrashing around. It’s nothing. Let’s get him into the torchlight.”
I meet Logan’s eyes, my stomach clenching. This much bruising isn’t normal. Not for Sylph. Not for anyone.
“Rachel!” Sylph says. “Help me with him.”
I shake off my unease as best as I can and follow her. There’s no room in the wagon for another patient, so we stretch him out on the ground. Thom drives a torch into the soil beside Keegan. The heat of the flames licks against our skin.
“I need to seal up the camp’s perimeter again,” Logan says softly.
“Go. We’ve got this.” I wave him away and something wet flies off of my fingers.
I look down. My hands are slick with Keegan’s blood. My throat closes as I frantically clean my hands on the grass beside me.
“Press on this,” Sylph says as she shoves a folded cloth against the wound.
I lean forward and press, gulping back nausea as the image of Keegan blurs and becomes Oliver lying beneath my hands, his blood pouring out in a thick, hot river.
This isn’t Oliver.
I’m not in a wagon.
I’m not at the Commander’s mercy.
“Press harder.” There’s an edge of worry in Sylph’s voice, and when I focus on Keegan again, I see why.
The cloth is soaked through, and still his blood gushes.
“Nola!” Sylph’s voice rings across the space between Keegan and the wagon. In seconds, Nola is by our side staring at the wound.
“Maybe the sword cut his artery?” she asks.
I shake my head and try to ignore the wet, slick heat of his blood against my skin. “This is nowhere near an artery. I know because my dad taught me exactly where to slash a man’s leg to make him bleed out so I could get away.”
Sylph shoots me a look that manages to be both horrified and impressed.
“I don’t know. It should be slowing.” Nola reaches down and pulls the cloth away from the wound, and we stare in silence at the shallow cut, right across the meat of his calf, and the unending flow of thin, orange-red blood that runs out of him like water.
“Blood shouldn’t be that thin,” I say quietly, though a glance at Keegan’s white face tells me he’s too far into shock to understand what we’re saying anymore. “And it shouldn’t flow this fast.”
“Pressing harder isn’t stopping it. We need to cauterize.” Sylph reaches for the torch. “Give me your knife, Rachel.”
I hand it to her, and she thrusts the blade into the flame until it glows red along the edges.
“Hold him still,” she says. Nola grabs his shoulders, and I lie across his thighs, pressing down as hard as I can. Sylph bends swiftly and presses the flat side of the blade to the wound.
His flesh sizzles and burns, filling the air with a sickly sweet smell. I turn my face into the grass at Keegan’s waist and gag. He doesn’t jerk away from the knife. He doesn’t scream. He just lies on the ground trembling, his skin waxy and white.
I climb off of his thighs and look at the wound. The flesh is seared shut, an angry red welt of puckered skin. The blood no longer leaks out of him like a stream, but I don’t think it matters. His eyes roll back in his head, and his entire body shudders. And then he sighs, a long puff of air that hisses from his lungs before they go still.
“No!” Nola rips at his tunic, yanking the laces until she has his chest bare. She presses her hands to his heart and pumps up and down. Up and down. Up and down. Leaning forward, she blows air into his mouth, listens for a heartbeat, then starts the process all over again.
I don’t know how long she tries. Long enough for Keegan’s too-thin blood to soak into the ground like it was never there. Long enough for others to bring two more injured recruits to the wagon.
Long enough for me to notice the ugly bouquet of purple-black bruises spreading along Keegan’s stomach and chest like flowers crushed beneath someone’s careless heel.
Sylph finally leans in and gently pulls Nola off Keegan, whispering reassurances as Nola cries against her shoulder.
I have no reassurances to offer. No condolences. Nothing but the terrible fear gnawing away at my chest as I stare at the fresh bruise circling Sylph’s wrist and wonder if Keegan woke up yesterday morning beneath a bloody X.
Chapter Thirty-Four
LOGAN
The day dawns bright and beautiful. Somehow that makes our current situation feel so much worse. I didn’t sleep much after the attack. Just caught a few light naps in between circling the camp, checking on the medical wagon, and worrying about Keegan’s death and what it might mean for the rest of us.
The list of names I took from Drake in the wee hours of the morning is a leaden weight in my hand. Nineteen names, including Keegan’s. The last time I checked the medical wagon, five of those nineteen were dead. Two of them bled out almost instantly after receiving light wounds in last night’s battle. The other three complained of exhaustion and pain and then eventually bled out through their noses, gums, and eyes.
I help Logan carry Keegan, the guard with the stab wound in his leg, to the medical wagon. Blood pours from his wound, and he shivers uncontrollably. Sylph meets us at the wagon’s entrance, her dark curls thrust into a messy bun, her sleeves rolled up.
Another bruise spreads across her left wrist like an indigo stain.
“Your wrist!” I say.
She shakes her head. “One of the injured was thrashing around. It’s nothing. Let’s get him into the torchlight.”
I meet Logan’s eyes, my stomach clenching. This much bruising isn’t normal. Not for Sylph. Not for anyone.
“Rachel!” Sylph says. “Help me with him.”
I shake off my unease as best as I can and follow her. There’s no room in the wagon for another patient, so we stretch him out on the ground. Thom drives a torch into the soil beside Keegan. The heat of the flames licks against our skin.
“I need to seal up the camp’s perimeter again,” Logan says softly.
“Go. We’ve got this.” I wave him away and something wet flies off of my fingers.
I look down. My hands are slick with Keegan’s blood. My throat closes as I frantically clean my hands on the grass beside me.
“Press on this,” Sylph says as she shoves a folded cloth against the wound.
I lean forward and press, gulping back nausea as the image of Keegan blurs and becomes Oliver lying beneath my hands, his blood pouring out in a thick, hot river.
This isn’t Oliver.
I’m not in a wagon.
I’m not at the Commander’s mercy.
“Press harder.” There’s an edge of worry in Sylph’s voice, and when I focus on Keegan again, I see why.
The cloth is soaked through, and still his blood gushes.
“Nola!” Sylph’s voice rings across the space between Keegan and the wagon. In seconds, Nola is by our side staring at the wound.
“Maybe the sword cut his artery?” she asks.
I shake my head and try to ignore the wet, slick heat of his blood against my skin. “This is nowhere near an artery. I know because my dad taught me exactly where to slash a man’s leg to make him bleed out so I could get away.”
Sylph shoots me a look that manages to be both horrified and impressed.
“I don’t know. It should be slowing.” Nola reaches down and pulls the cloth away from the wound, and we stare in silence at the shallow cut, right across the meat of his calf, and the unending flow of thin, orange-red blood that runs out of him like water.
“Blood shouldn’t be that thin,” I say quietly, though a glance at Keegan’s white face tells me he’s too far into shock to understand what we’re saying anymore. “And it shouldn’t flow this fast.”
“Pressing harder isn’t stopping it. We need to cauterize.” Sylph reaches for the torch. “Give me your knife, Rachel.”
I hand it to her, and she thrusts the blade into the flame until it glows red along the edges.
“Hold him still,” she says. Nola grabs his shoulders, and I lie across his thighs, pressing down as hard as I can. Sylph bends swiftly and presses the flat side of the blade to the wound.
His flesh sizzles and burns, filling the air with a sickly sweet smell. I turn my face into the grass at Keegan’s waist and gag. He doesn’t jerk away from the knife. He doesn’t scream. He just lies on the ground trembling, his skin waxy and white.
I climb off of his thighs and look at the wound. The flesh is seared shut, an angry red welt of puckered skin. The blood no longer leaks out of him like a stream, but I don’t think it matters. His eyes roll back in his head, and his entire body shudders. And then he sighs, a long puff of air that hisses from his lungs before they go still.
“No!” Nola rips at his tunic, yanking the laces until she has his chest bare. She presses her hands to his heart and pumps up and down. Up and down. Up and down. Leaning forward, she blows air into his mouth, listens for a heartbeat, then starts the process all over again.
I don’t know how long she tries. Long enough for Keegan’s too-thin blood to soak into the ground like it was never there. Long enough for others to bring two more injured recruits to the wagon.
Long enough for me to notice the ugly bouquet of purple-black bruises spreading along Keegan’s stomach and chest like flowers crushed beneath someone’s careless heel.
Sylph finally leans in and gently pulls Nola off Keegan, whispering reassurances as Nola cries against her shoulder.
I have no reassurances to offer. No condolences. Nothing but the terrible fear gnawing away at my chest as I stare at the fresh bruise circling Sylph’s wrist and wonder if Keegan woke up yesterday morning beneath a bloody X.
Chapter Thirty-Four
LOGAN
The day dawns bright and beautiful. Somehow that makes our current situation feel so much worse. I didn’t sleep much after the attack. Just caught a few light naps in between circling the camp, checking on the medical wagon, and worrying about Keegan’s death and what it might mean for the rest of us.
The list of names I took from Drake in the wee hours of the morning is a leaden weight in my hand. Nineteen names, including Keegan’s. The last time I checked the medical wagon, five of those nineteen were dead. Two of them bled out almost instantly after receiving light wounds in last night’s battle. The other three complained of exhaustion and pain and then eventually bled out through their noses, gums, and eyes.
