Sword of Flames

4 A Burned-Out Shell

This is hopeless,” Yanis grumbled. “At this rate, I don’t think we’re ever going to find Vannor.” He took a sip of his ale and spluttered as he swallowed. “Gods, this stuff tastes like it came out of a privy!”

“It probably did. There are so many shortages in this city now, nothing would surprise me,” Tarnal replied uneasily, hoping to deflect the leader of the Nightrunners from his original complaint to the lesser one. Though he was accustomed by now to his companion’s grumbling, he’d become increasingly worried of late by Yanis’s frequent comments about the hopelessness of the task they had set themselves. He doubted that the Nightrunner leader knew the extent of his devotion to Zanna, but as far as Tarnal was concerned, there was no possibility of his going home before he had found her.

The fair-haired young smuggler sighed, and looked with disgust around the taproom of the Invisible Unicorn. It was not a place that encouraged optimism, he admitted to himself, wrinkling his nose at the stench of the filthy, verminous straw on the floor and grimacing at the sight of the once-white walls that were now stained with smears of soot, grease, and rusty spatters that looked suspiciously like dried blood. “When Parric stayed with us in Wyvernesse, he said that this was his favorite tavern,” he commented. “It’s a good thing he can’t see it now.”

“Hush, you fool!” Yanis peered around suspiciously, but only a handful of the other drinkers seemed to be within earshot. “Don’t go mentioning names like that! This place is full of bloody mercenaries in the pay of you-know-who, and you go shouting your mouth off…”

Tarnal felt his face burning red with embarrassment. “Well, you were the one who wanted to come here in the first place. I told you it was an idiotic idea. And you started it, too, mentioning Va—”

“Will you be quiet?”

“But you did…”

“Yes, all right, I was careless. I’m sorry,” Yanis said hastily.

Tarnal noticed several heads turning in their direction, and he shivered. “Come on, let’s get out of here. Whatever you think, Yanis, it was a stupid idea to come to this particular tavern.”

The two Nightrunners slunk through the dark streets, heading toward the north of the city. They followed a roundabout route among the back alleys, scrambling over yard walls and fences and cutting through abandoned buildings until they were quite certain they had not been followed. At last the streets around them turned from the labyrinthine clusters of crumbling buildings made of ancient, soot-stained stone, to neat rows of newer houses faced in limewash and brick.

“These streets all look the bloody same to me,” Yanis groaned, but the younger lad, at least, had memorized what few landmarks there were and was sure of his route.

“This way.” Tarnal took a sharp turning to his right, heading toward the city’s northern gates, and then cut through a smaller alley to his left. Another sharp turn brought them to the neatly scrubbed doorstep of Hebba’s house.

“I don’t know how you do it,” Yanis marveled, shaking his head. As Tarnal pushed open the wooden door, he bit back a short reply. He only thanked the gods that the young leader of the smugglers was more at home on the sea than in a city—otherwise, the Nightrunners would have been in desperate straits indeed. At least Yanis had the idea of coming to Hebba for sanctuary, Tarnal reminded himself, anxious to give credit where it was due. Had it not been for her, who knows how we’d have managed!

When the two young men had come to Nexis, it had taken several days of discreet inquiries to find Vannor’s old cook. They had started with a surreptitious midnight visit to the servants’ quarters of the merchant’s former mansion, and had been horrified to discover that it was now occupied by the corrupt and money-grabbing Guildsman Pendral, who, so the gossip went, was in the Archmage’s pocket and was already styling himself head of the Merchants’ Guild. Most of Vannor’s former servants had already left, but the gardener’s lad remembered Hebba, and thought that one of the young kitchen maids—a good friend of his, he assured them with a lewd wink—might know of her whereabouts. The girl was serving in a tavern now, and would be there tomorrow, and if she didn’t know, she was sure to know of someone who would… From person to person the trail had led, until they had finally discovered the former cook living in the northern part of the city, in the house of her sister, who had been slaughtered along with her husband and children on the Night of the Wraiths.

Hebba remembered Yanis as the nephew of Vannor’s housekeeper, Dulsina, but fortunately for her nervous disposition, she had no idea of their connection with the legendary smugglers. When they told her that they had come in search of her beloved Zanna, she had been more than ready to give them sanctuary, and besides, she was afraid of living alone now in these violent times, and pathetically desperate to have someone to take care of again. She had welcomed the two young men with open arms, and though she had little, she shared it without reservation.

Though Hebba had already gone to bed when Yanis and Tarnal returned, they found that she had left a welcome for them in her cozy, spotless little kitchen with its colorful rag rugs on the floor, shining copper pots that twinkled among the low ceiling beams, and shelves of brightly glazed mugs and plates that had been unofficially removed by Hebba from Vannor’s house when the mansion had changed ownership. A pot of thin broth was keeping warm by the edge of the fire—and the final remains of a scrawny chicken they had stolen three days ago on an unauthorized foraging expedition among Pen-dral’s outbuildings.

The Nightrunners took off their cloaks and swords, and sat down gratefully by the fireside with brimming bowls. A short time passed in a hungry and appreciative silence. Though it was not exactly filling, the broth was warming and, thanks to Hebba’s skillful touch, delicious. Moreover, the thought of having foiled the fowl’s previous owner added extra spice to the meal.

Finally Yanis scraped the bottom of the bowl with his spoon and set it aside. For a time he sat frowning and fidgeting, looking into the fire. “Look here,” he burst out suddenly, “to go on with what I was saying back in the tavern: I’ve been thinking a lot about it lately, and I don’t believe we should stay here any longer. I should be back at home, Tarnal. As Nightrunner leader I have responsibilities to my own folk—and besides, what’s the point in staying? We’re never going to find Vannor—or Zanna. We’ve been combing the city for days now, without a word or a trace of either. I reckon they must have escaped already, or…” Suddenly he couldn’t meet his companion’s eyes. “Or they must be dead.”

Horror gripped Tarnal’s heart, swiftly followed by a blaze of outrage. He leapt to his feet, tipping his chair over with a crash. “You bastard! Zanna is not dead,” he yelled. “You miserable bloody coward—you’re afraid of getting caught. And you’re desperate to get back so you can bed the fair-haired wench we rescued, the one that you fancy so much. You don’t care about Zanna at all! Call yourself a leader? If it wasn’t for your mother, you’d be—” His vision exploded into sparkling blackness as a fist smashed into his face.

Tarnal staggered to his feet and Yanis hit him again—but this time the younger man was ready. Reeling backward, he rebounded off the wall, using it as a springboard to launch himself forward. His blow brought a leaping fountain of red from Yanis’s nose, which the Nightrunner countered with a vicious kick to Tarnal’s knee. The fight went to and fro across the kitchen in a cacophony of clattering pots and pans and splintering crockery, until Tarnal saw an opening and butted his opponent in the stomach. Yanis fell backward onto the rickety table, which collapsed with a crash into matchwood, taking the smuggler down with it. Tarnal dived on top of him, fists flailing, and got in three or four telling blows before Yanis recovered both wind and wits, and brought a knee up into his balls. Tarnal curled up, gasping in helpless agony—and choked as a deluge of cold water hit him in the face. He looked up through streaming eyes to see Hebba standing over them with a wooden bucket in her hands. Her plump, round face was crimson with anger.

“What do you mean by this brawling, you ungrateful, good-for-nothing ruffians? Just look what you’ve done to my kitchen!” Abandoning the bucket for her broom, she began to beat the two young men about the head and shoulders, belaboring them until they howled for mercy, and giving them the rough edge of her tongue all the while.

“I don’t know… Is this your gratitude for my kindness in taking you in, out of the goodness of my heart? What your poor aunt Dulsina would say… You’d have had the city guard down on us with your ruckus… My poor table a pile of kindling and all the good crocks smashed to smithereens… It comes to something, when two healthy young lads who should know better treat a poor helpless widow woman in such a heartless way…”

On and on Hebba went, even after she had exhausted her anger and her voice had turned querulous with tears. She kept up her scolding commentary even as she rummaged in her cupboard for witch hazel and willow bark for the chastened men, and bathed their hurts in cold water. Tarnal had almost preferred it when she was hitting him with the broom, although when he cast his rapidly swelling eyes over the wreck he and Yanis had made of her home, he was ashamed, and sick to his stomach with guilt.

“Oh, shut up, woman, for goodness’ sake!” Yanis roared.

Tarnal looked up, horrified, in the ensuing silence and saw Hebba’s mouth hanging open in shocked indignation. The leader of the smugglers was scowling blackly. “I’m sorry about your kitchen, Hebba,” he muttered indistinctly through puffed-up lips, “but I’ll make amends to you one day, I promise. I’m leaving now,” he flung at Tarnal. “You can stay here if you want—or go to perdition for all I care. As far as I’m concerned, you’re a Nightrunner no longer!” With that he snatched up his sword and went stamping out of the house.

The slamming of the door seemed to echo for an age in the wreckage of the kitchen. To Tarnal—still in a state of shock following Yanis’s announcement—it was the death knell of the only life he had ever known. It was Hebba who finally broke the silence that followed the smuggler’s departure. “Did he say Nightrunner?” she demanded.

That tore it. Tarnal could only nod miserably.

“And Dulsina knew about this?” Hebba’s eyes were wide with astonishment. “Well!” she said indignantly. “Whatever next?”

Tarnal only wished he knew.

It had started to rain. The streaming, leaden skies were a perfect match for Yanis’s spirits as he sloshed, shivering and already hopelessly lost, through the confusing maze of empty, muddy streets. Already his anger was melting, as though doused by the pounding rain. Guilt, however, was enough to keep him going. He couldn’t go back and face Hebba again after what he had done, and as for his former companion…

Yanis gingerly fingered the throbbing bruises on his face and felt a flash of his former anger. “Damn Tarnal!” he muttered. “This is all his fault. How dare he question my authority like that?” Yanis’s pride supplied the final goad. What, go back now and apologize to the little turd? Why should I? he thought. I wasn’t in the wrong. I am the Nightrunner leader. I should be at home with my people—especially in these hard and dangerous times. And, prompted a nasty little voice from within, there are plenty of folk besides Tarnal back home who doubt your fitness to lead. If you want to keep your authority, you’d better be there to defend it.

“The trouble is, my ma is going to skin me when I come back without Zanna,” Yanis groaned. There was nothing he could do about it, though, he assured himself. Had he not searched for her all over? What more could anyone expect of him? “No. I’m going home, and that’s final.” Saying it aloud somehow helped to strengthen his flagging resolve. Now all he had to do was find his way.

For the first time since leaving Hebba’s home, Yanis began to pay attention to his surroundings. The buildings in the narrow street were still those accursed brick-and-plaster structures that were all alike, though it struck him with some force that after all this time he should have been in the older part of the town. “Damn these bloody houses,” he muttered in disgust. “I must have been wandering round in circles.” He stopped for a moment and looked around, trying without success to find a familiar landmark, and his heart sank as it occurred to him that right now, the long journey home was the least of his concerns. In his fit of temper, he’d stormed out without so much as a cloak to his back, and he was already chilled so that his teeth were chattering. He desperately needed warmth and shelter—but since he had so thoroughly lost himself, returning to Hebba was not even a possibility. The locked doors and firmly shuttered windows of the nearby houses turned blank, indifferent faces toward him. With so much lawlessness in Nexis nowadays, folk wouldn’t open their doors to a stranger after dark. Yanis muttered an oath. There was no point in just standing there getting wetter—not that he could get any wetter, he thought sourly. With a shrug, he picked a direction at random and set off again. He had no other option.

In a little while, however, hope returned to the Nightrunner as he emerged from the end of a street to find another road that crossed it, leading steeply downhill to his left. Thank the gods for that! Yanis exhaled on a sigh of relief. All he had to do now was keep heading downward and he was certain to come to the older part of the city. Maybe then he’d be able to get his bearings, and down among the deserted warehouses and derelict buildings near the docks he’d be sure to find a place to shelter.

Yanis hurried along the lonely streets, his head down, his eyes fixed on the treacherously muddy cobblestones, wary of keeping his footing as the steep downhill gradient gave impetus to his jolting strides. The only illumination filtered through the chinks in shuttered windows, or, shone weakly from the occasional lantern hung above a doorway, and the rain-dimmed lamps that hung on the corners of buildings to mark the intersections of the streets. The smuggler was distracted by discomfort from being soaked through and, more particularly, from the damage inflicted upon him by Tarnal’s fists and feet when they had brawled. Because his mind was befuddled by cold, fatigue, and unpleasant thoughts, he was not really concentrating on self-preservation.

The smuggler was trying to give the appearance of a normal citizen, caught out in the deluge while going about his rightful business, and heading for home as quickly as he could go. He had forgotten that he was not the only criminal to be out and about on the streets of Nexis after dark. He was alone and off his guard, and the farther down into the labyrinths of the old town he went, the greater was his chance of being set upon by the desperate relics of humanity that haunted the night-dark streets. And the nearer to the docks he went, the more the risk increased. As he hurried on his way, he was unaware of the eyes that watched him from the shadows. The sheets of rain obscured swift forms that slipped in and out of concealment behind him, and the pounding of the deluge drowned the scuff of stealthy feet.

One minute Yanis was striding along, his eyes and thoughts turned inward; the next, something hard and heavy struck him, and he stumbled, fetching up hard against a wall and falling facedown on the oozing ground with his head ringing and a mouthful of mud. Instinct took over and he rolled, choking—but a bolt of cold fire in his right arm told him he’d moved too late. The knife had gone right through the muscle of his forearm before its point hit the cobbles beneath. Yanis yelled and jerked his arm away, and the blade came with it, jarred from his assailant’s hand. Even as the agony hit him, the smuggler glimpsed a shadow stooping over him, a darker silhouette against the glimmer of a lantern in a nearby doorway. Two other shapes lurked beyond, closing in on him like wolves.

With his left hand Yanis scooped up a fistful of mud and flung it into his attacker’s face. The man yelled an obscenity and reeled back, clawing at his eyes. Yanis struggled to his knees and grabbed the knife, his muddy fingers fighting for a grip on the blood-slick shaft. He yanked it from his arm in a spray of blood as his assailant came at him again and plunged it into the robber’s belly, ripping the blade upward and out. The man fell screaming, tripping one of his fellows as he went down. Using the wall for support, Yanis staggered to his feet and kicked the sprawling fellow solidly in the face.

The third footpad—a scrawny little man who so far had shown little stomach for the fight—was closing in now, wielding a long, sturdy cudgel. Yanis saw him glance down at his fallen companions and hesitate, and marked the little rat as a coward. He flipped the bloodstained knife and threw it, clumsily and left-handed. Thought the blade was not designed for such work, the closeness of the target made up for the lack. The small man shrieked and dropped his weapon as the knife hit him in the chest, though Yanis knew the throw had lacked sufficient force to inflict much more than a scratch. He groped awkwardly for his sword, and at the sight of the gleaming steel the scrawny robber took to his heels and fled. The Nightrunner, his arm still dripping blood, staggered away in the opposite direction, only wanting to put as much distance between himself and his attackers as he could.

Luckily, he had already come close enough to the river to be able to see the high roofs of the warehouses looming over the lesser buildings. Though his left hand was still firmly clenched around his sword hilt, Yanis used his forearm to brush the rain and his muddy, tangled hair out of his eyes. He set his teeth against the white-hot agony in the useless right arm that dangled at his side, and his mind against the knowledge that, even if he could find the shelter he so desperately needed, he stood little chance of being able to bind the injury effectively left-handed. But there was no sense in worrying about that now. He was losing too much blood, and the wet and cold were weakening him further. Added to that, the longer he roamed the open streets, the greater was the risk of encountering another gang of footpads. Unless he could quickly find a safe haven out of the rain where he could light a fire, the problem of treating his wound would never arise. Yanis looked around and, seeing no one, laid his sword reluctantly against a wall for a moment. Clenching his jaw against the pain, he worried a rag loose from the torn sleeve of his shirt and bound it as tightly as he could above his leaking wound, tying a clumsy knot with his teeth and the cold-numbed fingers of his left hand. Then, picking up the sword again, he struggled onward.

As the dim light of a leaden dawn began to crawl across the sky, the rain finally slowed to a dismal drizzle before stopping altogether. The Nightrunner tottered down the last twisting alleyways, in a darkening dream of pain and exhaustion, toward the flat, sprawling, semiderelict area of the waterfront. He was past the stage of worrying now. The single thought of shelter that he had fixed in his mind’s eye was all that kept him going. Beneath the blurring of his conscious thoughts, however, the instinctive part of his mind was still at work, taking note of familiar landmarks. He was much more at home in this area than the upper parts of Nexis. In better times his people had done much of their surreptitious business on the wharves, and lately he and Tarnal had spent a good deal of time here, searching among the warehouses and derelict buildings for any trace of Vannor. The overwhelming need for sanctuary that was uppermost in the young man’s mind automatically led his steps toward the place that he remembered as a haven for so many of the city’s desperate and wretched folk.

Nonetheless, Yanis blinked with astonishment as he caught sight of the familiar silhouette of crumbling, soot-scarred stone rearing against the slate-gray sky. How did I get here? he thought blearily. Am I dreaming? Memories came flooding back to him of the night when he and his mother, Remana, had come with Tarnal to Nexis in search of Zanna, and had emerged from their secret underground route through the sewers into a nightmare of blood and fire, and the tearing sound of screams. He remembered the big old warehouse, its roof collapsing inward in a fountain of sparks and flame, and Pendral’s soldiers with their thirsty swords that drank the blood of women, children, and infirm old folk with brutal impartiality. He remembered Remana’s desperate attempt to get the survivors down to safety in the old drain that ran below the fulling mill, while Jarvas, the unlikely founder of this sanctuary for the destitute, had witnessed the destruction of his dream with tears of anguish running down his ugly face. And most of all, Yanis remembered Emmie, the blond-haired girl who combined an ethereal loveliness which had captured his heart, with a relentless practicality that had thoroughly daunted him and left him tongue-tied.

With reluctance, Yanis shook himself back to the present. What was he thinking of, standing here gawping and daydreaming like a moonstruck fool when the shelter that he needed was so close? There was no longer any need to find the gate of the stockade—the scorched timbers of the once-high fence had been pulled down in ruins. Though the warehouse was a burned-out shell, the fulling mill was still intact—and it also contained a water supply and a safe escape route. Blessing the gods for his good fortune, Yanis staggered with weaving steps toward the tall old building.

The wan light of the gray morning did not pass beyond the doors of rotting wood that sagged ajar. It was so dark within the mill that Yanis wondered, with a chill of fear, if his vision was starting to fail him as he succumbed to blood loss at last. As his eyes grew accustomed to the gloom, however, he thought he could discern a faint glimmer of brightness, like the warm amber flicker of firelight, far down the length of the dusty, echoing chamber. If his mind was not playing tricks on him, the light seemed to be coining from behind the row of great dye vats at the farther end. As he was about to start forward, the Nightrunner found himself hesitating. If that was a fire, then who had made it? And would they prove to be friend or foe? At that moment, a slurred and wavering voice broke into song—and Yanis made up his mind to go on. Whoever was down there, they sounded far too drunk to do him any harm. Indeed, if they had wine or strong spirits with them, he only hoped they would be in a mood to share. Nonetheless, a certain amount of caution seemed a good idea. Creeping down the long, narrow chamber as quietly as he could on uncertain feet, Yanis slunk around the edge of the dye vat and peered around the corner.

The singer, clad in a disreputable collection of filthy rags with a threadbare, tattered old blanket draped around his shoulders, sat with the curving wall of the massive stone vat at his back, and a small fire before him. He seemed oblivious to his surroundings, beating time to his song with the near-empty flask clutched tightly in his hand. He was a man of indeterminate years, and to Yanis the deeply graven lines on his gaunt face seemed more to do with sorrow than the depredations of age, though glints of silver frosted the dulled gold of his lank and greasy hair. His face seemed vaguely and annoyingly familiar—but Yanis had no chance to pursue the thought further. Having reached the end of his endurance at last, he swayed dizzily, clutching vainly at the smooth stone side of the vat—and toppled like a felled tree, almost landing in the stranger’s fire.

“Though she could have been younger, I had to admit,

I only had eyes for the size of her—”

Benziorn’s song broke off suddenly as someone fell into his fireplace. “What in perdition!” He scrambled to his feet, his heart pounding wildly, and stood swaying uncertainly, squinting down at the apparition that had suddenly plummeted out of the sky. “But there is no sky, Benziorn, you fool,” he muttered to himself with impeccable drunken logic. “Only a roof. So he couldn’t have fallen out of it…” This was all getting too complicated. Anyway, he decided, I suppose I’d better help him, before he starts to singe…

Benziorn pulled the inert figure farther away from the threatening flames and squatted down beside his mysterious visitant. As he turned the body over, he let out a muttered oath of surprise. Why, wasn’t this the smuggler lad? And in dire trouble, by the looks of it. Someone had made a fair old mess of his face, but more worrying was the wounded arm, where a knife had slashed down through flesh and muscle, and torn its way out of the other side. Frowning, the physician picked with unsteady fingers at the knot in the makeshift tourniquet that had been tied above the wound. That would have to come off, for a start. It had been left on far too long—the arm below it was already white, with an unhealthy bluish tinge, and the flesh had swollen up around the strip of rag, tightening it and making it hard to untie with stumbling, drunken fingers.

“Emmie?” Benziorn cried instinctively, as he continued to worry at the stubborn knot. “Come and help me here, and bring my…” His voice trailed away into silence as the memories that he had been drowning in wine came thrusting back like a knife blade twisted in his heart. Emmie was gone. Jarvas was gone. And all the old folk, and the little children… For a moment his vision was obscured by the sight of the burned and dismembered corpses that had littered the bloodstained yard outside.

“Damn you,” Benziorn muttered savagely at the unconscious man. “Why did you have to come back here, reminding me? I’m not a physician anymore—what’s the point? I’ve given up healing, I tell you—”

“Well you’d better take it up again—and fast”

Benziorn whirled to find himself face-to-face with the point of a sword. His eyes tracked the blade up its gleaming length—up and up, until he met the cold gaze of the other young smuggler—the shorter, blond one that he also remembered from that dreadful night when Pendral had attacked.

Tarnal looked down with mounting irritation at the physician’s swaying figure and owlish gaze. What the blazes was wrong with the man? Then he smelled the alcohol on Benziorn’s breath, and his annoyance turned to alarm. “Don’t just sit there gaping, you drunken fool. Do something. Help him.” The sharpness of his voice also stemmed from guilt, he knew.

The young smuggler had been awake all night, regretting his fight with Yanis and worrying about the Nightrunner leader who was wandering the town alone in the storm and darkness, without even his cloak. Besides, if only he had tried to persuade his companion to stay, instead of losing his temper like that… Tarnal couldn’t bear the memory of Yanis’s last angry words. Surely, now that his temper had had time to cool, he would see things differently. As soon as it was light enough to see, Tarnal had set off to find him—suspecting, rightly, that his erstwhile friend would have made his way down to the wharves, and shelter. Once he’d reached the waterfront, he had soon discovered the distinctive prints of the soft-soled boots that the smugglers used to keep their footing on slippery decks, and a trail of darker blood in the drying mud, which had sent his heart into his mouth and had finally led him to this place.

“All right, all right.” Benizorn’s voice snapped Tarnal back to the present. “Put that blasted lump of steel away, then, young man, and get down here and help me.”

Tarnal hastily sheathed his sword and dropped to his knees at the physician’s side. “What do you want me to do?”

“See this?” Benziorn pointed at the bloodstained strip of rag. The smuggler felt nausea rise in his throat at the sight of the gaping knife wound that was surrounded by red and swollen flesh. He swallowed hard and tore his eyes away from the ghastly sight. He had never been too good with that kind of thing. “Yes,” he said faintly.

“Well, get your knife out and cut it off.”

“What—the arm?”

“No, you bloody dimwit. The tourniquet!” roared the physician.

“Oh. Well, how was I to know?” Tarnal muttered sheepishly. He was blushing as he fumbled for his blade.

“Did you actually think you could saw the poor bugger’s arm off with a belt knife? Melisanda save us!” Benziorn cast his eyes skyward. “Hurry it up, there. Now—just slide the blade very carefully under the binding—and don’t cut him in the process! I’d do it myself if my hands were steadier. A touch of ague, I think…”

Ague my behind, thought Tarnal sourly. Gripping the tip of his tongue between his teeth, he maneuvered his knife point beneath the bloodstained rag, trying not to look at the torn flesh beyond. Holding his breath, he turned the blade very slightly to angle the sharp edge upward—and gasped with relief as the fabric parted and the tourniquet fell away.

“Thank you so much,” Benziorn said sarcastically. Tarnal reminded himself that this obnoxious, acid-tongued sot was the only one who could help Yanis, and he reluctantly unclenched his fists.

“Put more wood on the fire—I can’t see what I’m doing.” The physician stooped low over the inert form of the Nightrunner, peering at the injury, from which a trickle of blood had begun to seep. “Well, it looks as though we still have circulation,” he murmured. “Your friend is fortunate in that respect—though he’ll have to be extremely lucky to avoid infection. There’s mud and all sorts of other muck inside this wound. You’ll find a pot of water over there by my blanket, lad—just put it on the fire, would you? And pass me the leather satchel that you’ll also find there. I’ll try to clean this up as best I can, but…”

As Tarnal hurried to do his bidding, Benziorn continued to probe at Yanis’s wound and voice his thoughts aloud. “Wouldn’t do much good to stitch at this point—the flesh is too swollen now, and, besides, I suspect the wound will need to drain before much longer.” He looked up at the young smuggler with such a grave expression on his face that Tarnal felt his heart turn to lead.

“I’ll do my best, of course, lad, but you must prepare yourself.” The physician shook his head. “Your friend is going to be a very sick man for some time. If we can’t control the infection, we may have to remove his arm to save his life.”