Following events from here

 

It was like something from a gleeman's tale, only much, much funnier in real life. Emrin chuckled heartily, tears escaping from the crinkled corners of his eyes. Piss! The horse was pissing on her face! Stumbling! The two men - scout and infant - were stumbling from a horse they'd shared and scrambling away. Emrin slapped his thigh and wiped his eyes with the back of his arm, chuckles subsiding into a wide-set, toothy grin - he hadn't laughed so hard since breakfast!

 

Still amused, he turned his attention to the limp and somewhat ragged figure being unbundled from another horse. Even from this distance he could tell the kid was not in a good way. There were several clues, first the way the scout - maybe 17 years of age, judging by his size - was limp, with eyes closed; second, the drained and washy colour to his skin, the dampness of his hair; third, the tiny flecks of frothy blood in the corner of his mouth, the blue-tinged lips, the ragged unevenness of his breathing in and out. The signs all suggested unconsciousness or possibly just altered level of awareness, a lack of blood or bloodflow to the skin and brain - and therefore also likely to other essential organs, and a serious injury to at least one lung, possibly impeding the contractions of the heart. He - the kid - didn't have long.

 

Drawn to him and his imminent demise, the medic crossed the crowd with long, purposeful strides.

 

"Put pressure on the bleeding, here." Emrin pressed somebody's hand hard against the blood-soaked bandaging to the upper left of the kid's chest. "Get him to the tent as quickly as you can." His voice was round and burred, low, gentle, strong, commanding.

 

The kid moaned, eyes rolling, and coughed a breathless, gurgling cough. That was all.

 

Eyes bright, but hard, Emrin turned towards the tent himself, mentally compiling a list of all equipment and procedures he was likely to need to snatch the boy back from the clutches of Jak o' the Shadows.

 

"You, and you." The two men stumbling from the horse looked at him, slightly frightened and somewhat dazed. "Come with me." The girl with the horses was following behind too, Emrin noted. Good. He was going to need some extra hands quite quickly, and eventually a better story about what was going on. He picked up the pace and urged everyone along. 

 

 

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - 

 

The kid lay on the table, his breathing ragged. His lips were turning blue.

 

“Get me the alcohol, lass,” Emrin instructed the worried girl by his side, pointing to a large bottle on the desk nearby and wiggling his eyebrows suggestively. He exaggerated the expression to the point of jest and coupled it with a wild and reassuring grin.

 

“I also need someone to help him breathe; he’s turning blue due to lack of air – here, this is what you need to do,” Emrin glanced at the second follower to the tent to make sure he was watching, and then demonstrated mouth-to-mouth. “One breath for every three of yours unless I tell you differently, okay? Otherwise he dies.”

 

Turning quickly, the medic opened two of the three wooden chests under the table, and began removing the objects he already knew he’d use. A linen knife-roll, lined with silk and filled with knives of various size; a second roll of similar construction, filled with smaller, sharper, pointier instruments; a chest of various jars of herbs and poultices; a packet of clean skins and squares of boiled cloth; and a small box of curved needles, pre-threaded with lengths of undyed silk for stitching wounds. He placed each required item onto a polished serving tray and handed the tray hastily to the nearest ‘assistant’, whoever they were, as soon as it was done.

 

“Stay close.” His request was low and urgent, but he didn’t take the time to notice anything much about the person he was handing the tray to. The boy’s breathing was even shallower than before, he really didn’t have much time.

 

“Let’s have a look at the damage then, shall we? Mate, I hope this isn’t your favourite attire,” Emrin grabbed the sharpest of his knives, inserted it underneath the holey, blood-soaked layers of the young man’s shirt and pulled back quickly, exposing the injured body from collar to waist in a single move. Two more quick flicks across each shoulder and the shirt was entirely removed.

 

Emrin downed the knife and picked up the alcohol, his eyes focused on the extent of the boy’s visible injuries. It was as serious as he had first expected. Two holes marked the left and right upper chest, both deep enough for significant damage, each one a half-hand’s distance below the collarbone. Blood ran freely from each wound. The one on the right made sucking noises with each of the boy’s inhalations, and blew tiny, gurgling bubbles outward when he exhaled. Even as he watched, Emrin noticed the boy’s trachea start deviating to the left. Expression serious now, the medic grabbed the bottle of alcohol and poured a good deal of the contents all over the poor boy’s chest, washing his own hands quickly in the stream of vaporous liquid as it fell. As fast as he was able he scrubbed the chest clean of blood with one boiled cloth; wiped it dry with another. Felt the tiny pockets of air forming just under the surface of the skin around the poor boy’s chest. As he worked he talked and instructed his newfound ‘assistants’, oblivious as to whether or not they wanted to hear.

 

“This isn’t good… lung cavity has a hole … sucking air and blood into places no air and blood should be. The pressure will smother the heart if we don’t work fast… need you to stop the bleeding, and the air, without adding infection. Please wash your hands,” he shoved a square of cloth over each wound and handed the bottle of alcohol to the next closest Bander. “Push there –hard- as soon as you’re done, and don’t let go until I say - please,” he indicated the squares of cloth over each hole, both of them already blooming with fresh blood.

 

“I hope none of you is squeamish. This next bit is fun but it sure as shadow won’t be pretty…” He grinned, grabbed a long, extremely thin tube of metal - bevelled and pointed at one end, evidently open at both. Carefully, he counted down the spaces between boy’s ribs from the bottom of his collarbone on the right hand side, “One… two… gotchya.” He pressed the space immediately superior to the third rib, aimed the needle at the boy and – abruptly - stabbed the needle down to a depth of almost one third of the boy’s chest. The boy moaned and jerked in his sleep. A hissing sound of escaping air and a small fountain of blood spurted from the high end of the needle. Someone gasped. Another someone stifled a moan. Emrin grinned wider and repeated the procedure on the left hand side.

 

“Well, that just bought us some time, then!” the medic laughed triumphantly, relieved as the boy’s trachea started returning to its normal position and his lips began to lose some of their blue. Taking a moment, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a telescopic tube with a cup on both ends. He placed one cup on the boy’s chest, and bent his ear down to the second to listen, first on one side, then on the other. The cup-and-tube magnified the sounds of air entering and leaving the boy’s lungs. Emrin nodded. The sounds were light, and they were far too shallow, but they were there.

 

“Right. Now about that air,” he moved himself to the boy’s right hand side and turned his full attention on the sucking wound, which was still alternating between sucking and bubbling away. He needed a way to simultaneously reduce the bleeding, allow the wound to drain and prevent any more air from being sucked through the wound into the chest itself. Without pause he added a square of thin, waxy leather and a needle and thread to a small bowl and doused the lot with alcohol.

 

“This is for the pain and will help to keep him under,” Emrin reached for a clean cloth and a jar of potent, watery liquid. “Sleepwell, goatstongue and greenwart,” he stated, confirming by reading the label aloud. “It’s strong, so Light help you don’t sniff it if you can help it, but soak the cloth and hold it under his nose whenever it looks like he’s about to wake, okay?…This next bit’s likely to hurt,” the medic handed the jar and cloth to the waiting hands and turned his attention back to the wound.

 

Carefully, he placed the waxy hide directly over the wound. Not so carefully, he stitched the flap of hide directly to the boy’s young skin, using three of the square’s four sides. Once he was done, the sucking noise subsided and each inspiratory breath sucked the hide over the wound and blocked it shut rather than encouraging the entry of more air.

 

Humming happily to himself, Emrin then padded and bandaged the wound on the left hand side, applying a poultice and compress designed to minimise infection and inflammation. “There,” he said when it was done, “I think that’s about all we can do for him now. Oh, except the drain… Make sure you give him a good couple of whiffs on the cloth up there, he definitely does not want to be able to feel this.”

 

Emrin selected a short length of flexible tube and a very sharp, very pointy knife. Locating the tender spot on the side of the lower ribs, he punctured the boy’s skin and edged the knife forward to the lung, stopping when the tube began to leak a steady drip of blood and fluid.

 

“There. We’re done. It’s up to Light and Shadow now, but we’ve done our bit and I’m confident enough to put my money down that he’ll live. Thank you all for your help,” Emrin grinned, flushed with the thrill of the race and the treatment which may have just saved another young life.

 

He turned to the anxious, hopeful faces around him, and passed a bottle of brew around to lighten the mood “Now, can someone tell me what in the flaming Light happened, before he wakes?”

The forest was lit by a strange backlight; the source of which was unknown to Jeral as he raced through its low hanging canopy and twisting roots. He was hunting something – for that he knew. Or was he the one being hunted? As often of late, that line of distinction was getting blurry.
     A sound materialised somewhere to his immediate right – the snapping of a branch.
Careful, it might be a trap; his hunter’s instincts immediately warned him. Be on the lookout for a decoy. The bow and arrow appeared in his hand as if out of thin air; the Ashwood rough and weighed perfectly in his practised hands. He drew, putting pressure evenly on the bow string as the feathered shaft brushed lightly against his cheeks.  Nothing stirred as he trained his weapon upon the silent forest. The trees looked to be grim sentinels as they stared down at him with disapproving eyes. Jeral lowered his bow, relaxing his right arm which had begun to feel tense from holding the draw weight for too long.
     Something flashed in the air and he only just managed to dodge out of its way as the heavy bladed throwing knife thudded into a nearby tree trunk.  He turned, trying to pinpoint the source of the knife, bow raised once again at cheek level. A second flash and a familiar hissing sounded dangerously close to his right ear. Another loud THUNCK and another knife imbedded itself in a trunk.
“Who are you?” Jeral called out, his bow now raised at half draw, “show yourself!” Were there more than one out there? He was in serious trouble if there were. The forest stayed silent and empty, with only the trees being visible – continuing their cold passionless stares. Where did they go?
He did not observe any more movement as he scanned the perimeter, backpedalling in a small semi-circle.  
     Who was after him? What did they want?
His rear foot caught against something and he glanced down to see that it was the base of the Yew which the knife had struck. With his back protected from at least one angle of attack, he allowed himself the chance to retrieve the knife down from the tree trunk. It slid away easily and he glanced about before studying it. No attackers.   
     The weapon was finely crafted, the blade of good forged iron and the hilt evenly balanced with a dense type of wood. Jeral weighed it gingerly in his hands, spinning it then catching it by the hilt. He gasped. Upon mid-toss the knife suddenly stopped and floated mid-air as if held by an invisible hand. He screamed. The knife plunged itself deep into his right shoulder, and stayed there. The pain was over him in an instant, inducing a violent bout of spasms as it slowly twisted.
     Pain. Burning. Burning flesh. He was being charred from the inside, the cold metallic object somehow making his chest feel as if it was on fire. He grunted, miraculously staying upright despite the agony that threatened to overwhelm him. The knife twisted further then pulled itself free, not a speck of blood marring its polished surface. Jeral scowled as he recovered his footing, dropping the bow to the ground and pulling free from its scabbard his own long hunting knife.
“What,” he coughed, “kind of sorcery is this?” The knife did not answer, instead floating as four more joined its rank, slowly encircling Jeral in a wall of sharpened steel. He gritted his teeth.

 

“Well then," he hissed. "Do your worst.”

 

The knives happily obliged.

 

     He awoke with a gasp. Something was pressing down on him, restricting movement. There were voices too – blessed, sweet voices. “I think he’s awake.” Jeral could barely make out the words, as if a dome was wedged between him and the outside world. “Lad, can you hear me?”
Jeral reluctantly nodded, feeling his mind sluggish at comprehending his situation.
“A… forest…” his words cut off. Where was he?
“Lay back, stay still,” that same voice commanded.
The lights around him slowly came into focus. He was in the citadel triage, the white washed ceiling and the overpowering smell of antiseptic confirming this first observation.  
     A face appeared; a mature spindly man with a kind face and an even warmer smile. “Good, so you are awake.”
Jeral coughed, trying to sit up to get a better view of his surroundings. The face pressed down upon him with a soft, yet very insistent hand.
“You need to lie down and rest; your wounds are fully healed yet. Was lucky you were bought just in on time. Another few minutes and we might have lost you. Name’s Emrin by the way.”
Jeral nodded, obeying the instructions of this kind stranger who had presumably saved his life. one of the citadel medics, no doubt.
     “What happened? I remember a forest and a woman, and… Arkin! Arinth! Are they alright?!” Despite his previous promise to the figure, he tried sitting upright again.  A flash of annoyance crossed Emrin’s face as he pushed Jeral down again, this time, more insistently.
“They’re fine. Your friend who bought you here told me all that had happened…”

 

~Jeral Ahan
Scout in the Band of the Red Hand

Edited June 8, 201412 yr by Sherper

Emrin spoke in a soothing voice, low and quiet, one hand pushing Jeral back onto the bed gently, but firmly, insisting he stay put. The other hand steadied the drainage tube, still embedded in the kid's chest.

 

"You really do need to lie still, lad. Don't worry about your friends, they're fine, other than being worried about you. I'm sure they'll be happy you're awake and back from the dead," he paused to nudge the kid's arm, and noted that the skin was starting to feel a just a little too warm. Without skipping a beat, he made a mental note to add feverfew to Jeral's next tea, prepared with a little ground-ivy to fight off any infection. While he was at it, he would probably add some corenroot to help replenish the blood. The kid was still way too pale for Emrin to be completely happy, though none of his concern showed through on his face.

 

"They're due to be back here any minute, actually. You've been out to it for two days now, you know? Gave everyone quite a scare. Well, almost everyone," Emrin chuckled heartily, "How's your pain?" 

“Pain? Wha- oh, yeah. Right. No, I’m fine.” His shoulders ached, and he could feel little beads of sweat rolling down the side of his back. “Really, doc. I feel fine.”
The man didn’t look particularly convinced, scribbling another note on the clipboard before setting it down at the end of Jeral’s bed.
“Sure you’ll be feeling even better after a few days’ rest. Losing that much blood, we’re not going to take any chances.”
      Jeral let out a groan of protest, but it looked as if the older man would have none of it, so he eventually gave up trying to wiggle his way out of bed. Jeral hated hospitals, and hated being stuck in them even more. The smell of the forest and the cool evening breeze was the medicine he really needed. Bed rest just simply didn’t sit well in his stomach.
At least the others are ok, he thought, sitting back down and pulling the coverlet higher so it covered his chest.
“What happened to the other one?” He asked the medic, as the man was looking over the condition of the patient one bed over from Jeral’s. “The crazy one with the dagger eyes, and well… daggers.”

 

~ Jeral Ahan
Scout in the Band of the Red Hand

"The stranger that came in to the Citadel at the same time as you did?" Emrin turned back to the kid, breaking into a huge grin at the memory. "She, ah," he chuckled none too quietly, preparing to tell the kid the whole hilarious 'dangling-upside-down-whilst-bound-and-gagged-and-getting-freely-pissed-on-by-the-horse' version of events, when he suddenly changed his mind. That uncensored version of events still put himself - and most listeners - into tearful fits of laughter whenever he recounted it, and the drainage site and the kid's lungs really weren't up to that sort of torture just yet.

 

"She got arrested, lad. Been penned up for the whole time you've been here in the cell next to that quirky little engineer's lab. I dare say she'll be kept there a while yet - waiting for the Commander to return, I hear," Emrin grinned, merriment still sparkling mischievously in his eyes. "There's more to the story, matey, but I'll wait and share the tale with you over some strong brew - my shout - first thing when you're recovered," he winked and continued on in a sincerely reassuring voice, "it's nothing to worry about though, lad, she's locked up under guard day and night, and still unarmed and bound as I understand it; you're safe."

 

The kid looked worried and Emrin couldn't blame him, not if the injuries to his chest and the ferocious look in the woman's eyes had been anything to go by. Still, the medic reasoned, there was no point in anyone dwelling on either matter, given that both issues seemed to be suitably ... stitched up, so to speak. For now it was more important to focus on the future, and the kid's recovery.

 

"Here lad, it's no Bandy, but it'll do for now," Emrin handed the boy a freshly warmed cup of tea - feverfew, ground ivy and coren-root added as previously decided, with sleepwell dropped in at the last minute, and strong. "This is to fight off the infection and the fever you're developing, and to relax you through the pain," he waited until the boy was sipping contentedly on the warm brew. The plan would be to keep the kid asleep and still as much as possible for the next few days, and so far young Jeral didn't seem like the type to welcome the chance for indoor rest, especially if it was prolonged. Even now, he was fidgeting... 

 

Automatically, Emrin reached out to steady and re-secure the chest drain properly in place. As an afterthought he reached for a fresh poultice of ground-ivy and honey, and dabbed some more over the boy's wounds. The bruising was worse today, he noted, even if the bleeding had stemmed. The rims of each puncture were red and angrily inflamed, the sucking one on the right especially. The kid was young and otherwise healthy, which gave him a good chance, but those were warning signs the medic had seen countless times before. "You really do need to stay still, lad, and let your body fight to heal. We'll talk more after your next rest, and we'll see about that Bandy then." Nodding to himself in acknowledgement of likely night sweats and unintelligible fever-dreams, Emrin silently added 'in a couple of days' to his last sentence, and hoped, for the boy's sake, that the worst wasn't yet to come.

 

 

 

Edited August 19, 201411 yr by Cass

Arkin stepped lightly into Emrin's tent, pulling his scouting bandanna to his neck and shook free his hair. The bells in it tinkled faintly, but Arkin paid them no heed. His eyes had gone straight to Jeral's prone form on the bed in the middle of the tent. Moving over to his customary stool by Emrin's, Arkin smiled and nodded at the medic who was sitting and watching Jeral. The kid didn't look great. Dark bruising spread fingers over his chest, reaching from the two angry, red wounds under his collarbones. He didn't look like he was healing at all, but Arkin trusted Emrin. The medic didn't seem concerned, so Arkin took his cue from that and tried to settle his mind.

 

He couldn't help feeling very concerned for the kid. Jeral had been his responsibility. He was one of his scouts. He'd been covering Jeral's shifts and dropping in as often as he could to visit him. He still wasn't exactly sure why. Emrin had told him he wouldn't be lucid for a while yet, and images like this, where he looked almost like he was getting worse, were no consolation to Arkin whatsoever. Maybe he kept coming back for that very reason-to make himself really register what he could have stopped from happening if he'd been focusing on his job rather than his conversation with Arinth.

 

Arkin shook his head. He'd already beaten himself up about that. He'd had that argument with himself and won. He let the momentary flare of guilt and anger go, and it quickly left him, loosening his tight lips and brow. He had the same thing happen every time he visited. But it was getting better. He had the feeling it was connected to Jeral's recovery-that the guilt would only fully leave him once Jeral was up and about, but for now, guilt was a deeply unfamiliar feeling to Arkin, and he'd rid himself of its effects with a few cathartic training sessions and a practice dummy. It only woke and reared up when he saw Jeral directly, like this.

 

He thought back to the first time he'd entered this tent, still bow-legged and sore from riding a horse with Arinth behind him. Emrin had appeared from the crowd before Arkin even had time to start panicking. He saw Eb being carried away in his peripheral vision, and immediately cast her from his mind. Wherever they were taking her, he hoped it was far, far away, and that she stayed there for a long time. He couldn't afford to waste any more brain space on her.

 

Arkin’s eyes immediately sought Jeral. A medic Arkin knew vaguely by sight, was crouching by him, issuing orders. Arkin felt the shock settle into him slightly, his mind separating and observing the emergency. The medic’s eyes were clear, his tone gentle, but firm, low and calming. He knew what he was doing. Arkin shook himself into action, stepping closer just in time for the medic to take his hand and press it into the bloody bandage they’d wrapped around his wounds. It was soaked in a bright, violent red.

 

Arkin had seen blood before. But not on Jeral. Not in this quantity. Deaths he had seen had mostly been quick, and if they hadn’t, he hadn’t stuck around to watch them bleed out. Injuries like this outside of battle were different, somehow. Nodding at the medic, Arkin pushed, hard, against the bleeding, as though he could stop it and heal him with just the touch of his palm, that his will would keep the precious blood inside Jeral’s body rather than spilling out onto the dirt where it didn’t belong.

 

Arinth picked the kid up, and Arkin adjusted to he could keep the pressure while they walked as fast as they were able to the medic’s tent. Arkin could feel how hard Arinth was trying not to jostle the fragile body he was holding. Looking up at his friend, they shared a concerned glance. They’d seen each other injured plenty of times, seen the other seconds away from death, but only in ways that a swift intervention from a knife or a sword could fix. They couldn’t fix this.

 

They arrived in the tent, and Arkin felt his breathing pick up. He kept the pressure going as Jeral was transferred to a surface the medic could work from. The medic immediately sprang into action. His grin and calm demeanour kept Arkin from panicking, but he could still feel the back of his mind slowly turning, wiping the dust off memories he kept locked away in the dark for a reason. He did have experience with this kind of death-the wasting kind, where you watched them die and could do nothing to help. Cold weather, his sister’s tiny, fragile body far too thin in his arms, her cough too large for that petite frame to hold. Yes, he’d seen deaths like this before.

 

But this time, there was someone who could help. Arkin sent his attention to the medic, waiting on instructions. He let the man’s mood infect him. There had only ever been one thing he could do for his sister, and that was keep her comfortable, keep her happy. Panicking and getting upset helped no-one. So he grinned back at the medic who was demonstrating some technique that was meant to help Jeral breathe and leant over the boy. He took a deep breath in and pressed his mouth to Jeral’s, forcing his air into the kid’s lungs. One to every three.

 

He grinned up at Arinth as he recovered his air. “Now we can tell him when he wakes up that I stole his first kiss.” Winking at the infant, Arkin closed his mouth over Jeral’s again and filled his lungs again. He tried not to see the faint blue tinge to his lips when he came up for air.

 

He focused on his task. Breathing in, breathing out, giving his air to Jeral, and sending all of his hope and goodwill with it, and repeating. He couldn’t see much, just splashes of red in his peripheral vision, and a flurry of movement when he lifted his head up too far, the flashes of ceramic containers and sharp objects. But he could hear everything. He could hear every word that the medic muttered, every time he touched Jeral’s chest, the sucking and bubbling of the wound just below Arkin’s ear. The sound of the medic stabbing Jeral between the ribs, the hiss of the air escaping. He groaned a little. That was just plain disgusting. And he’d seen a lot to give him a frame of reference.

 

Arkin looked at Jeral’s chest again, ignoring the bruises, focusing on the breathing, watching his ribcage expand and contract, all by itself. It was the most comforting thing he’d seen in a long time. At least now there was no frantic rush, no flashing reds and vicious looking medical instruments, just Jeral, looking battered, but ok, breathing and dreaming.

 

Emrin had been greatly amused by their tale when they told him exactly what circumstances had brought them there. Arkin had shared around his flasks, and they’d all had their own little recovery, finally having time to actually register what had just happened. Arkin had felt something hot and searing start to claw its way up from his stomach in that conversation-the first hints of anger and guilt. But Emrin’s attitude and eager ears had allowed Arkin to loose his gleeman training a little and really ham up their story. Emrin’s laughter at his recounting of Arinth and himself getting onto the horse had been very welcome.

 

Arkin smiled over at the medic. “How’s he going?”