Page 57 of Devil's Deal

Everything slows down, my vision blackening as I sway. The sounds turn into a buzzing chaos, the scene blurring, and still I see the werewolf hunched over its prey, its throat moving as it swallows, shaggy head leaning in for another bite…

Darobor yells for the men to clear out of his way and thrusts his scythe like a spear, his eyes ferocious, muscles bunching. The blade sinks into the werewolf’s back. So deep it goes, I’m sure it must push clean through its trunk. The beast freezes, letting out a pitiful, dog-like whimper.

Swietko sobs, begging for mercy in barely comprehensible words.

The werewolf makes to rise, but its leg rolls out, making it fall to all fours. Darobor presses his foot into its lower back and grunts with effort. The scythe tears free with a wet crunch, and he staggers back.

Before he has time to aim again, the werewolf yelps in pain and flees, its gait uneven and staggering, half-animal, half-human. It disappears in the dark.

The night air rustles with the heavy, shaky breathing of everyone gathered. A baby cries somewhere in the distance, and Swietko’s sobs grow quiet. He’s losing blood, his eyes growing glassy.

If nobody tends to him, he’ll die.

“What are you waiting for?” Wiosna barks in my ear, jostling me out of my numb terror.

“A shirt,” I say, my voice barely a croak. I clear my throat, taking an unsteady step toward Swietko. From the corner of my eye, I see other wounds to tend, but his is the worst.

“Give me a shirt!” I say, too loud this time. The men flinch and jump, shooting me spooked looks. Most of them don’t even notice me throughout the ordeal. “Quickly! I have to staunch the bleeding!”

They just stand there, watching me. Annoyance pushes through the remnants of my fear, and I growl in frustration, hurrying to Swietko’s side. I’m wearing a linen dress and barely anything underneath. There’s no way I’ll strip naked. But maybe I can cut off my hem. I make to reach for my knife, careless in my haste as blood gushes out of Swietko’s wound in steady pulses, when Darobor touches my shoulder.

“Here.”

I take his shirt and rip it in half. Falling to my knees by Swietko’s mangled side, I wind the shirt well above the wound and cinch it tight. There’s no saving that arm, anyway. All that matters is saving his life.

“Good,” Wiosna murmurs. “But you don’t have a saw.”

I swallow convulsively at the implication. All I think about is stopping the bleeding, but she’s right. The arm will have to be removed. With so much muscle and bone missing, it will be useless, anyway. Bile rises in my throat, and I swallow time after time, pressing my hand to Swietko’s forehead to distract myself. His skin is clammy and cold. Bad sign.

“I need you…” I try to say, but my voice has crawled down into my gut. I swallow again and take a shuddering breath.

“Yes?” Darobor is at my side, crouching on the bloody dirt. “What do you need?”

I look up. His eyes are lucid and clear, his presence reassuring. I nod once and speak.

“A saw. The best you can find. But he’ll have to be moved inside first. We also need a flat piece of iron.” I swallow and breathe, swallow and breathe. “Heated in the fire. To close the wound.”

He nods and gets up. I fret that he’ll go to fetch the saw himself, but Darobor waves Janek closer. Ida’s husband is unharmed, only badly shaken.

“Go to my house. The shed is unlocked. There is a saw on my worktable, and a big wood ax. Bring both. Now hurry!”

I should be self-sufficient, I know. It’s unseemly for a whisperer to balk at treating a wound, even the grisliest kind. And yet, I can’t help but feel grateful for Darobor’s steady presence. Even with Wiosna prompting my every next move, I am nauseous and unsure of myself.

Never before did I have to cut off a limb. I didn’t even see it done. When Wiosna had to take off one woman’s crushed foot, I was barely six, and she didn’t let me assist.

She did tell me what to do in such cases, though. Yet knowledge is a poor substitute for experience. My hands shake when I think about what taking off an arm will entail. And that will be just the first step in ensuring Swietko’s survival.

I’m in for another sleepless night.

I look down at him. He’s unconscious, his skin pale, but the blood stopped flowing. Darobor crouches by my side. I glance over his shoulder to see Waclaw directing the wounded men to sit at the side of the road. Another man is sent into the dark, most likely to fetch more help.

Terrified, high pitched voices drift over from the closest cottage, asking if it’s safe to come out.

“Stay inside!” I shout. “It can come back. The moon’s still up!”

“What else?” Darobor asks. Sweat drips down his lined forehead, but his eyes are focused, lips tight.

“I need him on a clean table,” I say, looking around. “He’ll need strong spirits to dull the pain. And… Strong people to hold him.”

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