Paladin's Prize (Age of Heroes, Book 1) (2 page)

Silvertwig fluttered her wings with all her might, helping Wrynne to budge his inert body upward on one side to get him onto the stretcher.

Unconscious, the heavy, powerful knight lay like a dead weight. Wrynne winced as the slight motion made the blood seep faster from around the arrow sticking out of his side.

Meanwhile, half a dozen of Silvertwig’s tiny fey kinfolk had come flying out of the forest and gathered around to see what was happening. Even the fairies had been frightened of the Urmugoths, but now that they were dead, the curious little pranksters came out to gawk.

They twinkled like fireflies, hovering around the Golden Knight. Wrynne did not chase them off. Their colorful glow would help provide light for her next task.

Once she got Sir Thaydor onto the stretcher and ready to be evacuated to safety, it was time to assess his condition more fully.

Bracing herself, she took hold of his helmet. She could already see blood on the visor and a dent on the crown. If this was as bad as it looked, he might already be dead in there, but he did have divine protection, so…

“Shh,” she whispered in surprise when he stirred a little, his metal-gauntleted hand reaching slowly but automatically for his dagger. “It’s all right, Sir Thaydor. I’ve come to help you.”

He groaned and dropped his hand back into the mud.

Carefully, Wrynne removed his helmet. Then she stared at him, ignoring the chiseled male beauty of his face in shock at the severity of his head wound.

Silvertwig sobbed and turned away.

He’d taken a chop from a poleaxe to the skull. It must have been a glancing blow, or it would have taken a chunk of his head clean off. Instead, he was left with a gaping skull fracture.

Wrynne took one look and felt slightly queasy. Oh, she could heal it, but it would take everything she had, and then what about the rest of him?

As her gaze moved over the fallen knight’s imposing form, she felt her throat close when she saw the condition of his breastplate. The left side bore the dents of at least two full-force blows he had taken to the chest, possibly from a mace. Perhaps the blood running into his eyes from the head wound had blinded him before he could block them.

She let out a trembling exhalation.
This is so much worse than I thought.
Broken ribs and a collapsed lung would be the least of his worries. It was not just the blunt, shattering force of such massive blows themselves, but being encased in metal that made these types of injuries so devastating.

A great resounding blow on plate armor reechoed through the body with concussive force strong enough to rupture organs. Thus, if the head wound didn’t kill him, the body blows would.

Sick with fear, she debated how to use her limited skills. She could choose one major wound or the other to heal immediately—the head wound probably being the more dire—but, unfortunately, then she would be spent, her magic depleted with nothing left to give him for at least an hour.

An hour Sir Thaydor didn’t have.

That didn’t even begin to address his lesser wounds, all of which were awful, starting with the arrow. The man was a mess.

Inspecting him, she also found his left leg broken below the knee, probably from a hideous side blow from a war hammer. Black streaks charred his left gauntlet and the vambrace protecting his forearm, where one of the Urmugoths must have clubbed him with a torch.

Wrynne found herself feeling slightly dizzy. Glancing up at the stars, she took a breath to steady herself.
Oh, Ilios, I fear you’ve picked the wrong healer.

She had never dealt with such grievous battle wounds before. In her two-year tenure as local healer in this quarter of the province, she had stitched up many limbs from accidents with wagons and farming implements, made gallons of medicine, delivered dozens of babies, lanced boils, pulled teeth, performed a couple of sickening amputations, and even cured ten cases of the plague.

But nothing like this.

“He’s a dead man,” Silvertwig opined in the peculiar, chiming language of her people, like the jingle of tiny bells.

“No,” Wrynne whispered, straightening her spine. “Not yet. Not if I can help it.”

There was still
one
way to save him…

Heal all his wounds at once in a single, massive discharge of the most sacred and powerful magic she had ever learned at the Bastion.

But it would require a sacrifice on her part that she had not realized she’d be called upon to make this night.

The
Kiss of Life
was based on empath magic and was such a potent spell that a healer could only work it once in a lifetime. It was said to forge a deep bond of some sort between the two people involved, whether they liked it or not, and of course, there was always a price to pay when using magic.

It would leave her gift for healing others fully intact, but if memory served, it would strip her of her magical ability to heal
herself
quickly whenever she was sick or injured.

If she did this, she’d be vulnerable in the world in a way she had never been before. It was a frightening prospect.

Knowing she could cure herself at any time had ensured she never stopped to think twice about going in to help a fever-ridden village, for example. After this, she’d still have to go, only now, she might catch it like everybody else and there’d be no one to heal
her
. For a fleeting moment, she wrestled with herself—with a twinge of selfishness.

Maybe there was some other way. And what if he was already too far gone for even the mighty
Kiss of Life
to work? She’d end up sacrificing her self-healing power for no reason. That was hardly worth it.

“Sir Thaydor?” She touched his lips and still felt weak puffs of breath rising up to warm her hand. His skin was clammy but not yet cold unto death as she laid her hand on his cheek.

He startled her just then by opening his eyes.

Stark, brilliant blue eyes stared out at her from his blood- and grime- and sweat-streaked face. Eyes glazed with suffering, but keenly intelligent and aware.

Sanctus solis,
what strength was in this man? she wondered. What tolerance for pain, that he could be the least bit conscious in his condition without screaming?

“I’m here,” she said softly, taking his heavy steel hand. “You’re not alone. Ilios sent me.”

He was shaking as his agonized gaze took in the light-gray sackcloth of her simple pilgrim’s gown and the pewter necklace of her order—a choker of delicate, coiled chain mail links, with a Celtic rose knot at her throat and a small sun pendant dangling down from it to her chest.

He stared gratefully at it, visibly comforted by the familiar holy symbols, and let her take his hand. “Sister,” he forced out.

It was difficult to find her voice. “You’ve done well, my brother.” Gently, she removed his right gauntlet and took his hand between her own, skin to skin. The healing was so much more powerful that way.

She knew in that moment that she would do anything to save his life.

The price was high, but how could she deny him? Sir Thaydor hadn’t stopped to count the cost when he had thrown himself between the people and their enemies. Nor would she. “I know you’re in massive pain right now, but I am going to help you.”

He tried to shake his head. “No. Let me die.”

“Thaydor,” she chided softly. “We need you.”

“Please,” he rasped, staring at her in confusion, obviously concussed. “I can see Elysium… The portal’s open. Can’t you see it? Let me go.”

“No. Stay with me.” She ached for his suffering and placed her hand against his cheek. “Thaydor, listen to me. You’ve taken a bit of a knock to the head—”

He laughed, barely audible, at that.

“But I am going to fix it,” she insisted, falling quite irrevocably in love with him from that very moment, she suspected.

For, honestly, how could the man laugh at a time like this, with his skull cleaved open and his brain peeking out?

Divine madman. Holy warrior. Crusader.

She shook her head at him with a chiding smile, then took the canteen out of her satchel and poured a small drip of water into his mouth. He welcomed it with parted lips. She wetted a bandage from her bag next and tenderly wiped the blood out of his eyes.

“There, now. Be as brave as you always are for just a little longer. In a moment, the pain will be gone and you’ll sleep for a couple of days. I will take you to safety and attend you till you wake. No harm will befall you in my care, you have my word. Now, close your eyes, son of Light.”

He either obeyed or simply passed out again. Probably the latter.

There was no time to lose. What she knew about using the
Kiss of Life
spell—what
she
would have to go through to take his wounds from him—frightened her, but she ignored her misgivings. Who could be more worthy of the gift than he?

Besides, this was obviously the whole point of why Ilios had led her to settle out here in the middle of nowhere in the first place, much to the vexation of her fashionable mother. Lately, Wrynne had started wondering herself what she was doing here, living like a hermit on some mountaintop.

Well, now she knew. Knew beyond all doubt.

Ilios had put her in place two years ago, lining up everything just right, making sure there’d be someone on hand who’d obey him when the time came to save his paladin.

She swallowed hard. This was a great honor…and a huge responsibility. With a sense of destiny sending chills down her spine, Wrynne vowed she would not fail.

But she couldn’t do it alone. She’d need a little help from the only assistants on hand: the fairies.

This was not a terribly encouraging prospect. They were not known as the most dependable of folk. Of course, she knew she could rely on Silvertwig. She just hoped the other little tricksters would cooperate, because once she worked the
Kiss of Life
spell, she would be incapacitated for twelve to twenty-four hours.

Fortunately, the Aladdin stretcher made patients heavier than Thaydor light enough that even a child could maneuver it, simply using the golden hand-loops to guide it as it floated over the ground.

She glanced up at the cloud of small, winged onlookers. “Everybody, could I please have your attention? I need a favor. Sundew, Treegriddle, Plumbeam. You too, Mooncurl. Everybody listen. If you’ll do what I ask, I’ll make you a whole mound of saffron cakes tomorrow.”

This got their full attention. They started cheering, zooming closer in excitement.

“Saffron cakes!”

“With honey?”

“Of course with honey,” she said. “As much as you want.”

“Hooray for saffron cakes!”

“I’m hungry!” Plumbeam whined.

“We want them now!” Treegriddle demanded.

“No, first you have to help me,” Wrynne said.

“What do you want us to do?” the little lemon-yellow one, Sundew, asked.

“This man is badly hurt. He needs my strongest magic, a very potent spell. It will heal him, but he’ll be out cold and so will I. This is where you come in. I’m putting Silvertwig in charge. Everyone has to listen to her.”

“Aw!”

The others didn’t like that, but Silvertwig preened and flew up higher, hands on her waist as she grinned at her cousins.

“As you can see, we got the knight on the stretcher. Once I do the spell, you’ll all have to work together to float him up the path to my sanctuary. I know you know the way. Be careful with him,” Wrynne said. “Don’t get him caught on anything. And don’t drop him. He’s important. Like a prince. When you get him up the mountain, put him in my bed. All right?”

They nodded and hovered around, wings whirring.

“Now, here’s the important part,” she continued. “After you’ve done all that, don’t forget to come back for me. I’m going to be unconscious, too. And it’s…not safe.”

With an anxious gulp, she glanced around meaningfully at the dead and dying Urmugoths. Some of them still moved every now and then. Still groaned. Still watched her with murderous intent.

She turned back to the fairies with a twinge of desperation. “Please don’t leave me here. Bring the Aladdin stretcher with you when you come back to get me. Shove me onto it and carry me home, just like you did with him. Promise you won’t leave me here…with them.”

Silvertwig patted her reassuringly on the shoulder. “I won’t forget you, Wrynnay.”

“Thanks. Then I might as well get started.” She looked at Sir Thaydor and asked in nervous humor, “You ready?”

He was still unconscious, lingering at death’s door.

Elysium, indeed.
No doubt he’d earned a palace there in the celestial realm, an eternity of peace with no more enemies trying to kill him. Maybe it was wrong to drag him back into this life…

But the world needed such men so badly, especially in these dark times.

She went over the spell in her mind. She had an excellent memory, but she double-checked it in the book, considering she had never expected to use the
Kiss of Life
and would only have one shot to get it right.

Satisfied that she was ready, she cupped the paladin’s cheek while the fairies looked on. He wasn’t awake any longer, but she talked to him anyway. “I’ll see you on the other side of all this, Thaydor.”

I hope.

“I’ll have to take the arrow out first before we begin,” she went on. “It’s probably going to hurt. I am sorry. Don’t worry, though, it will all be over soon.”

Provided this works.

Then she grasped the shaft of the arrow, nervously flicking her fingers around it. He groaned as she pulled it out of his flesh.

“I’m so sorry!” she whispered, while the blood began to pour afresh out of his side. Normally, she’d have a pile of bandages on hand and herbs to slow the bleeding, but this case was anything but normal.