It had been a successful bit of soldiering, Galin told himself as they rode back to Adeluna. He perched uncomfortably on the back of his mount, feeling more like a sack of grain than a mounted warrior and in truth, he was more like the grain. Having never ridden a horse aside from fairs and festivals in the North, he was remarkably uncomfortable on horseback. Luthene seemed more at home on her mount, growing up in the South where the wide, rich plains from Bohar on made the land ripe for horses. In the Highlands, only a few valleys could support the land and forage needed to raise the heavy war horses that were preferred throughout Canelux by mounted knights. Most of the horses raised in the Highlands were smaller, sturdier breeds that were well suited to the harsh conditions of the upland hills. Galin wished for one of those, rather than the ungainly horse he rode and made a note to speak to a horse trader when they returned to the city.
Luthene’s wound began to turn septic as they made their way back to the city but she would allow no help, even from him. The best he could muster was trying to make sure she ate to keep up her strength but even when she was too weak to ride, she would not let him help her with her wound. Stubbornness, he thought as they made it into the city precincts, would be the death of her. Luckily for her, Galin was just as stubborn and, over her protests, had a room made up for her in the Mermaid. “Better lodgings, better food, and the physician spends half his day in the place anyhow chasing the barmaids, so what better, eh?” Isabella helped settle them in the room and fetched the physician while Galin poured a glass of water for Luthene. “Be sure you drink,” he said softly and wiped the damp hair off her forehead. “There’s nothing worse than not drinking for a fever. Sweat yourself silly, you will, and you’ll need some water in you.” He put the cup to her lips and she took a few weak sips and he put it aside when it was clear she would take no more. As he piled blankets on her, he found himself praying to the Maker that she would make it through the fever unscathed. It was not surprising to pray for a comrade, of course, but there was something in the prayer that seemed more urgent as he muttered it.
The physician from the company examined her later that day while Galin waited anxiously in a chair across the room. He did not seem overly concerned but neither did he seem overly optimistic. As a battlefield surgeon, he had seen his share of scratches that turned septic kill and great wounds that by rights should have felled a man heal. On his way out the door, he told Galin that it he kept her fed and warm and made sure she drank, there was a better than average chance she would survive. “Most don’t make it this long, so she’s got a fair bit of luck already,” he said as he closed the door behind him, leaving the two alone. Galin pulled the chair over to the edge of her bed as she began to speak and he could tell that the fever was strong by her words. She would never show that sort of weakness and fear if she was not nearly raving with the fever, and he grabbed her hand to comfort her. “No, you’re bloody well not going to die,” Galin said, squeezing her hand in his. “Not til you’ve finished paying me back for that armor at least.” He tried to joke a bit and lighten the mood but her next words transported him back to the Sarchu Valley, to a battle he had been happy to forget.
It had been a bloody fight, his first proper shield wall, and the Maker only knew how he survived. The Northmen had been hit hard, the last captain of the company falling dead to one of the storm of arrows that sliced through their ranks, and Galin had lead the men forward rather than let them wait to be slaughtered. He had found out later that the troops he faced were under Luthene’s command then, which was no great surprise. She had risen quickly in the Godslayer’s service and had proved a capable battlefield leader. What he did not know were the orders she seemed to repeat in her fever, that he was not to be killed in the fight, that she did not have the heart for it. He tucked the blankets back around her as she calmed herself and began to complain of the cold again, trying to make sense of her fevered words.
There was no logic to it, no sense to trying to understand the ravings of a fever-mad woman, but he tried as he sat his vigil with her, mopping her forehead with cloths and doing what he could to make sure she ate. It was a trial for a man of Galin’s limited patience but he bore it as gracefully as he could, leaving her only to take his meals in the kitchen of the Mermaid, often sleeping in the chair beside her bed so he could keep better track of her condition. Isabella was understanding, offering words of hope and encouragement rather than complaining about his absence, especially when her infection would still not properly heal even after the physician’s poultice. Galin checked the wound and almost gagged at the stench, a clear sign that the infection was not halted by the physician’s efforts. He was not a healer by any stretch of the imagination but something an old soldier from his village said seemed to leap out at him. “Maggots,” he had said, “always for a wound. Get ‘em from any butcher’s stall and they’ll clean a wound better’n anything you’ve seen. Eat the death right out, they do.” Galin looked down at Luthene and saw the sweat still glistening on her pale skin and decided it would be worth a try.
The kitchens of the Mermaid backed onto a walled courtyard where livestock were kept and horses stabled and after he sent Isabella up to keep an eye on Luthene, Galin crossed the yard to the small butcher’s block near the far wall. The pies and chops in the Mermaid often came from beasts butchered in the yard itself to save the cost of transport and a butcher’s fee and so, among the offal, Galin found his prize. He picked up a handful of the wriggling white worms and put them in the bottom of a discarded blackjack. After dousing them with water, he bounded up the stairs to Luthene’s room and put the blackjack on the small table alongside her bed. “Here goes nothing,” he muttered and pushed back the blankets to reveal her wounded thigh.
He unwrapped the bandage and tossed the soiled linen aside. The wound was not deep but somehow the infection had taken hold, maybe from a scrap of her dress still trapped in the wound. Whatever the cause, he thought, the maggots might be able to be the cure. Picking them from the flagon, he placed a half dozen of them on the wound then wrapped it with a fresh bandage. All the while, he told Luthene what he was doing, not sure if she could hear him or if she could, if she would understand. Once the bandage was secured around her leg, he pulled the covers back over her and sat on the edge of her bed, pressing a cool cloth to her face. “You had better not die on me.”
