Page 3 of Bound By Blood
"Easy," I murmur, pulling away his hands to see clearly. Deep but not fatal if treated quickly. "You're going to live to see your sweetheart again."
He tries to speak, but manages only a whisper of air. Behind us, steel rings against steel as someone fights for their life.
I work quickly, applying pressure to stop the bleeding, numbing oil to ease his pain, bandages tight enough to hold untilproper surgery. The sounds of battle wash over us like ocean waves, but I force myself to focus on what I can control.
Another wounded guard crawls toward us, arrow through his thigh. Then a merchant clutching a gashed forearm. Then a servant girl with a blow to the head that's left her eyes unfocused and wandering.
This is what I was trained for, I remind myself.This is why I carry my mother's knowledge.
A war cry erupts directly behind me. I turn to see a Stoneborn warrior bearing down on us, axe raised high, face painted in designs that turn his features demonic.
I throw myself across the wounded boy, shielding him with my body. The pendant at my throat catches the light, healer's mark, symbol of protected status.
The axe stops inches from my skull.
I look up into eyes black as mountain pools, framed by ritual scars and war paint. The warrior studies my pendant, then my face, then the wounded.
He says something in the Orc tongue, harsh syllables that could be curse or prayer. Then he steps back, lowering his weapon.
But another figure approaches from my left. Sir Edmund Fairfax, one of our best knights, sword already blood-streaked from earlier fighting. His armor bears the deep gouges from Orc weapons, but he moves with deadly purpose.
"Get away from her!" he shouts, charging the warrior who spared us.
Steel meets steel in a shower of sparks. Sir Edmund is skilled, trained since childhood in sword work and tactics. But his opponent fights with the fluid brutality of someone born to war.
The knight stumbles. Goes down hard on one knee.
The Orc raises his axe for the killing blow.
I move without thinking, flinging myself between them. Sir Edmund's eyes widen in shock as I spread my arms, shielding him as I had shielded the wounded boy.
"Please," I say in the few words of Orcish my mother taught me. Badly pronounced, probably wrong, but spoken with desperate sincerity. "Mercy."
The warrior freezes. Behind him, I notice, the sounds of battle have quieted. Others have stopped to watch this strange tableau of a human healer protecting human knight from Orc justice.
Footsteps approach with measured weight. The other warriors step aside, making room for their leader.
Chief Drokhan stands before me now, close enough that I can see the intricate details of his ancestral tattoos, smell the iron tang of blood on his armor. He studies me with intelligence that burns like banked coals.
He speaks to his warrior in their language. The warrior responds, gesturing toward my pendant, toward the wounded around us.
Drokhan nods slowly. Then he addresses me directly.
"You shield the warrior who would kill my people." His accent is thick, but his words are clear. "Why?"
"Because he's wounded. Because healing doesn't choose sides." I keep my voice steady despite the tremor in my hands. "Because my oath demands it."
"Your oath." He seems to taste the words. "To whom?"
"To life itself."
Something shifts in his expression. He studies the wounded boy beneath me, takes in the careful bandaging, the competent treatment.
"You know the healing ways of my people," he says. It's not a question.
Heat floods my cheeks. "I know all healing ways that work."
"Even those your kind call heretical?"
