Good Blood

by Billy Ketch Allen

  The water was up to Briton’s chin now, and he held his head up as he waded forward. The dark shapes of leeches moved through the murky green water, but Briton pressed on. He would likely drown himself, but still, Briton pressed on.

  His boot struck something solid underwater. Something that gave way.

  “Ara!” Briton yelled. Before he could think he dropped down under the water, reaching to the bottom of the pool. Briton grabbed at the body until he caught hold of an arm. The arm was slimy with leeches, but Briton held on, throwing it over his shoulder. His back cried out in pain. Exhaling air through gritted teeth, Briton pushed the boy’s body to the surface.

  Briton gasped for breath. He maneuvered Ara’s head out of the water. The body was lifeless in his hands. Ara did not breathe.

  “Ara, please,” Briton cried out. His mouth filling with putrid water as he tried to keep his own head above the surface as well as Ara’s. Black leeches covered Ara’s neck and face; one hung out of his open mouth. “Breathe, Ara. Breathe.” Briton kicked, pulling Ara towards dry ground.

  Horse hooves beat the ground nearby. The riders had heard his cries. It didn’t matter; he had to save Ara. Briton lost his footing, and they collapsed under water. He scrambled back to the surface, choking on the putrid water. Ahead of him, a white horse stood on the water’s edge.

  “Give him to me,” Geyer said, seizing Ara’s limp body. Geyer carried the boy out of the pool and laid him on the ground of dry leaves.

  “Is he alive?” Briton cried, his voice weak as he crawled his way to the boy’s side. Geyer drew his knife and cut leeches from Ara’s body; they were fat with Ara’s blood. The leeches fell away to reveal the boy’s usual pale skin was now a deep blue. “Is he?”

  “He’s not breathing,” Geyer said. He flipped Ara on his side and struck his upper back with the heel of his hand in powerful bursts. Ara’s body flopped lifelessly on the ground.

  Then, dark water shot from the boy’s mouth. He coughed up more, opening his eyes and gasping for breath. Geyer turned him onto his hands and knees and patted his back, gently this time. “It’s okay, Ara. It’s over now.”

  “My blood,” Ara said faintly, his eyes closed as he rocked back and forth. “They took my blood.”

  “Leeches,” Geyer said, kicking away a few that were crawling back towards Ara.

  “That feeling,” Ara said, hugging his knees and shivering. His words fell out in sobs. “Never again. I’ll die before anyone takes my blood again.”

  Geyer grabbed Briton’s hand and pulled him to his feet. Briton didn’t think he could stand but he managed, leaning against a tree and brushing the leeches from his robe.

  “What of the Temple guards?” Geyer asked, scanning the forest.

  “That way,” Briton said. “They went after the horse. They’ll catch him soon if they haven’t already.”

  “Yes, we need to move.”

  “We won’t get far,” Briton groaned, his back locking like a steel trap. “We’ve only the one horse.”

  Geyer looked around, thinking. “They don’t know where you abandoned the horse. We should head back to the road. If we follow the same path, we’ll be harder to track. If we make it to the road, we head to Denfold and try to find help there.”

  “What about the blood hounds?”

  He looked at Ara’s body. Red patches marked his pale skin.

  “We keep him covered and hope he heals in time.”

  Briton nodded. They didn’t have much of a choice.

  “They were Temple guards, not Carmine’s men.”

  Geyer nodded. “I saw. It was the one they called the Blood Knight.”

  “Then it’s the Highfather who hunts for the boy. Who sent the assassins to Carmine Castle.”

  “That’s not all. He’s the one who killed James and Maddie, who butchered my men.”

  “Bale was the assassin? But I thought he died.”

  Geyer’s face darkened. “So did I.”

  Briton thought about the implications. The Highfather of the Faith orchestrating the murder of James Carmine. What would Jonathan do once he found out? Did he have the power to unite the western lords to his side?

  Briton shook his head. He was still thinking like Carmine’s advisor. He had forsaken that duty when he helped the boy escape. Now he was nothing but a fugitive. A traitor.

  Ara’s whimpering had stopped, he fell asleep but was still breathing. Geyer lifted the boy up and carried him to the horse, tying him to the saddle.

  “Ride with him,” Geyer said. “We can’t stay here.”

  Geyer helped Briton onto the horse behind Ara, and they set off at a gentle pace, Geyer walking the horse up the hill. It began to rain.

  “Looks like we have a little luck left,” Geyer said. “The rain will cover our tracks and slow their riding.”

  Briton pulled his wet robes tighter. He had nearly died, and if they didn’t find shelter soon they’d freeze to death. What a sight they made; an old man, a lifeless boy, and a hobbled knight on the run from the largest, most powerful force in the known world.

  Briton might have laughed at their chances if it wouldn’t have hurt so much.

  17

  It was the same story in every miserable town Cambria and the caravan of doctors visited. Superstitious fools putting their hope in ancient magical cures. This time it was in the northwestern town of Denfold. The doctors arrived and set up their tents; they offered medicine and care for next to nothing, knowing what the poor villagers could afford. And still, the sick and injured of the town did not come. They would rather wait in line for hours outside the Curor shop, hoping blood would solve all their problems, from arthritis to the dry crop season. The northern villages shunned actual medicine.

  The three villagers that did venture to their tents that morning suffered the same thing: rashes. The urgency of their burning skin outweighed the stigma of the doctors. Cambria fetched the creams from the tent, and Hannah applied them to the men who reluctantly revealed their skin to the women. Cambria could see the immediate effects of the cooling cream as the men relaxed, the burning itch subsiding. Soon the relief on their faces was replaced with fear.

  “What kind of magic is this?” one of the men asked.

  “No magic sir, a mixture of simple herbs found in the nearby forest,” Hannah said.

  “Witch’s work,” the man said and pulled his pants back up and hurried off with the others without paying, running fast on legs now free of rash.

  “The cowards didn’t even pay,” Cambria grumbled.

  “Petar will take care of it,” Hannah said. “Besides, it’s enough that we helped. They will spread the word, and the town will open up to us.”

  “Why are they so afraid?” Cambria asked. “I picked the elderweed for that cream just outside the village. The fools walk by it every day.”

  “People fear what they don’t understand. Our work is to teach as much as it is to heal.”

  Cambria shook her head as she tightened the lid on the cream and put it back on the shelf. Things were much easier south, where people actually appreciated their services. There, a doctor could make a decent living, even stay in one spot and not have to brave the dangers of the road. But in the north where the Faith ruled, blood was the only thing people believed in.

  “Next time I’ll put some of this elderweed in their drinks and see how they like our witch magic then.”

  “Cambria,” Hannah shot her a disapproving look. “If you know what happens if elderweed is ingested then you know not to joke about it.”

  Cambria knew. It’d been one of the first things her mother had taught her. It had gotten her hooked on medicine in the first place. The same ingredients that could remedy a rash if applied on the epidermis, would cause projectile diarrhea if treated orally.

  “I just thought if we were going to teach these people, it would help to first clear out all the feces they’d been fed.”

  Hannah bit her lip to stifle a laugh and tossed an empty stone
tonic bottle to Cambria. “That’s enough. Go see if Brim needs any help with supplies.”

  Cambria stepped out of the tent into the gloomy late morning air. They had arrived in Denfold by night and slept in their wagons. They set up tents at first light; most of the work was done by Petar, Aaron, and Brim, leaving Cambria and Hannah to organize supplies from the two wagons. Aaron was now off trading supplies in town. Cambria hoped he would get some honey cakes. It had been a long time since the travelers had indulged on something sweet. It made Cambria miss her parents even more.

  Word of their work had indeed traveled fast as a large group now approached their tents. But Cambria’s heart sank at the sight of a red robe. A Curor. Cambria’s hand went to her belt, where her knife was hidden.

  Before she could call a warning, Petar came out of the main tent and met the men with a smile. “Good health, gentlemen. How can we be of service?”

  The Curor stepped forward and looked over their tents and wagons with disgust. “Denfold is a loyal town of the Faith,” the Curor said. “This is no place for the blasphemy of false healers.”

  “Then we are in agreement,” Petar said. “For we are simple doctors offering help to those in need.”

  “Witchcraft, you mean!” a man shouted.

  “No, only science. My companions and I have studied in human anatomy and medicine. We reset broken bones and offer natural medicine to the sick. We know no spells or magic potions.” Petar chuckled at this, but the others didn’t share his sense of humor.

  “I am the town Curor,” the red-robed man said. “Appointed by the Fathers of the Faith to serve these lands with blessed blood from Hemo.”

  “And what of those who cannot afford the price of blood?”

  “Hemo helps all who are deemed worthy. We have no need for the interference of southern medicine.”

  With that, the Curor raised his hands, and the men moved forward, brandishing their crude swords; the largest man held an old axe whose loose head slid when he raised the handle. At the sight of the weapons, Brim came out of the tent, and the men took a step back, seeing the size of him. Petar put a hand to Brim. “We want no trouble,” he called.

  “Then leave now before we cut you and your tents to ribbons,” a man called.

  Cambria inched closer, her hand on her blade. The men’s eyes held on Brim; they weren’t paying her any mind. She studied the closest men, noting the places her small blade could do the most damage.

  “Alright,” Petar sighed. “We respect your wishes.” He nodded to Brim. The large man gave no objection but set to work on dismantling the tents he had just finished setting up. The Curor said something to his men and then swept away back towards town. Three men stayed behind to watch the doctors.

  “That’s it then?” Cambria asked, approaching Petar. “We’re just going to let these barbarians run us off?”

  “Our mission is to heal injuries, not to be the cause of them,” Petar said. He headed to Hannah’s tent; she wasn’t going to like the news. A doctor’s life was lived on the move, but it’d been too long since they found a friendly town.

  When Aaron returned with supplies, the wagons were already packed. “What’s going on?” he asked, setting down his small cart.

  “Let’s get this stuff loaded in the wagons,” Petar said. He and Brim grabbed the food and provisions out of Aaron’s cart.

  Aaron frowned when he saw the three armed men beside their camp. “What happened here?” he asked Cambria, who had come over to inspect the contents of his cart.

  “The usual northern welcoming,” she grumbled.

  “Again?” Aaron whined. “I’m sick of the road.” At nineteen, he was older than Cambria but still complained like a child; it betrayed a rich upbringing. He didn’t speak much of his past before meeting up with the caravan, but Cambria could tell he’d studied at some southern university. She, on the other hand, had only her parents and the things she picked up from Petar and Hannah.

  Petar climbed aboard the front of the first wagon and started the horse moving. Brim followed with the second. Under the watchful gaze of three armed men, they left the town of Denfold. They had treated three men and been run out of town for their trouble. Now they were back on the road heading to another superstitious town wary of real medicine. Cambria leaned back as the old wagon bounced on the dirt road, angry that Aaron had returned without a single treat.

  As they traveled down the road, Cambria kept herself busy taking inventory. One benefit of a lack of business was that it kept their supply of bandages and medicine stocked. However, they would need to stop before the next town to gather some elderweed. The recipe was her mother’s. Petar and Hannah had been impressed by the fast working cream; so much so that soon after taking Cambria on, it replaced the standard Apothecary’s Rose. At the time, Cambria had been lucky to find a company of doctors. She fit right in with Petar, Hannah, and their caravan of lost causes.

  After all that time, Brim was the only other one who remained. Though the big dolt didn’t know the first thing about medicine, and obviously couldn’t work with patients. Petar had saved Brim’s life, and Brim had been attached to the doctor’s side ever since. Aaron, they picked up a little over a year ago along with three others. They were a group of four young doctors with proper training, who sought to share their new skills with the archaic northerners. Six months later only Aaron remained.

  Cambria finished her list of supplies when the wagon slowed to a stop. It was too early to break for a rest. Cambria’s heartbeat quickened. She climbed out of the wagon into the gray light, her hand moving to her belt. The blade was small but could do damage in the right hands; hands that knew the human body and its most vulnerable points. She crept to the front and peered out of the wagon. Three figures waited in the road ahead. They were a wretched sight and made for strange companions.

  A large man in green led the way on foot; he had wild hair and dragged his left leg. A horse carried an old bald man in dirty, gray robes who looked ready to topple over at any moment. In front of that man lay a sleeping boy, tied to the horse. Cambria almost mistook him for a corpse. Cambria let go of her blade. She’d encountered bandits along the road; it was part of the trade. Some had been quite theatrical in their approach—wounded old men, mothers carrying sick babies, a marriage party seeking help for a poisoned bride—but, if this was an act, it was the best she’d ever seen.

  “Ho, there,” Petar called, stepping down from the lead wagon. “Good health and peace be with you.”

  “And you as well,” the old man on the horse spoke up in a weak voice. The man in green eyed the caravan suspiciously. That was a good sign, Cambria thought. Friendly travelers on the road were usually up to something; those who were harmless would be equally as skeptical of friendliness.

  “You look road weary, friends,” Petar said. “Can we offer you something to eat, perhaps take a look at the boy.”

  “No,” the large man said, stepping in front of the horse and the boy.

  “We mean you no harm,” Petar said. “You may pass freely if you wish, but we do have food and medicine, and are trained in administering at least one of them.” He smiled that grin of his, the one Cambria warned him about. People on the road were naturally untrusting, she told him. That smile made him look like an accomplished robber.

  “You are doctors?” the old man asked. “This far north?”

  “People are in need of health everywhere. Even in the north.”

  The old man considered Petar. Then his eyes fell on the boy before him. “Food would be much appreciated,” he said. “It has been some time since we ate or rested.”

  “No,” his companion said. “We must keep moving.”

  “You are heading to Denfold,” Petar said. “We just came from there. I hope your reception is warmer than our own.”

  The two men spoke amongst each other. The boy on the horse was still unconscious. What had they done to him? He was obviously sick and malnourished; his skin was pale, almost blue. He
would not make it to Denfold. And when he didn’t, they would simply believe it was Hemo’s will. Cambria couldn’t take any more of this superstitious foolishness, especially when it would cost a boy his life.

  “If you are seeking the Curor in Denfold, then you are making a mistake,” Cambria said, climbing out of the wagon. “The boy will die before you get there.”

  The old man looked down at the boy; uncertainty registered on his face.

  “You’ll have to forgive Cambria,” Petar said. “A talented girl for her age, but lacking in bedside manner. Though her diagnosis is likely accurate. The boy does not look well.”

  “We do not travel to Denfold,” the old man said. “We only…wish to be off the road, and that is the nearest town. We passed some men in the wood we would like to avoid.”

  Petar nodded. “We know all too well the dangers of the road. But there is safety in numbers. Come with us. We can provide food and rest, and we will be away from here faster than you would with a man on foot.”

  The old man looked to his companion. The man in green nodded reluctantly. “We would be most grateful to accept your offer,” the old man said. “Tell us your price and we will happily join you.”

  “That can be worked out at a later time. Tie your horse to the rear wagon and we will find you some room inside. My wife Hannah will tend to the boy.”

  The man in green would not take a wagon but insisted on sitting up front alongside Petar. He was nervous about something and pulled a long sword from the horse’s saddle to carry on his lap as they rode. It was not the simple sword of a villager.

  Cambria tried to join Hannah in the rear wagon, not wanting to leave the woman alone with the two strangers—even an old man and an unconscious boy. But it was too crowded, and Hannah ordered her to the front wagon.

  “Use gloves,” Cambria warned her, thinking of another time she’d met sick strangers on the road. “We don’t know what he has.”