Threading the Needle (5 page)

The leader—a tall man with broad shoulders and a regal bearing, hints of Temerite in his face—turned away. His gaze swept the area, passing over Allan's position without pause, fastening on the men holding the skittish horses being hitched to the four wagons. “Where are Ghent and Harrison? Haven't they returned with the horses that bolted yet?”

Someone answered, but Kent tugged on Allan's shirt. The Dog pointed to a few of the bodies, then jerked his head toward the edges of the wash.

It took a moment for Allan to realize that the men had been killed by archers. None of the men below dealing with the supplies and horses had bows.

Which meant the archers were likely still watching from the darkness above the wash.

He passed the word on to Adder. They'd been lucky not to run into them on their approach. The smoke must have obscured them in the darkness, along with the grasses as they edged up to the knoll.

Adder gave him a questioning look, tilting his head toward the
darkness behind them, but Allan shook his head. He didn't want to risk exposing their position by retreating now that he knew there were others behind them.

Below, one of the men shouted, “It's empty,” and climbed down from a wagon.

“Torch it.”

Three men stepped forward with firebrands, one of them tossing a glass object inside with enough force Allan heard it shatter on impact. The others threw in their brands, and flame gushed out of the door with a feral whoosh, the men ducking as they backed away.

Allan focused on the leader, watching his movements. The Temerite lord stayed back from the main activity, but shifted from position to position, completely in control. The men were efficient, methodical, speaking to each other in curt sentences. No one laughed or joked. The leader rarely spoke. Everyone already knew what they were supposed to do.

The sixth wagon was finally emptied, the man inside hopping out mere moments before it was torched like the other. The leader began shouting orders, the others picking up the pace as the last of the supplies were loaded into the remaining wagons. Allan felt Kent tense as the men below regrouped. Two of the wagons began to trundle out of the wash, heading northeast. The men who'd been loading it drifted to surround the captives, glances passing among those with swords already drawn.

Allan placed a hand on Kent's shoulder and the man's eyes narrowed. Allan shook his head. Kent tried to pull away, but Allan clamped down hard, shoving him flat against the grass, leaning in close when he began to struggle.

“There's too many of them. We'd only get ourselves killed.”

“Like hells,” Kent spat. Allan shot a glance at the wash to see if anyone had heard, then tightened his grip until pain lanced across Kent's face.

“Do you want them to find our own camp?” Adder snapped from Allan's other side. “Or the Hollow?”

Kent fought a moment more, then relented. “They don't have a chance.”

Allan loosened his grip, fingers aching. “They were all dead as soon as this group found them.”

Below, someone barked a command and slapped their hand to the back of the last wagon. It began pulling away, after a shove from three of the men when one wheel stuck in the sandy bottom.

As soon as it began to move, the leader raised a hand and gave a curt signal.

Arrows shot out of the darkness from six different locations, each finding a mark among the captives. Four fell without a sound, including both children, arrows protruding from chests, a neck, an eye. Two others screamed, clutching at an arm, a stomach, but before the rest of the captives could react, more arrows found marks. The few survivors leaped up, men roaring, women screaming, and the men that circled them closed in. It was a slaughter, over in seconds.

The leader watched in silence. As soon as the last body slumped to the ground, the woman clawing at her attacker's arm even as she fell, he ordered, “Back to Haven.”

The men stepped away from the slew of bodies, heading toward the edge of the wash. Conversations broke out, a few bursting out in laughter as they scrambled up the cut's far slope. Allan tasted bile in the back of his throat.

“What about Ghent and Harrison?” someone asked.

The leader scanned the darkness. “They'll find us on our way.”

Allan, Adder, and Kent hunkered down even further as the six archers leaped down to join their fellows. Within moments, the wash was clear, only the dead and the six burning wagons left behind. The crackle of the flames eating away at the wood was loud in Allan's ears. To one side, he heard Adder dry retching.

“Should we leave now?” Kent jerked out from beneath Allan's hand. “I think the slaughter is over.”

“Not yet. We don't know whether they've all left.”

“They're gone.”

All three of them lurched to a seated position, Allan managing to draw his blade and point it toward the figure standing over them, but an arrow was trained at his head.

“It's Cutter.”

Kent swore as Cutter lowered his bow to the ground. The tracker scanned the darkness, eyes settling on the dead. “They've all headed northeast.”

“Even the two after the horses?”

Cutter nodded, and Allan rose into a crouch. “Then let's get back to camp. Cutter, follow them discreetly, find out where they're headed.”

Cutter pulled a string of dangling hares attached to his belt and handed them over to Allan. “I'll be back before you break camp.” Then he vanished into the darkness.

“What about the dead?” Adder asked, staring down into the wash.

“We don't have time to bury them.”

“We can at least pray for them.”

“Pray as we walk.”

M
O
RRELL FINISHED LABELING
the last of the medicine bottles and placed them back in the wooden cabinet inside the healer's cottage. The wooden door creaked as she closed it and slid the string over the knob to keep it secured. She turned to brush the small cutting board free of the dusty remnants of crumbled wormroot, but a moan interrupted her.

She sucked in a harsh breath of fear, then remembered that she wasn't alone in the cottage. Claye was still here.

She rounded the central table where Logan had cut the arrow free of Claye's side and entered the small side room where the Dog rested on a plain cot, a blanket thrown over him. He'd been unconscious and feverish since the day he'd been rushed into the cabin. She knelt down next to the cot and placed a hand against Claye's flushed forehead. He tried to flinch away, one hand flapping weakly against the blanket.

“Stop it.”

“What—?” His bloodshot and grit-crusted eyes caught hers briefly, registering confusion but no recognition, then flicked away, taking in the room. His breath was a phlegmy rasp, rattling deep in his chest. His skin was hot to the touch.

Morrell pulled her hand away and frowned. “You're in Logan's cottage. You were attacked, shot with an arrow. Remember?”

Edges of panic lined his face. “Logan? Attacked?”

“You were returning from Erenthrall with the wagon. Bandits tried to take it.”

He sucked in a breath and held it, but then something clicked and
he sank back into the cot. “Yes. Yes, I remember. They killed Terrim.” He broke into a fit of coughing.

Morrell reached for the damp cloth in a small basin of water to one side, used it to remove the gunk from around his eyes. “You were hit, in the side.”

He scrabbled at her arm. “Bryce? The others?”

“Everyone else is fine.”

His eyes fluttered closed in relief.

She continued to wash his face, then set the cloth aside. Raising one of his arms—it felt strangely weightless, as if it were hollow—she pulled back the blanket to check the bandages wrapped around his chest. Fresh blood stained them in three places; his activity had reopened the wounds. But it was the putrid smell that bothered her.

“How bad is it?” Claye asked, startling her. She'd thought he'd slipped back into unconsciousness.

“It's festering. Logan's done all he can.”

His head sank back to the cot. A moment later, he chuckled. “Killed by infection. How stupid.”

Morrell pulled the blanket back further, then rose.

Claye had enough strength to catch her wrist. “Where are you going?”

She pulled his hand free. “I'm going to send for Logan. And I'm going to change your bandages. I'll be back.”

She slipped into the outer room, then out the front door into bright sunlight. She squinted, catching sight of Jasom running across the rutted street in the direction of the barns.

“Jasom, come here!”

Normally, Jasom wouldn't pay her any attention, but the harshness in her voice halted him in his tracks.

“What is it? I'm busy.”

“I'll bet. Claye's conscious. Fetch healer Logan. He'll want to take a look at him.”

Jasom's eyes widened. “I think he's in the fields. I'll bring him right back!”

Morrell ducked back inside the cottage, moving swiftly. She set a pot of water over the coals banked in the small fireplace, then gathered up fresh bandages. She pulled the water from the coals, tested it, then moved into Claye's room, dragging a stool closer to his cot with one foot. Claye watched her warily.

“Should you be doing this without Logan here? I know you've been working with him, but—”

“I'm almost thirteen, and I've been changing your bandages for the past few days.”

“Oh.”

She squashed the pang of guilt about not mentioning that she'd never been
alone
while doing it and settled herself onto the stool. Claye swallowed once and stared at the ceiling.

When she pulled back the wrap, the smell of putrescence nearly made her gag. Claye moaned as the cloth stuck, then gave. The wound beneath oozed sickly yellow-green pus, the skin at the edges inflamed. Morrell leaned in closer, a curious detachment falling over her. She reached forward and pressed her fingers gently to either side of the wound just beneath his rib cage. Pus erupted from the hole, draining down the Dog's side and staining the bandage beneath. Claye's hands gripped the edges of the cot as he tried not to thrash about, but Morrell only increased the pressure, her fingers moving around the inflamed area, kneading the flesh, working as much of the pus out as she could. Claye writhed, his body instinctively pulling away. Another moan escaped him.

“Hush. I need to clean it out as much as possible.”

The pus began to streak with blood, but she didn't stop. As her fingers moved around the wound, she found she could
feel
the infection, like flecks of darkness inside the flesh. Her fingertips prickled as she worked, as if they were being pricked by a thousand pins, the sensation not unpleasant. The infection had striated into the surrounding skin, lines of red obvious on the surface, but she could feel it seeping deeper inside Claye's body as well. A pocket of virulence here. A thread of invasion there. It was working its way into his bloodstream, through the tissues around his stomach. It was killing him.

It was too deep. Logan would never be able to cut it out. But she could feel it. It was
right there
. If only she could reach in and pull it out herself, drag it from his body, now, before it reached something vital.

Her fingertips flared, the prickling sensation suddenly intense, burning like fire. She gasped and jerked backward. A shiver of vivid colors enveloped Claye's wound.

“What is it? What happened?”

Morrell's mouth was dry, her tongue stuck to its roof. She stared at her hands. “Nothing. Nothing happened.”

“I felt something. Like a tug.”

“I didn't do anything.”

Claye met her gaze, his skin beaded with sweat. Then his eyes dropped to his side. “Well, whatever you did, it doesn't hurt as much now.” He collapsed back onto the cot. “Don't get me wrong, it still hurts like a son of a bitch, but it isn't throbbing like it was before.”

Morrell didn't answer, leaning forward over the wound again. She placed her fingers next to the gaping hole. More pus had drained out into the used bandage beneath, but the yellow-green was now a brownish sludge. No new pus appeared as she prodded the edges of the wound, but it did bleed. The flow was sluggish. Claye didn't flinch away as much as before, and even Morrell could tell that the skin around the wound wasn't as inflamed.

She prodded the wound more, the prickling sensation returning to her fingertips, but she couldn't feel the infection anymore.

“Morrell?”

She jerked, the stool rocking beneath her. “In here!” She fumbled for a cloth, dipped it in the warm water, and began wringing the cloth out over the wound, washing as much of the blood away as she could. The familiar motions of washing the wound in preparation for a new bandage did little to calm her.

When Logan's shadow fell over her, she tried to lurch to her feet, but he put a hand on her shoulder. “Keep working. You're doing fine.” He reached to touch Claye's forehead. “Fever's down. Good to see you're awake, Claye. I was beginning to think you'd never return to us. How are you feeling?”

“Like hell. But better now than when I first woke up.”

Logan twisted so he could see the exposed wound, Morrell pulling the wet cloth back.

The healer's grim expression collapsed into confusion and Morrell's heart sank. “What did you do?” He shoved Morrell aside.

“N—nothing. I removed the bandage. Then worked as much of the pus out as possible. More came out than I expected, and it wasn't all yellow-green. It was brown at the end. And then it started bleeding.”

Logan was pressing against the edges of the wound, persistent, making small noises beneath his breath.

Finally he sat back, hands dropping to his thighs, his gaze lingering on the wound before flicking toward Claye's face, then Morrell's.

“I don't know how it happened, but the infection is gone.”

“That's good, isn't it?” Claye asked.

Logan was staring at Morrell. “Yes. Yes, it is good. I didn't think the poultices and salves I was using were working, but apparently I was wrong.”

The statement hung in the air. Morrell returned his penetrating look with what she hoped was a wide-eyed, innocent expression.

More blood trickled down Claye's side, pooling on the already pus- and blood-stained bandage beneath. Logan reached for one of the new bandages Morrell had brought, using it to clean up, suddenly all business.

“I think I can safely close the wound now. Morrell, fetch me my needle and some thread. Sterilize the needle. I don't want the infection to return.”

Morrell leaped up from her stool, Logan taking her place. She rushed into the outer room, grabbed a needle and thread, then held the needle in a candle flame. When she ducked back into the room, Logan had already prepped Claye's side. The healer took the needle and thread and began working, Claye hissing each time Logan passed the needle through flesh.

“Find Sophia, Morrell. She'll want an update.”

Morrell backed out of the room. She hesitated in the doorway until Claye yelped and cursed, Logan apologizing without pausing. Then she turned and fled.

The sunlight blinded her again as she raced across the street, between the buildings of the Hollow, and down to the creek. She fell to her knees in the mud along the bank and dunked her hands into the frigid water, scrubbing away what little pus and blood remained. Then she continued scrubbing, until her hands were raw. Her breath quickened as she thought about the prickling sensation in her fingers, about the shimmer of light she'd seen after she'd withdrawn her hands from the wound. She'd seen the vivid colors before. They reminded her of the terrifying auroral lights that had plagued Erenthrall and the surrounding plains since the Shattering.

She clutched her hands to her chest, hunched forward over them. When a hand fell onto her shoulder she screamed and slipped on the slick stones of the creek's bank, half tumbling into the frigid water.

“Morrell, it's me! Cory!”

Morrell scrambled backward on the bank a few more steps before
the words registered, then blinked up into the sunlight until she picked out Cory. He had his hands spread out toward her, as if trying to placate a spooked animal.

“Are you all right?”

“I'm fine.”

He straightened slightly, hands lowering. “You should probably get out of the water then. You'll catch a chill.”

She realized she was leaning on her elbow, left arm submerged, side soaked. Her arm was already numb.

She rolled out of the water, Cory helping her up onto the bank again.

“A few scrapes, but nothing serious,” Cory muttered, checking out her arm. He paused when he realized her hands had been scrubbed raw.

“I'm fine.”

“It doesn't look like it.”

“I'm fine. It's just . . .” She waved her hand, tears threatening.

Cory glanced away. “I've been struggling, too. I'm worried. For all of them.” He turned back. “But I know Kara's with your father, and he'll keep her safe. That's the only thing keeping me together. He'll bring her back. And he
will
come back, Morrell. He always has before.”

She stared at him, realizing he thought she was upset over her father heading to Erenthrall. She seized on his assumption. “I know he'll be back. It just gets overwhelming sometimes. I was helping with Claye and—” Her eyes shot open in shock. “Claye! I was supposed to be fetching Sophia!”

She turned and charged up the bank, through the trees and into the Hollow. Cory called after her, but she ignored him. She didn't even know how long it had been since she'd left.

She was hustling past Logan's cottage when she heard Sophia's voice coming from inside. But then Logan spoke and she froze just outside the open door.

“I think it was Morrell.”

“What do you mean? How could it have been Morrell?”

“I don't know. She claimed she was only cleaning the wound, draining the pus. But I checked the wound this morning and it was deeply infected. I don't see how it could have reversed course so quickly. Morrell
must
have done something.”

“What are you suggesting?”

Morrell shifted closer to the doorway.

“I think Morrell healed him somehow.”

Morrell's chest suddenly felt hollow and empty. What would the Hollowers think of her now? They abhorred the ley and anything associated with it. And it had to be something to do with the ley. She'd seen the shimmering auroral lights.

She slid along the cottage wall to the corner, then broke for the trees behind, passing through Logan's precious herb garden. She brushed up against one of the plants, the pungent scent of spearmint following her.

Then she was in the trees, crashing through the underbrush. She didn't know where she was going, but she knew she had to get away, to escape, to
think
.