Bloodstone

by Barbara Campbell

  “Thank the gods you’re all right,” Nionik said. “We’re taking the wounded to the longhut. Bring your medicine bag and—”

  “Darak? Where’s Darak?”

  Before he could answer, Callie screamed, “Fa!”

  He tottered toward them, moving like a man in a dream. An arrow protruded from his left arm, but he was alive, Merciful Maker, alive. He fell to his knees, burying his face in Callie’s neck, pulling a sobbing Faelia into the curve of his good arm. Then he looked up at her, his face empty of all expression.

  “They took him. They took Keirith.”

  The morning passed in a daze of shock and numbed grief. She couldn’t mourn her lost son. She could scarcely spare the time to comfort her remaining children. Too many others needed her.

  She sent Faelia and Callie to Sanok’s hut where Alada was caring for some of the little ones. Outside the longhut, women were cutting up nettle-cloth and doeskin to use as bandages and slings.

  Mirili entered the longhut with her and began feeding the fire. “I thought of keeping the men outside where there’s more light, but they’ll be better here, I think, than lying in the open.”

  Griane nodded; after all the horror their families had witnessed, they didn’t need to watch her sew their loved ones back together.

  Sali was waiting for her, bless the child, her healing bag clutched in one hand and an overflowing basket of medicinal supplies in the other. Griane paused long enough to give her a quick hug before issuing orders: stone pots of water for cleaning wounds, tallow for ointment, greenwood to splint broken bones. A few eyes went wide at the last instruction, but Bethia stepped forward, offering to make the necessary prayers and sacrifices so they could cut living branches from the trees.

  At some point, Faelia joined them, fetching water and cleaning up the vomit and blood and urine that slimed the rushes. White-lipped but determined, Sali applied poultices of yarrow and hartstongue, stitched flesh wounds, and replaced soiled bandages with fresh ones.

  Griane held out little hope for those with belly wounds. Mother Netal had taught her to ease suffering and preserve life, and when that was not possible, to use her skill to offer a clean and speedy death. For now she stanched the bleeding, numbed them with brogac, and prayed.

  Even her prayers were brief; as soon as she finished tending one person, another needed her to splint a bone or dig an arrowhead out of a shoulder. By midday, she was soaked with sweat and blood, her legs trembling with exhaustion. She sent those with minor injuries home. A dozen still remained in the longhut, most deeply unconscious, a few tossing restlessly with fever. Half might survive if the wounds didn’t turn putrid. The next two or three days would tell.

  When she paused for a sip of water, Mirili whispered, “They took Owan, too.”

  “Oh, gods.” Duba had lost her husband last winter. Now Owan. He was only a year older than Faelia. “I’ll go to her. Will you stay with the wounded?”

  Mirili nodded, her gaze lingering on Nemek.

  “He’s young, Mirili, and strong.”

  Mirili nodded again, her face haggard; Nemek was her only son.

  Keirith. My son. They have taken my son.

  Mirili touched her cheek. The silent sympathy of the gesture brought tears to Griane’s eyes. She blinked them back. Tears were useless.

  Outside, she gulped great lungfuls of air, so clean and cool after the smokiness of the longhut and the stench of blood and death. She would go to Duba first. Then she had to find Darak.

  After those first few words, he had not spoken. When she knelt beside him, when she pushed the broken shaft of the arrow through his arm, when she stitched and bound his wound, he simply sat there. His silence chilled her, conjuring up memories of the days after Tinnean’s transformation when he’d huddled between the roots that had once been his brother’s feet, his spirit slowly drifting away. She had brought him back then; she could—she would—now.

  There were more bodies in the center of the village. Some were already hidden under mantles. Women squatted beside others, helping Bethia and Muina strip and wash them. Tradition dictated that only priestesses could prepare a body for burial, but with Lisula still recovering from the birth and with so many bodies—dear gods, nearly a quarter of the tribe lay there—the women had forsworn tradition so that their dead could be ready before sunset.

  Her breath caught when she saw Jani. Griane knelt next to her and stared down at her uncle Dugan’s body. Red Dugan they still called him, although the hair had long since gone white. She’d hated him as a child, fought with him as a girl, avoided him after her return from the First Forest. Things changed after he married Jani. Perhaps her uncle had mellowed; more likely, Jani insisted he make an effort. Whatever the reason, Griane and her uncle had learned to tolerate each other, and Jani and Dugan had enjoyed a good marriage for more than ten years.

  Dry-eyed, Jani drew the mantle over his face. “He wouldn’t listen. Had to go with the other men. Old fool.” Her voice broke, and Griane hugged her hard.

  He would lie here with the others tonight while the priestesses kept vigil with Gortin. On the morrow, they would make the journey to the Death Hut. How many more might be taking that journey if Keirith had not sounded the alarm? How many more might have been stolen?

  Keirith. My son. They have taken my son.

  She found Duba rocking back and forth beside the fire pit. Her parents watched with bleak faces until Griane motioned them outside.

  “She hasn’t spoken,” Petha said. “Not since she found out.”

  “It’s the shock. It takes some like that.” Griane leaned close to Mintan so she wouldn’t have to shout; Duba might not be speaking, but she could still hear. Even with Mintan cupping his hand behind his right ear, she had to repeat herself twice. “You’re sure Owan’s not just missing?”

  Mintan shook his head. “Jurl saw them,” he said loudly. “Pulling poor Owan into the boat.” He broke off and abruptly turned away, his thin shoulders shaking.

  “It was his hair,” Petha said. “That’s how Jurl knew. Bright as your Faelia’s.”

  Griane passed the tiny bundle of herbs to Petha. “This will help her sleep. Use half in a bowl of hot water. Let it steep until the brew turns golden.” If only she had the magical heart-ease from the Summerlands. For Duba. For herself. For all those who had lost children today.

  Keirith. My son. They have taken my son.

  Petha touched her arm gently. “We shall pray for your Keirith.”

  Griane nodded and hurried away before the last shreds of her self-control vanished.

  Darak was not in their hut. The fire was dead. The furs lay in scattered heaps. Only Keirith’s sleeping place was tidy, his mantle folded neatly atop his pallet. She fell to her knees and clutched it to her breast. For the first time that awful day, Griane allowed herself to weep.

  She didn’t know how long she knelt there before she heard the shouting. She wiped her face and carefully refolded the mantle before hurrying outside.

  Jurl and Rothisar passed her, dragging a struggling man between them. A group of men trailed in their wake, some shouting curses, others waving weapons. The two men halted by the bodies and shoved the man to his knees. Jurl seized the skinny tail of black hair that hung down the man’s neck and yanked his head back.

  It shocked her to see how young he was—a beardless boy, only a year or two older than Keirith. Droplets of sweat oozed down cheeks the color of pine bark. He screamed curses at Jurl, his dark eyes rolling wildly.

  Jurl tugged the boy’s head to the left. “You see this woman? That’s my mother. And this . . .” Another vicious tug jerked the boy’s gaze to the right. “This is my brother Onnig.”

  “My father!” screamed Rothisar, his face contorted in rage. “My grandmother!”

  “Murdering bastard!” a man shouted.

  “Coward!”

  “Child stealer!”

  Women and children poured out of neighboring huts, as caught by the spectacle as she
was. Jani rose from Dugan’s corpse and spat in the boy’s face. Even mild-mannered Lorthan was screaming for blood.

  Jurl drew his dagger. “Do we sacrifice him at the heart-oak or kill him here?”

  The shouting crescendoed to a roar. In a moment, they would tear the boy apart with their bare hands.

  Darak shoved his way through the crowd. Only when people moved aside, did she see Nionik and Gortin behind him. Gortin used his blackthorn staff to clear a path; Nionik’s air of command was enough to make his kinfolk back away.

  The shouting died down as the three men strode toward Jurl and Rothisar. Jurl turned to face them without releasing his grip on the boy’s hair. “We found him trying to steal a coracle.”

  “Let me kill him, Oak-Chief,” Rothisar begged. “Let me avenge the deaths of my father and grandmother.”

  Nionik raised his hands, silencing the roar of approval. “We have all lost family this day.” Grim-faced, the chief turned to Gortin. “Is it fitting to sacrifice an unbeliever at the heart-oak?”

  “Nay. His blood would pollute our sacred tree. Nor will I have it shed here to mingle with the blood of our people. On the morrow, we will burn our dead. But before—”

  Howls of protest rose from the crowd. Gortin raised his staff, demanding silence. “Would you allow your loved ones to lie in the Death Hut, stacked like . . . like peat bricks?” he asked, outraged. “Nay, we will construct a pyre on the beach. I will go with the men to the forest this afternoon so that I might make the appropriate offerings to the spirits of the trees we must injure. As for this monster . . .” He gestured to the kneeling boy with his staff. “Let him be taken to the standing stones. Let him watch us honor our kinfolk. After the fire has consumed their bodies, let each family exact retribution for their dead from his living flesh.”

  The tribe cheered, howling like wolves.

  Darak leaned close to Nionik. After a brief exchange, the chief nodded. He held up his hand and waited for the cheering to die down. “The Memory-Keeper has requested that the council of elders question this man before he is killed.”

  “You can’t even understand his barbarous tongue,” Jurl said.

  Again, Darak whispered something to Nionik, although his gaze remained fastened on the prisoner. The dazed look had vanished. Now his face was as cold and hard as stone.

  Nionik said, “Urkiat—our guest from the south—will translate.”

  At his words, Urkiat squeezed through the press of onlookers to stand beside Darak. With all that had happened, she’d had no time to learn much about him. Had Urkiat been stolen by the raiders? Is that how he came to know their language?

  “But what’s the point?” Jurl persisted.

  “The point,” Nionik said in a sharper tone, “is that this man may have information.” The chief said something in an undertone to Darak who stared at the prisoner, his eyes glittering. Nionik spoke again, more urgently. Without taking his gaze from the kneeling boy, Darak gave a curt nod.

  Jurl scowled and spat. “Just you remember, Darak. I want him alive on the morrow.”

  “He’ll be alive,” Darak said in a calm, terrible voice.

  She had to run to match Darak’s long stride, but she caught up with him and Urkiat at the edge of the village.

  “Urkiat. Give us a moment.”

  He hesitated, glancing toward Darak for instruction, but quickly retreated when she turned on him in a fury. Darak stared up at the lone oak on the hilltop.

  “You mean to torture him, then?”

  A muscle twitched in his jaw. “I mean to do whatever is necessary.”

  “He’s just a boy.”

  His head jerked toward her, eyes blazing. “So is my son.”

  “He’s my son, too!”

  “Then you should worry more about him and less about that murdering raider.”

  She drew back her arm and struck him as hard as she could across the face. His breath hissed in, but he barely flinched. She struck him again and yet a third time, and still he stood there. Only when she raised her hand for another blow did he grab her wrist.

  “Enough.”

  She kicked him in the shin and gasped, wondering if she’d broken a toe. He jerked her toward him, pinioning her against his bare chest.

  “Griane.”

  She struggled futilely, heedless of Urkiat’s shocked stare.

  “Stop. Please.”

  It was the “please” that caught her. She went still, the sound of her panting loud in her ears. A tremor shuddered through her body; only when she looked up did she realize it came from Darak.

  “Don’t do this.”

  His expression hardened. “You still plead for him?”

  “Nay. For you.” The mask slipped ever so slightly, enough to show her a glimmer of the man she had loved for so many years. “I would not have you do to him what Morgath did to you.”

  His head snapped back as if she had slapped him again. “You think this is the same? That I do this for my pleasure?”

  “Don’t you? What can he possibly tell you? The raiders will come or they won’t. Knowing the number of men on one of their boats or how fast they travel cannot help us.”

  And then she realized. Darak didn’t care about that. He wanted to know where they had taken Keirith. He meant to go after him. What a fool not to have realized it immediately.

  “I must go,” Darak said.

  “Please. If he must be tortured, let it be someone else. I can’t bear to see you do this.”

  “Then don’t watch.”

  With Urkiat at his heels, he splashed across the stream. Sanok passed her, supported by Nionik and Gortin. When she felt a light touch on her shoulder, Griane turned to discover Muina beside her. She would not have thought it possible for the Grain-Grandmother to look any older, but the meager flesh on her cheeks sagged and grief had carved deeper grooves around her mouth.

  “The elders mean to question him at the oak,” Muina said. “Will you come?”

  Griane hesitated. If she couldn’t stop the torture, she could make sure the boy didn’t bleed to death. But perhaps it would be more merciful if he did. It would spare him the lingering death that awaited him on the morrow.

  They stole my son. They killed my kin. Why should I care how he dies or what he suffers?

  But she did care. She had never killed a man, although she had been prepared to do so this morning. But it was one thing to kill someone who threatened her children, another to slice flesh off a helpless man and listen to his screams. That would not bring back Keirith. Or Owan. Or any of their dead.

  “Will you come?” Muina repeated.

  Could she watch the torture? Aye. She was strong enough for that. But she could not watch her husband wreak the same vengeance on the body of this nameless boy that Morgath had wreaked on him all those years ago.

  Slowly, Griane shook her head.

  She went back inside the longhut to check her patients. She dribbled water between a pair of cracked lips, changed a bandage over a seeping wound. She gave her strength and her skill and her concentration to the men and women who needed her. But it was not enough to drown out the high-pitched scream that drifted down from the hilltop.

  The babe’s whimpering woke her. Still half-asleep, she rolled toward him, guiding her nipple to his mouth. With a small animal growl, the toothless gums clamped on it and sucked greedily.

  She shifted position, cupping her son’s naked bottom with one hand and his head with the other. Too soon to know if the soft fuzz would darken or remain as unrepentantly red as hers.

  Her eyes closed, blissful with the suckling. Tiny fingers kneaded her breast. Bigger ones closed on her thigh. She opened her eyes to look into Darak’s. For a long while, he simply watched them while his fingers stroked her thigh, as rhythmic and sensual as the babe’s suckling but slower than the insistent tug at her nipple.

  “What does it feel like?”

  She smiled; how to explain such a thing to a man? “It tingles. As if all the energ
y in me is being pulled into that greedy little mouth.”

  “It doesn’t . . . drain you?”

  “Nay. It feels good.”

  “I wondered . . .” Even in the predawn gloom, she thought he was blushing. “Maybe it was like . . . well, when you . . .”

  Her smile widened. “It’s not at all the same as when I drain you.”

  Now she knew he was blushing. She loved to make him blush. Even after a year, there were moments like this when he would turn unexpectedly shy. Whether it was his natural reserve or the lingering effects of his first marriage, she never knew.

  The babe lay limp and heavy in her arms. She shifted him to her right nipple, but no amount of gentle urging would rouse him. With a sigh, she lay back.

  “He’s finished already?”

  “I’ll wake him in a bit and see if he’ll take some more.” She cupped her swollen breast, wincing.

  “Does it pain you?”

  “A little. But if he won’t feed again, it’ll ache something fierce.”

  His fingers covered hers, gently tracing the curve of her breast. She eased her right arm behind his head and pressed him closer. His lips fastened on her nipple and she moaned. He started to raise his head, but she pulled him back. His mouth was gentle, nothing like the babe’s relentless tug.

  “Harder,” she whispered.

  His mouth obeyed, while his fingers brushed her body, gentle as fern fronds. Her hand wandered over the scarred shoulders and back. Locked together, they drifted, dreamlike, until the gentle rocking of their bodies carried them into another rhythm, fiercer than the first and even more ancient.

  “Mam?”

  Griane jerked awake to find Faelia squatting beside her.

  “You were dreaming.”

  “Aye.”

  The shreds of the dream still clung to her, her nipples swollen, her body flushed with unsatisfied desire. Even as she noted the sensations, others intruded: the groans of the wounded, the smoky stench of the longhut.