Before the Sky Fell

[ 8 ] Seras

-8-

Seras

Thick barricades of pines gave way to smaller shrubs and sparse foliage as the survivors rode out of the tree line. Marg had been fearful of what they might find when they emerged from the forest. Instead of a scorched ground littered with bodies, he looked out over a small village. Food, fire, warmth, he recounted, spotting a trail of smoke drifting above a hovel.

Frankford Millstone led them through the village, past alleyways where rats scurried through holes in the wood, across a bridge that stood over a murky pond, and to an opening, where buildings surrounded a courtyard.

"You should take the wounded there," he told Marg, pointing to a stone structure with a tattered green flag hanging above its door. "It's the infirmary. I'll gather my things and meet you there. You should be quick about it. I don't know what illnesses those wolves had, but only time will tell. I'll be there shortly."

Marg nodded and grabbed his horse's lead. Adriana sat on top of it, cradling her bitten arm in her other hand. The infirmary was a mess of cots with dirty linens, buckets of cloudy water, and more stains than Marg could count.

Adriana lay in one cot with her sisters by her side. "Will she live?" one of them asked Charlotte.

"It's just a bite," Charlotte told them. "She'll live. If it gets infected, we'll have bigger problems. Jasper will tend to her wounds. You should redress it twice a day and put this ointment on before each new bandage." Charlotte handed Jasper a yellow jar. "I must tend to the others."

Marg followed her to the next cot, where Solloman Rothsby cried out in pain. He had a gash in his neck, teeth marks visible in flesh. His son knelt by his side, holding onto his father's hand through white knuckles. "Is he going to live?" his son asked. Sweat dripped from his father's forehead.

"He'll live," Charlotte said, but the look she gave Marg told him otherwise. Who can be sure of life or death? Marg though, watching Charlotte's dedication as she examined the wound and .

Charlotte walked to a cabinet against the wall, picked up containers, read their names, then put them in her bag. She placed them on a table next to the man's cot, then pulled Marg to the side. "He's the worst I've seen. We have to clean his wound, then close it. We shouldn't let the others see."

Marg looked at her, but couldn't help his eyes from wandering back to the man's neck. The gash was deep, exposing white tendons. "What do you need?"

"I'll need fire. As hot as you can get it. And an iron poker. It's the only way I know how to close a wound like this." Charlotte was interrupted by the man's ear-piercing howls. "Even then, he may not make it."

"I'll do it," Marg said.

"No. I need you to find Frankford Millstone. He said he had ointments, potions. This won't do. You should send someone else." Charlotte reached into the bag and took out each jar one by one. "Honey, vinegar, wine? This won't dress a wound no more than it will keep them from starving."

Where is the old man? Marg took one last look at the wounded, four of them laying on cots, crying like newborn infants. "I'll find him."

Marg ran from the infirmary. The sun began to set behind the stockades. In the courtyard, men threw logs on fires. "Sir Allsmoth," Marg said, running up to the knight, "I need you to find iron. A poker will do, a sword if nothing else. Heat it until it's scorching hot, then take it to Charlotte, in the infirmary. At once. Have someone else load coals into a steel bucket and bring that to her as well. A man may die if you don't make haste."