Good Blood

by Billy Ketch Allen

  Hannah gave a gentle nod. “I’ll be careful, Cambria. I promise. Now go to the front wagon. I need space to work.”

  Cambria did as she was told and took her place beside Aaron as the wagons moved once more.

  “Was that boy dead?” Aaron asked, looking out to the rear wagon.

  “Not yet,” Cambria said. “If he can be saved, Hannah will do it.” Though Hannah proved her skill time and time again, Cambria couldn’t help but feel nervous. It wasn’t Gray Fever, but she still hoped Hannah would take every precaution. She couldn’t handle losing her and Petar.

  They wagon bumped down the road once again. Cambria crawled to the front of the wagon, right behind the man in green. These strangers didn’t seem the outlaw type, not the old man and the boy, anyway. But they were hiding something. Petar was a gentle man—it made him a good doctor but a mark on the road. Cambria waited with her eyes open and her knife close. If trouble came, it would be up to her to get them through it.

  Briton was relieved when the wagon started moving. He had accepted they would likely die in the forest with Ara carted off to spend his days tortured for his blood in the Temple dungeons. He was surprised to make the long trek back to the road with no sign of the Temple guard. Now, hope began to creep in once again, along with the fear of it being taken away.

  “What is the boy’s name?” Hannah asked as she wrapped a blanket around Ara.

  “Ara,” Briton said, looking down at the pale blue figure. The boy had moved in and out of consciousness on the slow ride, but with no food or water, his body looked too weak to heal itself. Not to mention the amount of blood he had lost. With the constant blood draws, Ara’s body hadn’t been allowed to recover since coming to Castle Carmine. Briton wondered what the boy could do at full strength.

  “Ara,” Hannah said gently, leaning close to the boy’s face. “You need to drink this.” She held up a glass of a light brown liquid mixed with leaves. She put the glass to Ara’s lips and forced some down in slow pours. Ara coughed as he drank, never opening his eyes.

  “Good, Ara, good,” she said. “It would be better warm, but, apparently we don’t have time to stop for a fire.” She turned to Briton. “What happened to him? His skin is freezing.”

  “He nearly drowned,” Briton said.

  “And these marks?”

  “Leeches.”

  Hannah shook her head. “Seems like this boy’s been through an awful lot of trouble.” She hovered her hand over his face, inspecting the scars from Geyer’s knife.

  “Yes, he has,” Briton said.

  “Besides being cold and almost drowning, the boy is malnourished. You look like you haven’t eaten in days.”

  Briton nodded weakly. It took great effort just to stay sitting up in the bumpy wagon and not collapse into unconsciousness himself. But he had to stay awake to watch the boy. He didn’t know if these people could be trusted. Though, if they meant them ill, there was little he could do about it.

  “Here,” Hannah said. She twisted open a jar containing strips of dried meat. The smell filled the wagon, and Briton’s stomach jumped. “Salted meat to hold you over until we can make a proper meal. Feed what you can to the boy and eat some yourself before you pass out.”

  “Thank you, my lady,” Briton said, taking the meat strips. “We are indebted to you for your generosity. Few doctors would come to these lands. I know it must be difficult for you.”

  “That is why we are here.”

  “Well, the north is better for it.”

  As they rode on, Briton tore the meat into small bites and fed them to Ara. The boy ate slowly and without opening his eyes, still in the delirium of semi-consciousness. Briton ate as well; his tongue welcoming the salted meat. All the while Briton had one ear on the road outside the wagon, anticipating the sound of horses or the chilling howl of a blood hound. He ate and watched Hannah work, rubbing a cream on Ara’s skin. He couldn’t help but feel guilty for endangering these people. For when the Temple guard caught them, they would certainly be slain.

  But the attack never came. And as day faded into night and they moved farther and farther away from Carmine’s lands, it looked like they might just survive another day.

  “Did they catch us?” Ara asked suddenly, startling Briton. The boy’s eyes opened, and he tried to sit up, looking around the wagon.

  “Shhh,” Briton whispered, patting his hair and holding him down. “You’re safe. Rest now.”

  They rode on, and Ara’s appetite grew. He took full bites of the salted meat and finished off Hannah’s herbal drink before returning to sleep. The leech marks on Ara’s skin had begun to fade and his color returned to his normal shade. If Hannah noticed, she said nothing.

  Though it felt good to be out of the forest and in the care of the traveling doctors, Briton knew they needed to leave. For the scars on Ara’s face would soon disappear and the doctors would have questions they could not answer. But for now, Briton could no longer keep his eyes open. He lay down in an empty space in the wagon and slept. Their problems would still be waiting for him when he woke.

  “It looks like any other blood,” Vorrel said, holding the bottle of blood up to his crooked nose. Haemon studied it with a frown. They had raided Carmine Castle only to find a single bottle of the Descendant boy’s blood left in Carmine’s storehouse. It seems Carmine had used nearly his entire supply in bribing the western lords. This made finding the boy all that more important to Haemon’s plans.

  “Are you saying there’s no difference?” Haemon asked his Head Curor. They met in a hidden lab in the old part of the Temple. Holes of broken stone still filled the wall from the Blood War. Here Vorrel’s work could be kept secret from Edmund Turney and the other Fathers.

  “Not that the eye can detect,” Vorrel said. “But that doesn’t mean it is not all that it is claimed to be. Descendants blood looks identical as well. It is only through testing the effects, or knowing the breeding history of the Descendant, that we know if it is good blood or not.”

  Haemon coughed, pulling a rag from his pocket. He felt more tired lately even as his daily dose continued to grow. How long before blood wasn’t enough?

  “This blood came at great cost,” the Highfather said. “Are you able to replicate it?”

  Vorrel shifted nervously. He knew how much Haemon wanted this, needed this. He also knew what had happened to the last Curor in charge of creating a more powerful blood. “We are very close.”

  “Good,” Haemon said. “Our world can no longer rely on Descendant blood. The others on the council do not see it. They think it is the will of Hemo that blood is weakening with each generation, but Hemo has called me to action. It’s a fool who sits in prayer while his world collapses around him.”

  “What about Father Turney? His men search the Temple, they will find this lab eventually.”

  The Highfather sighed. Edmund had proved a thorn in his palm. It seemed his ambition rivaled Haemon’s own, once upon a time. A good trait in a subordinate, but a dangerous one in a political adversary. If Edmund wanted his chair, it would take a lot more than snooping. He didn’t know if Edmund was ready to pay the price as he once had.

  “I’ll take care of the young Father. Hemo has given us this blood, no one will stand in our way.” The Highfather reached out and took the bottle. It was heavy in his hands. But everything was these days. Was this bottle really worth starting a war over? He had to be sure.

  Haemon pried loose the cork.

  “Father,” Vorrel said, “the blood is untested. We cannot be sure of its safety.”

  Haemon raised the bottle to his lips and took a small sip, just a taste. The blood tasted like any other; no stronger than his daily dose. Had this all been for nothing?

  Then a warmth came over him. A wave of relief shifting through his body. Haemon stood straighter; his muscles tightened and his bones hardened. It was as if years had shed like a skin. Then, as quickly as it had come, the warmth receded. He felt his spine curl, and the pain return
ed to his taxed muscles. Pain that was more noticeable now for having been suspended. It took all of Haemon’s willpower not to down the whole bottle.

  “I must have more of this blood!”

  “Yes,” Vorrel said, carefully taking the bottle from Haemon’s hands. “We will find an answer, Father. Have faith.”

  Haemon closed his eyes as the bottle left his hands. “Do we know how the boy came to possess such pure blood?”

  “No. But we will find the answers.” Vorrel looked around the small makeshift lab and his table of instruments. “It will help once we have the boy himself to examine.”

  “You will soon enough. Make certain the process is ready. I expect you to be able to replicate the blood on a massive scale as soon as I bring you the boy.”

  “Yes, Father,” Vorrel bowed.

  Haemon turned as the coughing came in fits this time. He hunched against the doorway until it was over. His rag was stained red with his own blood. He wadded it up in his fist.

  Bale better find the boy. He better find him soon.

  18

  The howls grew louder as the blood hounds closed in. No matter how fast Ara ran, the riders in white armor followed tirelessly. No place was safe; the great hounds at their heels could smell Ara over great distance. They followed his scent through rivers and over mountains, thirsting for his blood. His legs slipped on mud, he could run no more. The hounds were upon him. Then Ara found himself underwater. He sank lower, expending the last of his strength to fight away hounds and leeches and Curors, all grasping for his blood. He screamed for help and water filled his lungs.

  Ara woke, gasping for air, covered in sweat. He breathed until his heart settled in his chest. The leech marks on his skin were gone. He felt his face and found no traces of the scars that had been there the day before. He felt the power of his blood coursing through his veins.

  Despite drowning in his dream, Ara’s throat was dry. He climbed over Briton’s sleeping body and out of the wagon in search of something to drink. The morning air was cold. Ara shivered, pulling Chancey’s oversized coat over his torn nightshirt. Along with his crumbling pants, what he wore could no longer be described as clothes. He would need to find something else to wear. And soon.

  The white horse grazed in a field of grass beside two brown horses. All three were tied to long ropes that allowed them to move about. The second wagon was parked near the first, and though the flap was down, Ara could hear the heavy breathing of someone asleep inside. Further on in the clearing stood two small tents that looked surprisingly sturdy for having been set up in the dark.

  The crackling of a fire caught Ara’s ear, and he moved around the wagon. A large man sat on a rock, warming his hands over the small fire. His dark hair was uniformly short like it was recovering from being shaved. Ara recognized the broad shoulders as belonging to the driver of his wagon. The man watched as Ara took a seat on one of the rocks gathered in a circle around the fire, then turned his attention back to warming his big calloused hands.

  A teakettle leaning near the fire reminded Ara of his thirst. “Can I have some?” he asked, pointing to the kettle and nearby cups. The man studied Ara and then the kettle before finally nodding. Ara moved closer feeling the warm fire on his face as he poured himself a cup of the liquid. “Do you want a cup?”

  The man shook his head and flipped his hands over, heating the backside now.

  Ara came back to his rock and took a careful sip. The drink warmed his insides as if bringing them to life. It was a different drink than the woman had made, plainer, but the warm liquid felt good on his throat. Ara drank until the cup was empty.

  “Thank you,” Ara said, still holding the empty cup in his hands.

  The man didn’t respond. He kept his eyes on the fire.

  It seemed not everyone in their party shared Hannah’s welcoming demeanor. Ara stood to leave, not wanting to upset the large man when one of the tent flaps opened. A man with straight blond hair stepped out and stretched his thin arms in the air. He looked at Ara and then to the big man by the fire. He grinned at some unspoken joke. The thin man approached the fire and put a hand on the big man’s shoulder.

  “You making our guest feel at home, Brim?” the man asked, his smile growing even bigger as he turned to Ara. “You’ll have to forgive Brim; he’s not great at conversation. It’s good to see you up and about. Hannah must have worked wonders on you.”

  Ara became aware of how he must look this morning compared to yesterday, his blood having healed him, but the man did not press the issue. His face was anything but accusatory.

  “My name is Petar,” the man said.

  “Ara.”

  “Welcome, Ara. I hope you were able to get some sleep on the road the past couple days. Your friend in green was adamant that we keep moving.” Petar looked around the grass clearing. “But if we hadn’t, we never would have found this lovely spot. Beautiful isn’t it?”

  Ara scanned the forest. He’d grown tired of trees.

  “So much green in this part of the world.” Petar smiled, taking in the morning. “We have nothing like this in Seren.”

  “Seren?” Ara asked. “Is that where you’re from?”

  “Yes,” Petar said, sitting down on a rock beside Ara. “My wife Hannah and I worked as doctors there before making the venture north. Brim here is a northerner. Aren’t you, Brim?”

  Brim nodded slightly.

  “He’s been with us the past five years now. Cambria for three, and we picked up Aaron just last summer.”

  “What are doctors?” Ara asked.

  “Ha, we really are in the north,” Petar laughed. “Doctors are trained to help and heal people using science and medicine.”

  “So, you are like Curors.”

  “Quite the opposite. We believe the recovery of one shouldn’t come at the suffering of another. There are many ways to heal our bodies without the use of old blood cures—as you already saw from Hannah’s work.”

  Ara thought of the tea and the liquid she rubbed on his body.

  “How are you feeling today?” Petar asked.

  “Much better, thank you. I just needed some rest.”

  “You were certainly a rugged bunch when we found you on the road. I hope your friends were able to get some sleep. They seemed quite on edge.”

  With that, Geyer came limping from the forest. The former knight looked as run down as before, and Ara wondered if he had slept at all over the past two days.

  “Morning, friend,” Petar said with a smile.

  Geyer nodded. “What is your plan, Petar?”

  “The plan is breakfast. The horses still need a little rest, as do we all, after the last couple days. We should be ready to head out again by late morning if that works for you.”

  Geyer nodded, looking into the fire. “Yes. Fine.”

  “Did you say breakfast?” Ara asked, his stomach leaped at the word.

  “We have some fresh bread and oranges from Denfold if you are hungry.”

  “Yes! Thank you.” He was starving.

  “Later,” Geyer said. “Ara, come with me.”

  Ara looked at him confused. What could be more important than breakfast?

  “We’re taking a short walk,” Geyer said to Petar. “We’ll be back soon.”

  “We’ll have breakfast ready,” Petar said. “Right, Brim?”

  Brim looked at Geyer, but didn’t say a word. It was clear he didn’t like what he saw.

  “Ara,” Geyer called. Ara got up and reluctantly followed Geyer through the grass clearing towards the wood where he had come.

  “Where are we going?” Ara asked once they were out of earshot.

  “What do you think of our new companions?”

  “They seem very friendly,” Ara said. “They’re doctors.”

  “Hmm. Friendly travelers on the road are like honorable knights—they’re told in many tales but rarely ever encountered.”

  “Are we going to leave? Can we at least wait until after brea
kfast?”

  They walked through the wood for a while to where the trees were spread out allowing room for light to shine down from the gray morning sky. Ara walked softly on the balls of his feet as Geyer had taught him. Finally, they reached an open space where the ground was level.

  “You can’t rely on these doctors or me or Briton,” Geyer said, turning to Ara. “The way to survive in this world is to look after yourself.”

  Geyer’s face was serious, his voice missing his usual wry humor.

  “You wanted to learn to fight with a sword, but you are too weak to handle one proficiently.”

  “I can get stronger. I already—”

  Geyer held up his hand, and Ara fell silent.

  “You may get strong enough to use a sword—one day you may become the greatest swordsman who ever lived, and men may sing of your glory—but the danger is here, now. So, we’ll start with a knife.”

  Geyer reached to his belt, and his hand came away with such speed that Ara hardly had time to flinch as a knife whizzed by and slammed into a tree trunk behind him. The knife clattered to the grass at Ara’s feet.

  Geyer frowned. “That was supposed to stick.”

  The old knight pulled a second knife from a hiding place in his left boot, the blade as long as his hand.

  “You won’t be stronger than your opponent, but you can be faster.” He nodded to the knife on the ground. “Go on.”

  Ara picked up the knife and studied it. He moved the weapon, testing its weight. The leather handle was worn, but the blade was sharp. It felt natural in his hand. Familiar.

  “Fighting is all about advantage,” Geyer said. “What advantage can you find?”

  “I don’t have an advantage,” Ara said. “Everyone is bigger than me.”

  “And they will underestimate you. You must use surprise. They can’t see you as a threat until it’s too late.”

  “Is that why you have a limp?”

  “No,” Geyer stopped, furrowing his brow. “I have a limp because someone nearly cut my leg off.”

  “Oh. Right.”