“So you brought him down,” exclaimed Imgalas as he rode up, his shearling shuba spattered with new blood.
Zangi-Ragozh straightened up and pulled the spear out of the dead animal. “Do you save the guts?”
“Of course,” said Imgalas. “Why should we throw away something so useful?”
“Some others do not,” said Zangi-Ragozh, putting the offal in a pile. “Do you have a sack for this?”
“Joksu Guadas has them. I’ll send him over as soon as we have dressed the others,” Imgalas shouted as he started his pony running back toward the rest of the hunters.
Zangi-Ragozh continued with his chore, setting the boar’s organs beside the carcass. As he worked, he became aware of a distant sound of growling, and an instant later, he heard a pony whinny in distress. Straightening up, Zangi-Ragozh looked around and saw that Baru Ksoka, who was in the process of securing his kill to the back of his saddle, had attracted a pack of wolves. The Kaigan had reached for his chilanum, but the knife was beyond his grasp on the ground. He had unstrung his bow and could not brace himself to string it again, for the wolves were closing in around him, and his pony was panicking, rearing and trying to pull away from the powerful hand on the reins, and although Baru Ksoka kept the animal from bolting, he could not quiet him enough to mount. From his vantage point on a slight rise, Zangi-Ragozh realized that the Kaigan was in dreadful danger. Imgalas and the others were a greater distance away than he, making it clear that if he did nothing, Baru Ksoka would be savaged or killed.
Leaving the boar where it lay, Zangi-Ragozh vaulted into the saddle and set his pony galloping down the incline toward the wolves and Baru Ksoka. “Kaigan! Kaigan!” he shouted, hoping to be heard over the wolves and the pony.
One of the wolves rushed in and bit the on-side rear leg of the pony, drawing blood and giving the pony the final jolt of terror; the pony broke free of Baru Ksoka and bolted, the slaughtered pig bouncing on his croup as he fled. Most of the wolves took off after the pony, but five remained to circle the Kaigan, who had no weapons to fight them.
Zangi-Ragozh came pelting the last lengths between the Kaigan and the wolves and him. He had grabbed his boar spear and now began to swing it like a club, knocking one of the wolves with such force that he heard the animal’s ribs crack as the flat of the spear-blade struck. As soon as he was sure that the wolf would not be able to continue the fight, he wheeled his pony and drove off another of the pack.
Baru Ksoka dove for his chilanum, shoving it deep into the nearest wolf, shouting as blood spurted over his hand; he pulled out the blade and prepared to stab again just as another wolf fastened on his arm, once, twice, teeth sinking into his flesh; the Kaigan’s pony screamed as the wolves pulled him down, falling upon him in a frenzy. Hearing this, Baru Ksoka swore viciously and began to poke at the wolf that held him; his chilanum finally penetrated the wolf’s shoulder, making him howl, and giving Baru Ksoka the chance to pull his arm free.
Zangi-Ragozh could see that the Kaigan was bleeding heavily from four serious wounds—three in his legs and one on his arm—and he paused in his attack on the remaining wolves to shout, “Can you stand?”
“For a while,” Baru Ksoka said, reeling as he glanced at the damage that had been done.
From some distance away, Imgalas and the rest could be heard rushing toward them.
“Guard the boars!” Baru Ksoka shouted. “We need the meat!”
Zangi-Ragozh drove his boar-spear into the last wolf, then swung out of the saddle, leading his pony and going purposefully toward the Kaigan, who was jabbing at the bodies of the wolves lying around him, some still twitching.
Imgalas and the rest of the hunters appeared around the curve of the rise; they all stood in the foot-loops and had bows raised and arrows notched, ready to bring down the wolves. “Joksu Guadas!” Imgalas brayed. “Save the boars! Stop the wolves!”
Joksu Guadas pulled away from Imgalas, heading toward the surging knot of wolves as they descended on the pony and the slaughtered boar. He began to fire arrows into the mass of hungry wolves, shouting to Demen Ksai to work the other side. “Don’t damage the hides any more than you must. They’ll fetch a good trade!”
Demen Ksai shouted back his understanding and raised his bow, an arrow notched to the string, as he closed in on the other side of the churning pack. He quickly dispatched three wolves, and then sent an arrow into the pony’s skull to end its suffering. Satisfied he had followed orders, he shouted to Joksu Guadas, “The pack is breaking up.”
“Kill as many as you can.” Joksu Guadas shot another wolf as an example. “They’ll trail the clan now that they’ve found us, and we’ll have to keep watch against them. Besides, we can use the skins, though theirs look a little mangy.”
“That we can,” Demen Ksai agreed, and shot another arrow into the pack.
The wolves roiled around the pony, snapping and growling; they were thin—not even their heavy winter ruffs could disguise how scrawny the bodies beneath the fur had become. As the men bore down on them, more and more fell to the arrow, and those few who broke away did not flee unscathed.
Watching this, Baru Ksoka hobbled a few steps in their direction. He staggered and would have fallen if Zangi-Ragozh had not come to his side and slipped his shoulder under Baru Ksola’s arm to support him. “I … I don’t know what …” A film of cool sweat made his face shine in the sere sunlight, and he had to clamp his jaw to keep his teeth from chattering.
Zangi-Ragozh had seen this rush of cold many times in his long life, and he knew it was more dangerous than the bleeding wounds. “Here. Put my shuba over yours,” he offered, pulling off the heavy, sleeveless garment. “Then lie down and—”
“No! No Kaigan of the Desert Cats lies down in hunting, or in war!” His voice was shrill and he tried to break away from Zangi-Ragozh’s support.
“You will fall down, then,” said Zangi-Ragozh calmly, not giving up his bolstering. “If you stand, the blood will more quickly run from your legs. If you recline, you will save more blood.”
“How bad are the bites?” His voice lowered as he looked away from Joksu Guadas and Demen Ksai as they finished off as many of the pack as could not flee, yipping and howling.
“They will need to be tended, and quickly.” Zangi-Ragozh pulled on the reins of his pony, forcing the reluctant animal to walk through the wolves. “If you will not lie down, will you at least mount? Shorten the foot-loops so that your knees are higher than the pommel? You will not bleed so much.”
Baru Ksoka nodded. “I am Kaigan. I should ride.”
“Truly, you should.” Zangi-Ragozh held the pony still as he assisted Baru Ksoka into the saddle, and then shortened the strap of the iron foot-loop.
Imgalas came cantering up on his lathered pony. “Eleven got away. The rest are dead, Kaigan.”
“Then make the boars and pony ready to carry, and start skinning the wolves. Leave the bodies. Let them be food for scavengers.” Baru Ksoka swayed a little in the saddle.
“That we will. There are four boars, counting the foreigner’s,” Imgalas reported.
“Jekan Madassi will be glad of that,” said Baru Ksoka, his voice becoming thready.
Zangi-Ragozh spoke up. “Kaigan, your wounds need to be cleaned and closed.”
Imgalas finally noticed the blood that was dropping from Baru Ksoka’s foot, starting to puddle on the ground. “Our Kaigan is strong.”
“Yes, he is, he would be unconscious now if he were not,” said Zangi-Ragozh.
“Hardly that,” muttered Baru Ksoka.
“If you force him to remain, he will have a more difficult recovery,” Zangi-Ragozh warned.
“Foreigners are all so cautious,” said Imgalas, his mouth turning with contempt.
“Be glad of it,” said Zangi-Ragozh, and vaulted up behind the Kaigan, onto the croup of the pony; he nudged the flanks and set off at a jog-trot. After a short distance, Baru Ksoka slumped back against him, his breath labored. By the time they reached
the Desert Cats’ camp, Zangi-Ragozh was holding Baru Ksoka to keep him from falling. He turned his pony toward the wagon where Dukkai lay, and the pony slowed to a walk as if relieved that their journey was over. “Ro-shei!” he shouted as he jumped down from the pony.
From all around the camp came shouts and pointing as the Desert Cats saw Zangi-Ragozh ease Baru Ksoka out of the saddle and carry him toward the wagon; Neitis, Baru Ksoka’s young nephew, was the first to come running up, shouting, “What happened?” He reached the pony’s off-side and took hold of the iron foot-loop, his young face showing intense worry as well as curiosity.
“There were wolves after boar, and there was a fight.” Zangi-Ragozh had reached the narrow rear platform and put Baru Ksoka down on it, making sure his shuba, as well as the Kaigan’s own, was wrapped securely around him. “Baru Ksoka held off the pack.”
“A valiant thing,” Neitis approved, but his praise was short-lived as he stared at the deep bite gashes in the legs. “He is badly hurt.”
“Yes, he is, which is why I must begin to treat him at once. Tell the others that the Kaigan cannot be disturbed just now.” He was about to climb into the wagon, but added, “Dukkai will watch all that I do.”
As if in response to her name, Dukkai called out, “Is that you, Zangi-Ragozh?”
“Yes. I am going to bring Baru Ksoka into the wagon, to clean and treat his injuries. Will you guard him while I work?”
Four more of the Desert Cats had reached the wagon, and they all spoke at once as they saw their Kaigan lying unconscious on the wagon’s rear platform. The babble grew noisier as more of the clan hurried over and the questions became more insistent.
“Yes,” Dukkai called out. “I will do that. I will see that no harm comes to Baru Ksoka.”
“Watch closely!” shouted someone in the gathering crowd.
As Ro-shei reached the wagon, he had to push through the press of Desert Cats to reach Zangi-Ragozh. One glance at Baru Ksoka was enough for him to realize how grave the situation was. “Did a boar slash him?”
“No; those are wolf bites,” said Zangi-Ragozh. “I need to get to work on him now. You know which direction the hunt went—Imgalas needs five men to ride out to help them bring home the pigs and pony and the wolf-pelts. Those of you who go, tell Imgalas that the Kaigan will live, if his wounds do not fester.”
“You must stop that happening!” Neitis sounded terrified.
“If you cannot keep him alive, you had best have a fast pony ready,” threatened another voice from the rear of the group.
“Go ahead with what you must do,” said Ro-shei quietly. “I’ll stand guard and do my best to explain.” He noticed Neitis standing very near the back platform and said to him, “Do you want to help your uncle?”
Neitis nodded. “Why is he so quiet?”
“He is hurt,” said Ro-shei. “He must have rest, so that he can regain his strength.” He nodded over his shoulder to Zangi-Ragozh. “We will handle things, my master.”
“Thank you,” said Zangi-Ragozh, and climbed onto the rear platform and picked up Baru Ksoka in one easy gesture. He shouldered through the double hanging flap and saw Dukkai sitting on her hanging cot, anxiety carving lines in her countenance. “I suspect it is worse than it looks, but it is bad enough,” he told her. “It is important that he stay warm.”
“Has lie lost a lot of blood?” She held out her hand. “Tell me; I have to know.”
“Yes. But he has not lost so much blood or turned so cold that he will die.”
“How can you be sure?” She was pale, more from worry than from her own condition.
Zangi-Ragozh stared at her as he put the Kaigan down on a large chest. “If there is one thing I can be certain of, it is blood. The cold is less certain, but he has not become icy.”
“Is that a danger?” Dukkai was growing upset.
“Cold is always dangerous to the living,” he told her.
She studied him, nodded once more, and lay back on the hanging cot. “Do you have enough light?”
“I see well enough in the dark,” he replied, then saw the apprehension in her eyes and went on, “But if you will move that oil-lamp, I will have fewer shadows to deal with, and my work will go more quickly,” he said, working to peel back the leather leggings the Kaigan wore. “These are ruined,” he said as he dropped the leggings, letting them fall into a basket near the head of the chest where Baru Ksoka lay.
“What happened?” Dukkai wondered aloud.
“He had slain a boar and was gutting it,” said Zangi-Ragozh. “So he was by himself when a wolf pack came upon him. His pony bolted, and the wolves caught it.” He bent over Baru Ksoka. “I have clean water in that blue cask.” He pointed. “If you will hand it to me?”
“That I will,” said Dukkai, reaching for it and holding it out to Zangi-Ragozh. “Will water be enough?”
“To clean the wounds? yes,” said Zangi-Ragozh, prying up the wide top of the cask. “It is essential that the injuries be washed free of all material so that the medicament may work without impediment.” He opened a large container and took out a stack of cotton squares, two of which he put into the water to soak. “He will have to sleep for as long as possible. I will prepare a draft for him when I have done with dressing his injuries. It is made from poppies—”
“We know about poppies,” said Dukkai. “They can rob a man of his wits.”
“And they are anodyne,” said Zangi-Ragozh; he took one of the cotton squares from the water.
“You said—out there—that if his wounds do not fester, he will recover.”
“Yes, and so he shall. He has an excellent constitution, and even now, when times are hard, he has kept up his strength and his stamina. Such men do not usually fail in their health unless rot of one kind or another sets in, and I have a sovereign remedy that makes such a development less likely.”
“Are you so certain he will—”
“You need not worry, Dukkai.” He leaned forward, using the wet cotton square to clean out the savage bites on Baru Ksoka’s legs and arm. “He has a deep gash on his arm, and there may be some difficulty in healing.”
“Why should that be?” She was becoming agitated, trying not to look away as Zangi-Ragozh continued to bathe the Kaigan’s wounds.
“Because tendons are torn, and they often do not knit well, particularly in the arms, for they are so crucial in riding and fighting.” This last addition was said as if from a distance as he concentrated on his task. “Those wolves—Baru Ksoka might well have been killed and eaten.”
“Eaten?” she asked sharply.
“Of course. The wolves are as hungry as you are. Usually they avoid men in numbers.” He put the red-stained cotton square into the basket with the leggings. “If you have any magic to offer him, it would be wise to do so.”
“I will chant for him,” she said, and began a three-note repetitive pattern of invocation to the gods of the flesh and healing, and to the Lord of the Skies, all the while keeping a wary eye on Zangi-Ragozh.
Taking the second cotton square from the water, Zangi-Ragozh sluiced the wounds thoroughly, then cleaned off Baru Ksoka’s hands and face; while he was wiping the Kaigan’s brow, the man finally stirred, murmuring disjointed syllables as he tried to shift his position on the chest. Zangi-Ragozh held him down with deceptive ease. “Calmly, Baru Ksoka, calmly,” he urged. “Lie still and you will soon feel better.” He reached with one hand to his container of medicaments and reached for a vial, and then a small jar, which he set on the end of the chest. Keeping Baru Ksoka still with his right arm, he took a cup from a braced shelf and dipped it in the cask of water, then emptied the contents of the vial into it before adding a dollop of thick, amber-colored syrup to the cup. He stirred the contents with an ivory chopstick and then helped Baru Ksoka to raise his head. “Drink this. It will lessen your pain.”
Obediently Baru Ksoka drank, sputtering a little once as he tried to swallow too quickly. When the cup was empty, he looked blearily
up at Zangi-Ragozh. “Where am I?”
“In my wagon at your camp. Imgalas and the rest of your men are bringing back boar, pony, and wolf-pelts.” He disposed of the cotton square with its fellow in the basket. “I am going to dress your wounds and bind them with cotton.”
“I believe his sovereign remedy will help you,” Dukkai interjected.
“A sovereign remedy.” Baru Ksoka was having trouble fixing his attention as he looked blearily from Dukkai to Zangi-Ragozh. “I need rest. Let me sleep.” The last ended on a sigh as Zangi-Ragozh eased his head back down onto the chest.
“Yes. If you will rest, the remedy will do its work.” He reached for his container of medicaments again, and this time took out a twist-lidded jar. He opened it, revealing an unguent that was the consistency of rabbit-skin glue. He fingered out a small amount and smeared it on the worst of the Kaigan’s leg wounds, then repeated the application on the other. Straightening up, he took a length of cotton from his container and began to wrap the leg, working slowly and methodically. When he had finished with both, he took another fingerful of unguent and spread it over the deep punctures on Baru Ksoka’s arm, taking care to work the substance deep into the injury; he paid no heed to the occasional grunts of pain that came from Baru Ksoka. When he was finished, he said, “I do not want you to use your arm or your hand for at least three days.”
Baru Ksoka was growing weary, but he sighed, saying, “You must … I am not … a weakling.”
“No, Kaigan, you are not,” Zangi-Ragozh agreed. He stepped back in the confines of the wagon, taking care not to intrude upon Dukkai’s chanting. He looked out the double-flap and saw Ro-shei standing nearby. “His wounds are medicated and bandaged. Will you inform his women to make his bed ready? He will be more comfortable among them than lying here.”
The Desert Cats who had remained a short distance from the wagon looked up, many emotions on their usually impassive faces. Gotsada held up his hands. “Dukkai, my cousin, is summoning the gods to heal the Kaigan.”
Saint-Germain 18: Dark of the Sun: A Novel of the Count Saint-Germain Page 21
