Scepter of Fire

by Victoria Gilbert

  Gerda rises to her feet, cradling the hand Anders clutched. “You must help him, Varna.”

  “I will, if possible.” I kneel by Anders. “Do you have the water, Erik?”

  His boots vibrate loose floorboards as he dashes to another corner of the room. He returns, carrying a wooden bucket.

  “I cleaned it out as best as I could. There’s an old well outside, and the water seems fresh.” Erik sets the bucket beside me. “What else?”

  “The spirits. I suspect you carry some.”

  Erik produces a small metal flask and hands it to me. I open it and sniff.

  “Brandy? Well, it will have to do.” I glance from Gerda to Erik. “Both of you must help. It won’t be pleasant.”

  Erik’s freckles glow against his blanched skin. “You mean to cut away the contagion?”

  “Yes, I must. At least the worst of it. Hopefully he’ll remain unconscious, but if not ...” I take a deep breath. “You must pin him down.”

  Gerda’s round face is pale as the moon. “I will hold his legs.”

  “And I his arms.” Erik looks me over. “You’re certain this is necessary?”

  “Yes.” I am certain of nothing, but I can’t imagine Anders improving with that contagion breeding in his leg.

  “First, we need to tie off his leg above the wound. Strap it as tight as you can, using this.” I toss Erik a roll of soft rope.

  “A tourniquet? I’ve seen that used in the field.”

  I nod. “It will prevent him from bleeding out.”

  Erik wraps the rope around his friend’s thigh and ties it tight. This unfortunately wakes Anders, who groans loudly.

  “Tear the fabric away, would you, Erik?” I take a clean cloth I’ve draped over my arm and soak it in the water bucket.

  Erik leans in, grips the loose flap, and rips the tattered trouser fabric away. Anders’s leg is exposed all the way to his hip.

  Gerda wobbles slightly.

  “Grab some of those bandage rolls from my bag, Gerda. We’ll need them to staunch the blood.”

  Wringing the excess water from the cloth, I wipe blood and mud from Anders’s leg, then toss the cloth across the room. “Now, sit down and hold his ankles, Gerda, and you grab his shoulders, Erik.”

  You have never done this. You don’t know what you are doing. The words swirl through my mind. I wipe my brow with the back of my hand, banishing all distraction, all doubt.

  I pour some of Erik’s brandy over the blade and lift the knife.

  There is no second-guessing, there is only this—a blade before my eyes, my fingers gripping the handle. My slight tremor calms and ceases. My hand is perfectly still.

  There is no fear, no hesitation.

  There is only the patient and me.

  The first cut is the most difficult. Anders cries out, still feeling the blade despite his delirium. I bite my lower lip and continue slicing away dead skin, closing my ears to his anguish. Steady your hand, Varna. Focus on herbs for a poultice—barberry, garlic, goldenseal ... Do not think of the knife, think of potions that can lower a fever—meadowsweet mixed with parsley and white willow.

  When I sit back Gerda’s cheeks are streaked with tears, although she made no sound during the grisly procedure. Erik’s face is as stony as a statue.

  “Done.” I drop the knife into my lap, ignoring the blood. “Now, Gerda, use some of the bandages to staunch the bleeding. You must apply steady pressure. I will create a poultice to pack the wound before I bandage it.”

  Anders is silent as one dead, yet the slight rise and fall of his narrow chest reassures me. I stand, the knife clattering to the floor.

  Swaying, I fight an urge to retch. The taste of bile coats my tongue.

  Erik leaps to his feet and grabs me by the arm. “Steady.”

  “Get my bag,” I say, between chattering teeth. “I need some herbs and potions for the poultice.”

  Erik leads me back to the table, my canvas satchel slung over his shoulder. He sets down the bag. “Should I bring the water bucket?”

  “No, you still need it. Go and help Gerda slow the bleeding.” I meet his anxious gaze. “You must remove the tourniquet, wash the wound with water, then apply pressure. Steady pressure, understand?”

  He nods. “I have an extra shirt in my pack, if we need more bandage material.”

  “Good. Grab that, then go to Anders.” I touch Erik’s arm. “You did well.”

  “As did Gerda,” he replies, with a glance in my sister’s direction.

  “Yes, she was very brave. Now let me work.” I wave my hand to shoo him away.

  It is true, Gerda was brave. This doesn’t surprise me. I’ve heard tales of her unwavering courage before, from Kai Thorsen. The surprise is how much it seems to impress Erik Stahl.

  Never mind that, you have work to do.

  I concentrate on mixing the correct herbs in a willow bark paste for a concoction to heal Anders’s leg and soothe his pain. Behind me, Gerda’s voice lifts in a lullaby.

  Smearing the herbal paste thickly on some bandages, I fold the soft material so the poultice is contained inside.

  “Wash the wound again,” I call out as I tuck some additional rolls of bandages under my arm. I cross the room in a few strides. “Then sit back and give me space to work.”

  I pour a little of the remaining brandy on the wound and wipe the excess, then apply the poultice and securely bandage Anders’s leg. Exhausted, I brace myself with one hand to keep from collapsing onto the dank floor.

  “Now what?” asks Erik, lifting hands stained with blood.

  “Clean up and prepare for a long night. We’ll need to sit with him, feeding him sips of this.” I pull a small brown bottle from my skirt pocket. “It will ease the pain, and hopefully reduce his fever. Don’t worry about using it up as I have two more bottles in my bag.”

  Gerda rouses from her focus on Anders’s bone-pale face. “What is it?”

  “To be honest, I’m not entirely certain. But Master Albrecht swears by it.” I meet Erik’s questioning gaze. “It’s no poison, I can assure you.”

  “I did not think it was, only ... ” Erik wipes his hands on his extra shirt. “I don’t know this Master Albrecht.”

  “You did not know me either.”

  The faintest hint of a smile curves Erik’s thin lips. “True, but I felt you could be trusted. I haven’t looked into the eyes of this Albrecht person, as I have yours.”

  “I will take the first watch.” Gerda settles on the floor near Anders’s head. “Hand me the bottle, Varna, I’ll make sure he gets some of that potion.”

  I pass her the medicine, relaying instructions on how much Anders should receive, and how often. “I think I’ll step outside for some fresh air.”

  “I will join you.” Erik stands, casting a glance at my sister. “That is, if you feel comfortable watching Anders by yourself, Gerda.”

  Gerda’s eyes focus on our patient. “I’m fine. Anyway, you’ll be within shouting distance.” She lifts her head and smiles at Erik. “Thank you for asking.”

  Well, that should do it. If Erik was not already enchanted, surely he is now. I press my trembling hands together as I stride to the door. “You said there’s a well outside? Can you show me?”

  Erik crosses in front of me and kicks open the cottage door with his foot. “Around the back, beyond the blackberry bushes.”

  I slide past him without allowing our bodies to touch. Don’t show me then, Master Stahl. Let me wander, alone. I imagine you would be more solicitous if I were Gerda.

  Wiping dampness from my cheeks with the edge of my sleeve, I stumble to the well. I wind up the old bucket, still attached to its winch by a frayed length of rope, and tip it until water rinses most of the blood from my skirt, then winch up another bucketful to wash my hands.

  It’s no surprise a young man prefers my sister to me. I am used to that. No, Erik Stahl’s disinterest only stings me to tears because my emotions are as raw as the hands I’ve scrubbed far too
long. The blood, the whimpers and howls of pain, the sight of the damage to muscle and bone ... I long for arms to wrap about me, to keep me from flying apart, but there’s no one to offer such comfort.

  I sniffle once, then swear. The cursing makes me feel a little better. I wipe my wet hands on a dry portion of my skirt and experiment with a few more words I’ve heard from the workmen at the mill.

  “Colorful, although rather limited.”

  As I spin about to face Erik my damp skirt and petticoat cling to my legs in an unseemly fashion. I pull the fabric away from my body. “I thought you decided to stay inside.”

  A spark of amusement lights Erik’s tired eyes. “No, forgot this.” He lifts his arm, revealing the bucket. “I thought we might need more clean water.”

  “Good idea.” I shove my lank hair away from my eyes. “Listen, you do need to watch Anders, and make sure he takes that medicine. Because I cannot guarantee ... ”

  “I know. Please don’t fret. I am not expecting miracles. You’ve done more than most would have attempted.”

  “I still wish you would allow me bring Master Albrecht to attend Anders. He’s a much more experienced healer than I am.”

  Erik shakes his head. “No. I am willing to trust Gerda, and you, but no one else. Besides, you seem more skilled than most so-called doctors I have seen operate on our soldiers.”

  I make a disparaging noise. “Most of them are hacks. More likely to butcher than heal.”

  “That they are.” Erik looks me up and down. “You were perfectly calm. You must have great confidence in your abilities.”

  I wring the damp fabric of my skirt between my hands. “No.” I lower my voice. “I’m afraid I have failed— that Anders will die, that I have tortured him to no purpose.” When I glance up, I realize Erik is not listening.

  “Odd. It looks like a trained falcon. Over there, on that branch.” He points with his free hand. “See—it has something attached to its leg, like fetters.”

  The bird flies off before I can see anything other than a sweep of wings, and I question Erik’s observation. It would be strange to find a trained falcon around here. That’s a gentleman’s sport, and none of my neighbors are rich.

  Still, it seems to be a day for peculiar events involving animals. “A wolf led me to you,” I say, recalling the creature’s unusual behavior.

  The empty bucket clatters to the ground. “What?” Erik grabs me.

  I take a step back, jerking my arm from his grasp. “A wolf. I saw it on the path. It led me to this cottage, then disappeared.”

  “That’s impossible.”

  “Are you calling me a liar?”

  “No, but there was a wolf”—Erik’s eyes glisten—“on the battlefield. It’s how I found Anders.”

  “What do you mean?” I lean back and use both hands to grip the edge of the stone wall encasing the well.

  Erik rests one booted foot on the overturned bucket. “We were separated during the battle. There was so much confusion.” He rakes his hand through his red hair. “I could hardly glimpse my boots, much less the men around me. All I could see were rolling clouds of smoke from the muskets and cannons, then a bayonet slicing through, stabbing before you knew what was happening ... Sorry, forgive me, that’s not important to the story. Anyway, Anders was on my right—I glimpsed his face as another wave of smoke engulfed us. There was cannon fire, and I hit the ground. When I rose again, I couldn’t find Anders. I had to keep fighting—I couldn’t take time to look for him.” He sweeps his hand across his eyes, as if to wipe away the memory. “When it was over, and we were told to retreat, I tried to find him, but my company forced me to march away. I checked each face as I stumbled over bodies, but none was his.” Erik drops his head into his hands. “Every face.”

  The silence of the woods is broken by the cheerful chirps of crickets.

  “War is a terrible thing,” I say, and curse my inability to say more.

  Erik lifts his head. “We reached the road before I looked back. I saw it through the veil of smoke—a wolf, staring at me with its great golden eyes. It looked like it could speak.”

  “The same.” My voice is barely audible. “I saw the same.”

  Erik, lost in his memory, doesn’t acknowledge my words. “The wolf turned and headed for the battlefield. I knew I had to follow. I left my company. I walked away and deserted them without a second thought. I followed the wolf to the edge of that terrible meadow, its grass trampled to mud and blanketed with bodies. The wolf veered into the woods encircling the field, and led me to the spot where Anders lay, then disappeared.”

  “Anders crawled from the battlefield?” I shiver as I picture this action, given his shattered leg.

  Erik shakes his head. “No. He was still speaking, then—the fever had not overcome him yet. He told me ... ” Erik shoots me a challenging look, as if daring me to disbelieve his tale. “He said an angel pulled him from the field, dragged him into the woods, and made sure he was hidden from the enemy troops. An angel pale as early morning light, with clear eyes, bright as the blade of a sword.”

  I loosen my grip on the well. “He was in great pain and probably delirious.”

  “Perhaps.” Erik jumps to his feet, grabbing the bucket. “Let me get that water. We shouldn’t leave Gerda alone too long. If Anders wakes he may thrash about, and though he is slight, I doubt she could hold him.”

  “You might be surprised what Gerda can do.” I move aside as Eric reaches for the handle of the winch.

  “No, actually I wouldn’t.” He glances over at me as he fills the bucket. “She has an air about her. Something special.”

  “Yes,” I say, because it is true. Because I can feel jealousy, yet don’t have to show it.

  We walk back to the cottage, Eric toting the bucket of water as if it were filled with feathers. When we enter the dilapidated building, I stop for a moment to allow my eyes to adjust to the dim light. The sun is setting and shadows stain the vacant window panes.

  Gerda looks up at our approach, her finger against her lips.

  “How is he?” Erik sets down the bucket and sinks to his knees beside his friend’s prone form. He clutches Anders’s limp fingers. “He feels less feverish.”

  That is impossible. It must be the well water, cooling Erik’s hand.

  Gerda strokes Anders’s shoulder. “He’s sleeping more peacefully. I was able to give him some of the medicine, and it did seem to help.”

  “Good.” I kneel beside Erik. “You can take a break now, Gerda. Stand and stretch your legs.”

  Giving Anders’s arm a final pat, Gerda sits back and places the brown medicine bottle out of reach of flailing limbs. She then struggles to stand, her legs obviously asleep. Erik leaps to his feet and lends her his arm. He escorts her to the center of the room, where she delicately shakes out one foot and then the other. I watch this pantomime over my shoulder, half-expecting Erik to kiss her fingers again.

  “Thank you.” Gerda slides away from his steadying hands.

  “Not at all.” Erik’s voice is infused with charm.

  A gallantry he does not waste on me.

  I look away. Varna, you silly goose, you have more important things to think about.

  Pressing my fingers against Anders’s forehead, I am shocked to find he does feel slightly cooler. I stare at the bottle I stole from Master Albrecht’s shelves. What is in that potion, to affect such a change so quickly? It was something Albrecht brought with him when he arrived in our village—not anything he taught me to make, or distilled in my presence.

  A rustle—Gerda must be shaking the dust from her skirt. “Erik, who is Christiane?”

  Erik makes a noise that sounds suspiciously like a swallowed curse. “Why?”

  “Anders called out the name a few times. It was the only word I could understand.”

  “A girl,” Erik tosses off as he crosses the room. “Christiane Bech.”

  “His sweetheart?”

  “Well”—Erik stares down a
t his friend—“Anders loves her. How she feels about him, I’m not entirely certain. She’s a ballerina at the Opera House in our city.”

  Gerda claps her hands. “Is that the city with the university? My friend Kai studies there. Perhaps he knows her.” She crosses to stand near me. “Or maybe he’s met Anders.”

  “I doubt it. If this Kai is a student—well, students at the University don’t typically mingle with workers.” Erik crouches next to me. “Anders and I, we grew up together, as neighbors in the tradesmen’s quarter. My family runs a dry goods shop and Anders used to help out, at least until he was apprenticed to a cobbler.” Erik gently brushes his fingers over Anders’s upper arm. “He’s talented, a first-rate shoemaker. He learned so quickly, his master soon had him making ballet slippers for the dancers of the Opera. That’s how Anders met Christiane. She is young, barely sixteen, but he’s only eighteen so it was not surprising they were drawn to one another.” A smile lights Erik’s face. “He likes to dance too. Not ballet, of course, but he often escorts Christiane to the public dance halls. I must admit they are beautiful waltz partners. I love watching them.”

  I sit back on my heels, staring at Anders’s leg. “Erik, you should know ... ”

  Erik’s smile twitches into a grimace. “He will never dance again? Yes, I realize that.”

  Gerda gasps. “Surely his leg will heal.”

  I shake my head. “I believe he will live and even be able to walk, assisted by a cane. But will he ever dance again?” I glance at Gerda’s stricken face. “No.”

  “Oh, the poor boy.” Tears fill Gerda’s eyes.

  “There are worse things.” Erik rises to his feet. “Now, you two must hurry home. Yes, I know you planned to stay the night, but I don’t think it wise. Your family will be frantic, and I doubt you wish to draw too much attention, what with the enemy camped in your town.”

  “They are camped outside of it, actually.” Gerda’s gaze is focused on Anders. She shakes of her head, as if to clear her thoughts. “Can you take care of him, Erik? Surely we should stay?”

  “No. Go home. I hope you have some plausible story to tell?”

  “I’ve already thought of that.” Gerda helps me to my feet. “I will say my reindeer, Bae, escaped his pen and when I searched for him I met Varna, and asked her to help me. Bae’s waiting for us by the path,” she adds, obviously sensing Erik’s confusion. “We can go home with him in tow, so it will be perfectly believable.”