On the Wings of the Storm

Chapter 16

Very soon a slow trickle of wounded started coming back to the caves. Aethelstan had recruited some of the boys too young to fight to act as stretcher bearers, and I had spotted them earlier on, all excited at being given real helmets and thick leather jerkins to protect them. They had laughed and chatted amongst each other at the prospect of an adventure. Now they came back white-faced and silent from what they had seen, but they gritted their teeth and continued with their duty.

We had no need to ask how the battle fared, the bodies of our patients showed all. At first it was lacerations from horrible barbed black arrows, which proved very difficult to extract. Master Aethelstan had left me a special tool to minimize the damage to the already torn flesh, but it was a delicate procedure. First I had to pull the edges of the wound apart, then insert the long metal instrument shaped like two spoons facing each other, which I slipped around the barbs in order to be able to extract them. A painful operation, best performed on an unconscious man. Even so, many of those we treated insisted on going straight back, once we had dressed their wounds.

"I can still fight with my other arm," said a grizzled old warrior after I had bandaged his shoulder.

Normally I would have told him not to be a fool and to lie back down that instant, but we needed every man tonight. So with a lump in my throat, I nodded and sent him back to face our foes. Soon afterwards the injuries changed to sword cuts and blows from battle-axes: the enemy had gained the wall.

It was like that night in Aldburg, only a hundred times worse. I lost track of time as I went from one man to the next, binding wounds, stitching up cuts and dispensing poppy syrup mixed with wine to those hurt the worst. Yet how little help I could offer! Very often all that remained to do was to hold the injured warrior's hand to ease his passing. The nauseating smell of fresh blood filled my nose, along with urine and voided bowels, although we tried to give the men what dignity we could, changing their soiled linens and washing their faces. My mind went numb after a while – it was that or to break down crying and retching in a corner. I had to cope, so I pushed the horror away and locked it up tight, promising myself to deal with it later. If there was a later.

What made it worse was that many of the men carried in I knew, either from my time in Edoras or because they served Erkenbrand. Odda, one of the king's doorwardens, had always had a cheerful greeting for me. Now he lay unconscious on a straw pallet with his arm maimed to a bloody stump. It would probably need to be amputated, but that was beyond my skill. Groans and cries echoed back from the lofty ceiling, until I wanted to run away screaming and curl into a tight ball somewhere and shut out the world. How much longer could this go on? And always in the back of my mind, there lurked the fear of seeing Éomer carried in, badly hurt or... I pushed that thought away. It must not happen! But the men told me about the course of the battle while I tended to them, and they all said the same thing: the Marshal was wherever the fighting raged fiercest.

Hands trembling, I bent over another man to check his injury and winced. The whole right side of his chest had been crushed by some mighty blow, probably from a mace. If the splintered ribs had punctured his lungs, as seemed likely, there was nothing I could do.

"My lady," he whispered.

I looked up to his face. It was familiar, but it took my tired mind a moment to come up with a name. Wulfstan. I recoiled. The last time I had seen him was when he had escorted me to King Théoden's room, where Gríma had awaited me.

"You!"

He lifted an arm, then let if fall to the ground in exhaustion. "Hurts so much."

Not wanting anything to do with him, I started to get up. But then I hesitated. He had fought for us, the same as the other warriors, and he deserved my help. Slipping an arm underneath his head, I lifted it up and raised a cup of wine laced with poppy juice to his lips.