Two Renegade Realms (Realm Walkers Book 2) (17 page)

“The water?” asked Neekoh. “You’ve lost a lot of blood. You need to drink.”

The guard clumsily shook his head. “No. It’s good I’m dying.”

“Oh, well . . .” Neekoh shot a panicky look at Cantor. Cantor merely shrugged.

Neekoh’s neck knob bobbled. “We don’t know that you’re dying. We’ve got traveling companions who are pretty clever with medicine and such.”

Cantor looked beyond Neekoh. “They’re coming now. You just hang on a little longer and let them help.”

The wounded man wheezed. “Nothing will help. The guild . . . full of evil men —” Coughing interrupted his attempt to speak. By the time the hacking subsided, the guard was once again unconscious.

Dukmee and Bixby rode into the abandoned street with the other two horses following. The healer and girl dismounted and came to inspect their patient.

Neekoh hovered behind them. “He just passed out again. We gave him some water, and he tried to talk.”

Cantor watched Dukmee’s solemn expression as he checked the guard’s injuries. The healer paused for a moment over the swelling at the man’s side and above his waist. That was the same wound that had troubled Cantor when he’d first done a cursory exam. He knew the damage done there would likely kill the man.

Dukmee looked up at Cantor and nodded.
“Internal
bleeding.”

The healer stood. “Cantor, can you summon Bridger? That would probably be the kindest way to transport this man back to Trout’s cabin.”

Bixby jumped to her feet. “He’s badly injured. We shouldn’t move him.”

Dukmee turned his somber eyes to hers.

Cantor overheard Dukmee’s explanation. “
None of us has
the skill to heal him.”

She stilled. “Oh.”

Bixby watched the dragon rise into the air. Her heart beat with slow deliberation. She always wanted to help, but sometimes Primen put before her circumstances where she could do nothing. Even with all her talents and the years in which she’d polished those skills, she often fell short of her own expectations. Her limitations reminded her she could help only within the confines of Primen’s providence.

She hopped up on Dani and urged the horse back along the trail toward Trout’s home.

Dukmee rode with his patient on Bridger’s back. The dragon had shifted his shape between his wings to form a safe cradle for the man to lie in. He provided a saddle behind the patient to accommodate Dukmee.

Bridger had not complained about being called from his sickbed to aid a stranger. He came, loaded his passengers with grace, gave an encouraging word to Bixby, and left. He was only a speck in the sky now. She hoped the guard would still be living when they returned on the horses.

Cantor rode just ahead of her, his back straight, his body swaying with the horse’s gait.

The trail widened, and she urged her horse to catch up. “I’m really impressed with Bridger.”

“Why is that?” Cantor’s voice still held a reservation when talking about the dragon he had not chosen.

“Well, hasn’t he proven he’s useful? Hasn’t he helped you out of many scrapes?”

He snorted. “Scrapes that were usually the result of his uncanny ability to make a simple task complicated, or a simple plan explosive, or a simply worded instruction a maze of double meanings. In other words, he makes his own disasters.”

“He flew out here to help an enemy guard even though he’s sick. And he didn’t have a thing to do with that calamity.”

“I like him!”

Neekoh’s voice from behind startled Bixby. She turned and gave him her biggest smile. “I like him too.”

Cantor twisted to glance back at Neekoh. “I admit to liking him. But that doesn’t mean he’s an adequate constant.”

Bixby decided if she said anything else, it would be caustic. She didn’t think using cutting words to point out how unfair Cantor was to Bridger would help her fellow realm walker suddenly appreciate his dragon.

Just a little way from the old man’s cabin, Trout passed them on the trail. His rod hung over his shoulder, and he had a knapsack with his fishing paraphernalia.

“I’ll be back before sundown with our supper.” He waved a hand, seemingly as content and happy as usual. “That man hasn’t died yet. Your healer friend has him tucked up in my bed.”

Bixby frowned. She hadn’t thought about where they would put the soldier if he made it this far. Trout’s bed was a frame hung by its corners from the roof beams. An odd mattress of thick homespun material stuffed with longstem grass swayed back and forth like a stiff hammock. Any pressure set
the contraption in motion. She’d found it a fun place to sit, but she doubted it was a practical place to nurse a wounded man.

They rode up to the cabin’s porch and slid off the horses. Bridger lifted his head, briefly interrupting his nap under a spreading nester tree. Bixby figured he was still suffering from the cold and needed to rest after his flight. She’d talk to the healer about it. They should be able to do something. Jesha lay curled in a basket on the porch, and the slight raise of her brow as Bixby passed seemed to suggest the cat agreed.

Dukmee came out to greet them. “He’s unconscious,” the healer reported. He eyed their mounts. “We’re grateful to have had such fine rides. Neekoh, would you be willing to give them a good rubdown?”

Neekoh stood straighter. “Certainly.”

Cantor looked puzzled. “Do you know what it means to rub down a horse?”

“I figure you rub them.” The young man shrugged. “That shouldn’t be too hard.”

Cantor laughed. “I’ll show you.” He strolled over to a place where the grass grew tall. The horses followed, whinnying as if carrying on a cheerful conversation. Cantor took out his knife, grabbed a bunch of stiff green stems, and cut off a handful. “This is what we’ll rub them with.”

Bixby took her eyes off the two men and stared into the dark cabin. “Is there anything I can do?”

Dukmee put his hand on her shoulder and urged her toward the door. “Let’s make him comfortable.”

Bixby had worked with Dukmee enough to recognize his proposed treatment. The herbs he took from a pouch and crushed into powder form would put the guard into a deep sleep. With the first application of pestle to mortar, the strong
fragrance of wide-leafed pomerune burst into the cabin’s air. Just breathing the scent calmed Bixby’s agitation. Dukmee added ersal and cremusm, and the fresh scent of summer days in open fields filled the room.

Bixby turned her mind to what she could do. At present, the man stirred and mumbled. Obviously, Dukmee had been washing the sweat and grime off the patient before she arrived. She took a bowl of cool water to the bedside, knelt, and crooned a soothing tune as she dabbed a damp cloth on his face. His red complexion cooled and paled. He mumbled more and thrashed less.

Dukmee soon came to stand beside her with a paste of herbs. She put down the bowl to help steady the man so the healer could open his mouth and put the concoction under his tongue. Dukmee was quick. He stood back, watching to make sure the guard did not push the medicine out.

Satisfied, he wiped his hands on a towel. “I’m always grateful any time I administer that compound and don’t get my fingers snapped off.”

Bixby smiled up at him. She started to get up.

“No, stay where you are. I want you to use your gifts to determine what’s happening inside the poor man’s body.”

“You mean we can help?”

Dukmee shook his head. “No, but while he’s in this deep sleep, you can make some adjustments so that when he awakens, he’ll be more comfortable. Also, I want you to become more familiar with the techniques I’ve been teaching you.”

Bixby paused, her gaze on the silent man. “You want me to practice. That doesn’t seem right.”

Dukmee made an impatient sound in his throat. “Yes, Bixby. You must practice. It will not hurt him. Your gift will
relieve him of some stress. Next time your healing hands are needed, you will perform with more confidence. You help him a little. He helps you and the next patient a lot.”

Bixby pulled in a deep breath, but she couldn’t make herself lay her hands on the guard.

“Start at his head, Bixby.”

She expelled the pent-up air and cupped her hands over the guard’s crown of curly brown hair. Dirt clung to the dark, matted locks. She urged her awareness to sink deeper, past the unwashed hair, past the scalp crusted with dried blood, and through the thick bone of his skull. The rhythm of thoughts pulsed through her fingertips. The medicine had eased his tormented mind. He appreciated the slight swaying of the hanging bed. It reminded him of visits to a loving aunt. The images of a hammock soothed and comforted him. For the moment, he was at peace.

Bixby smiled at her erroneous assumption that Trout’s awkward mattress would be a poor place to put the wounded guard. The pleasant thought skittered away as she recalled her purpose.

She moved her hands to his forehead, his eyes, his nose, and his mouth. Gently probing for distress, she found that he breathed with effort. But the problem was not in his airways above the neck. With her hands on his chest, she located two broken ribs.

“His right lung is punctured.”

Dukmee nodded. “What would we do if we were going to save him?”

“Pull the rib back into position. Strap his chest to keep it immobile.”

“Reposition the two ribs to alleviate the pressure.”

Carefully minding her energy flow, Bixby coaxed the broken bones back in place. If the patient moved more than a trifle, they would slip again. If they kept him sedated, he probably would not reinjure himself there.

“Continue,” Dukmee said.

As she moved her palms along the guard’s sides, she came to the injury that would kill him. Even if this had been the only wound, they could not have helped. This massive bleeding around his kidney and across his lower abdomen could not be dealt with in a cabin high in the mountains.

“Don’t linger on this, Bixby. There are numerous flesh wounds on his arms and legs. You can squelch the bleeding and apply soothing balms so that he won’t be tormented by pain when he comes to.”

She nodded, unable to voice the despair she felt. She let go of the tiny hope that something her hands could do, some medicine they could produce from their stores, or a fluke of nature would suddenly heal this man. She busied herself with cleaning, medicating, and binding his many slashes and gouges, wondering, as she did, if the guard had family and friends to miss him.

WARNING

C
antor didn’t go into the cabin until the next morning. They’d cooked dinner and eaten outside the night before. Trout’s one room had been crowded with the patient in bed and Bixby and Dukmee on thick floor pallets. And for some reason, Jesha had abandoned Bridger and insisted on keeping watch inside all night.

Bixby and Dukmee were up and seeing to the comfort of their patient. Cantor stepped through the door and allowed his eyes to adjust to the dim light. Jesha perched at the foot of the bed.

He smiled at Bixby. “Neekoh and Trout have been fishing.”

Bixby groaned. “Let me guess. We’re having fried fish for breakfast.”

“Right, but he said there was some cornmeal in here, and I thought I’d make some corncakes.”

“That’s a wonderful idea. We’ve had fish at every meal since we met Trout.”

Dukmee looked up from the mixture in his mortar. “He did tell us that he liked to fish.”

They all chuckled, and the man in the bed cleared his throat. “Who is that old man?” His voice was stronger than the night before, and he didn’t gasp between every few words.

Jesha now sat on the bed at the guard’s waist. He had one hand resting against her back. The cat lifted her head to look over the humans in the room. She must not have seen anything of interest, because she closed her eyes and ignored them.

Bixby hurried to her patient’s side. “You’re awake. Let me give you a drink.”

“There was one brew you gave me last night that tasted like it’d been dipped from a frog pond. The other one was all right.”

Bixby wrinkled her nose. “I’m afraid it’s the frog pond for now. It eases your pain and allows you to think clearly.”

And in just a minute I’m going to ask you all sorts of questions,
starting with your name.