Blood Song

They came in all ages and sizes, men and women, mothers with children, sisters with brothers, all cut, bruised, pained or sick. Sherin seemed to know the nature of their ailments instinctively, working without pause or rest, tending to them all with equal care. Vaelin watched, fetched bandages or medicine when he was told, trying to learn but instead finding himself preoccupied with Sherin, fascinated by the way her face changed when she worked, the severity and wariness disappearing into compassion and humour as she joked and laughed with her charges, many of whom she clearly knew well. That’s why they come, he realised. She cares.

And so he tried as hard as he could to help, fetching, carrying, restraining the fearful and the panicked, offering awkward words of comfort to the wives or sisters or children who brought the wounded to be healed. Most were in need of little more than medicine or a few stitches, some, the ones Sherin knew so well, had prolonged sicknesses and took the longest time to treat as she asked numerous questions and offered advice or sympathy. Twice grievously wounded people came in. The first was a man with a crushed stomach who had walked into the path of a runaway cart. Sister Sherin felt the vein in his neck and began pumping at his chest with both fists clamped over his sternum.

“His heart stopped beating,” she explained. She kept at it until blood began to flow from the man’s mouth. “He’s gone.” She moved back from the bed. “Fetch a trolley from the store room and take him to the morgue. It’s in the south wing. And clean the blood from his face. The family don’t like to see that.”

Vaelin had seen death before but her coldness took him by surprise. “That’s all? There’s nothing else you can do?”

“A cart weighing half a ton ran over his stomach turning his guts to mush and his spine to powder. There is nothing else I can do.”

The second badly wounded man was brought in by the Realm Guard in the evening, a stocky fellow with a crossbow bolt through his shoulder.

“Sorry sister,” the sergeant apologised to Sherin as he and two fellow guards hauled the man onto the table. “Hate to waste your time with one such as this but we’ll get hell from the Captain if we turn up with another corpse.” He gave Vaelin a curious glance, taking in his dark blue robe. “You appear to be in the wrong House, brother.”

“Brother Vaelin is here to learn how to heal,” Sherin informed him, leaning over the stocky man to examine his wound. “Twenty feet?” she enquired.

“Closer to thirty,” one of the guards sniffed proudly, hefting his crossbow. “And he was running.”

“Vaelin,” the sergeant murmured, his glance turning into a stare of scrutiny as he looked Vaelin up and down. “Al Sorna, right?”

“That’s my name.”

The three guards laughed, it wasn’t a pleasant sound and Vaelin instantly regretted leaving his sword in the cell that morning.

“The Boy Brother who beat ten Crows single handed,” the younger guard said. “You’re taller than they said.”

“It wasn’t ten…” Vaelin began.

“Wish I’d been there to see that,” the sergeant interrupted. “Can’t stand those bloody Crows, strutting about the place. Hear they’re making a plan of revenge though. You should watch your back.”

“I always do.”

“Brother,” Sherin cut in. “I need cat gut, needle, probe, a serrated knife, redflower and corr tree oil, the gel not the juice. Oh, and another bowl of water.”

He did as he was told, grateful for the chance to escape the guardsmen’s scrutiny. He went to the store room and filled a tray with the required items returning to the treatment room to find it in uproar. The stocky man was on his feet, backed into a corner, his meaty fist clamped around Sister Sherin’s throat. One of the Guardsmen was down, a knife buried in his thigh. The other two had their swords drawn, shouting threats and fury.

“I’m walking out of here!” the stocky man shouted back.

“You’re going nowhere!” the sergeant barked in response. “Let her go and you’ll live.”

“I go inside One Eye’ll have me done. Stand aside or I’ll wring this bitch’s n-”

The serrated knife Vaelin had fetched from the store room was heavier than he was used to but it wasn’t a difficult throw. The man’s throat was clearly open but his death spasm might have caused him to snap Sister Sherin’s neck. The blade sank into his forearm causing his hand to open by reflex, allowing Sherin to collapse to the floor. Vaelin vaulted the bed, scattering the tray’s contents across the room, and felled the stocky man with a few well placed punches to the nerve centres in his face and chest.

“Don’t,” Sherin gasped from the floor. “Don’t kill him.”

Vaelin watched the man slumping to the floor, his eyes vacant. “Why would I?” He helped her to her feet. “Are you hurt?”

She shook her head, pulling away. “Get him back on the bed,” she told him, her voice hoarse. “Sergeant, if you could help me get your comrade to another room.”