Page 2 of Bound By Blood
The second horn blast cuts him off. Different pattern this time. Five short bursts.
Attack imminent.
"Get everyone who can walk to the inner compound," I order, already moving toward my supplies. Battlefield wounds require different preparations than sickbed tending. "Those who can't walk, move them away from the walls."
"But Lady, you should come with?—"
"I'm going to the fighting." I stuff rolls of bandages into the satchel, add vials of numbing oil, bone needles for emergency suturing. "Someone needs to bring in the wounded."
Ser Mael pales. "That's not—women don't?—"
"Women don't what?" I meet his stare directly. "Women don't serve? Don't heal? Don't make choices that others find uncomfortable?"
The third horn blast answers before he can. Battle cry of the Stoneborn.
I've heard that sound twice before, once as a child when raiders tested our borders, once during the Harvest Moonskirmish three years past. It raises every hair on my arms, primal and terrifying as a mountain cat's scream.
"Stay with the patients," I tell Ser Mael. "Keep them calm."
Outside, chaos reigns. Guards sprint along the wooden walkways, arrows already nocked. Servants rush toward the inner keep, carrying what supplies they can manage. Someone screams orders about barricading the gates.
I push against the flow, heading for the main wall where the fighting will be thickest. My healer's robes mark me clearly, earth-toned layers that announce my purpose to anyone with eyes. Protected by law and custom in most circumstances.
But Orcs don't always honor such traditions.
The first clash of steel on steel echoes from beyond the walls, followed by something between a roar and war chant. The Stoneborn have reached our outer defenses.
"Lady Eirian!" Captain Brennan waves me back as I approach the watchtower stairs. "Get to the keep! This is no place for?—"
An arrow sprouts from his shoulder. He stumbles, swears, looks down at the black-fletched shaft in surprise.
"No place for healers?" I catch him as he sways, already assessing the wound. Clean entry missed the major vessels. Painful but not fatal. "Hold still."
I snap the arrow shaft, leaving enough protruding for later removal, then tear a strip from my outer robe to bind the wound tight. The captain grimaces but doesn't cry out.
"Stubborn as your mother," he mutters.
Another roar from outside, closer now. The outer gates splinter with sounds like breaking bones.
"How many?" I ask, finishing the binding.
"Two dozen, maybe three. Raiding party, not a war host." He tests his injured arm gingerly. "But they're Stoneborn. That makes them worth twice their number."
The gates give way entirely. Through the breach pour warriors unlike any I've seen in diplomatic visits or peace negotiations. These are Orcs stripped of civilization's veneer, painted for war, bearing weapons that gleam with more than oil, moving with a predatory grace of lives spent in violence.
Their leader stands head and shoulders above the rest. Even at a distance, his presence dominates the battlefield like a lodestone drawing iron. Copper-bright topknot catches the afternoon sun. Armor of black leather and darker metal. Eyes find mine across the chaos.
"Chief Drokhan," Captain Brennan breathes. "What's he doing this far south?"
I don't answer. Can't answer. Those amber eyes hold mine for heartbeats that stretch like hours, and recognition, perhaps, or challenge passes between us. His gaze drops to the healer's pendant at my throat, then returns to my face.
He inclines his head slightly. Acknowledgment.
Then the moment breaks as his warriors surge forward and battle truly begins.
I sprint down the stairs, satchel bouncing against my hip. The courtyard has become a killing ground. Our guards fall back toward the keep in a fighting retreat, leaving wounded scattered across bloodstained earth.
The nearest is barely more than a boy, clutching a belly wound that seeps between his fingers. I drop beside him, hands already moving to assess damage.
