The Winter King
Page 52

The surgeon didn’t waste time arguing. “I need pine needles boiled in snowmelt for a wound wash to clear out the worst of the infection. Send some men to see if they can find fresh chickweed. If they can’t find fresh, then boil some of our dried supply along with chamomile and comfrey for a poultice. I’ll need honey to dress the wounds when I’m done, and willowbark tea to bring down the fever. And my king?”
Wynter paused at the outer doorway and glanced back.
Jorgun met his eyes with grim urgency. “If you want her to live, tell the men to hurry.”
Wynter gave a curt nod and ducked through the tent flaps.
Within minutes, a cookfire had been built just outside the tent, and several kettles were boiling away, one containing pine needles gathered from a nearby stand of trees, another filled with willowbark for fever. A dozen men were scouring the snow-covered countryside for fresh chickweed, but Wynter wasn’t waiting on them. A third kettle filled with dried chickweed, comfrey, and chamomile was boiling alongside the others.
When the pine-needle concoction was ready, Wynter grabbed an old wineskin, packed a funnel with snow, and ladled the steaming wound wash into the funnel. The snow melted and cooled the mixture slightly. He repeated the process, testing the wash against his own skin as Jorgun had instructed, until the wineskin was full of hot, but not scorching, liquid.
Grabbing up a stack of cloths used to bind soldiers’ wounds, he carried the pine-needle infusion into the tent and handed it to Jorgun. Jorgun’s assistant, Frig, was tucking bolsters of cloth around Khamsin.
“I’ll need you both to hold her down,” the surgeon said. “She isn’t going to like this very much.” Jorgun waited for Wynter to grasp his wife’s shoulders and Frig to pin her ankles, then he uncorked the wineskin.
The instant the hot, pungent liquid poured over her infected back, Khamsin reared up, writhing and screaming. She would have thrown herself off the cot had Wynter and Frig not held her fast. Runnels of steaming liquid washed over Khamsin’s skin and ran in streamers down her sides into the absorbent towels Frig had arranged around her.
The wineskin emptied quickly, but a second was already waiting. As Jorgun aimed the spout of hot liquid directly into the worst of her lacerations to irrigate the inflamed flesh, a stream of filthy invectives poured out of her mouth.
In the distance, thunder began to rumble.
Wynter grinned, teeth clenched. “That’s it, little flower. Get angry.” But her supply of energy depleted quickly, and before the surgeon emptied the second wineskin, her slender body went limp. Wynter’s savage grin faded, and he shared a brief, grim look with Jorgun.
The surgeon continued working in silence, probing Khamsin’s wounds, lancing several areas where the infection had gone deep, irrigating everything with fresh pine wash. When he was finally satisfied the wounds were clean, he stepped back and gestured to Wynter.
“Hold her, Your Grace. And get as much of this willowbark tea down her throat as you can.”
Wyn nodded and cradled her against his chest, pouring dribbles of tea into her mouth while Frig and Jorgun replaced the pine-wash-soaked blankets with fresh, dry bedding. When they were done, he laid her back down on the fresh, clean blankets.
One of the men carried in the kettle that smelled of comfrey, chamomile, and chickweed. It was already swimming with soaked linen squares. Wynter fished them out with a stick, wrung them gently—hissing a little at the burn of hot liquid on his palms—and handed them to Jorgun, who placed the steaming, herb-soaked cloths over Khamsin’s back.
When the poultices cooled, Jorgun removed them and smeared a generous layer of honey over the open lacerations to help prevent additional infection from entering the wounds.
An hour later, the process started over again. Throughout the afternoon and deep into the night, Jorgun, Wynter, and Frig worked to defeat the feverish infection that held Khamsin in its grip. The battle continued through the next day, and the next, but despite their efforts, the infection would not give up its hold. The poison had settled deep, and no matter what sort of progress they made, a few hours later the battle would rage again.
Close to midnight on the third day, her temperature spiked, and she began rambling in delirium and thrashing about. Electricity crackled along her fingertips as wild energy sought an outlet. A tempest gathered in the sky. The tent walls shuddered in howling gusts of wind. Rain sluiced down in sheets, falling so fast and furious, it was as if a river were pouring from the sky. Lightning shattered the darkness in merciless barrages, illuminating the tent walls like shades over a candle and turning cloud-blackened night as bright as day. Concussive thunderclaps shook the earth and left Wynter’s ears ringing.
“Winter’s Frost!” The tent flaps flung open, and Valik, who had been standing guard with the men, leapt inside. “That lightning struck so close, it damned near singed my eyebrows!” He scowled at Khamsin’s thrashing body. “It’s her, isn’t it? She’s feeding this storm. You’ve got to knock her out before she kills us all.”
Wynter scowled at his friend. “I will not hit a woman, and especially not my wife.”
“Wyn, those clouds will spawn a cyclone if she keeps feeding them energy.”
“No! She suffers now because of what her father did to her. I will not hurt her more.”
“Well, you’d best do something! A few more minutes of this storm, and we’ll all die, including your precious Summerlander bride.”
As if to prove his point, the whole tent suddenly went bright as day, and a thunderous boom nearly knocked them all off their feet.