Page 1 of The Iron Dagger
ONE
Angharad
His hair shone silver in the moonlight, and the blood shone black.
Hara studied the man lying on the forest floor with her knees drawn up against her chest. Her basket lay forgotten beside her, and Seraphine hesitantly sniffed at the man, her long white whiskers stiff.
Hara had been collecting winter mint by moonlight, enjoying the whispering breeze while Seraphine hunted field mice, her white paws flashing disembodied in the dark. Then the crashing of heavy footfalls disturbed the peace of the night. The steps had grown louder and louder, there was a thump, and then silence.
That was when Hara found the man.
He lay sprawled on his stomach, and wispy, wheezing breaths escaped his lips. One of his boots was missing, and his bare foot looked mangled, as though it had been caught in a trap or a sharp set of teeth.
Hara glanced over her shoulder; the lights of her home winked through the trees, so it would not be a great burden to move him. She considered leaving him here, wretched and helpless on the ground. Something terrible had happened to him—whether by human or beast, his own doing or his innocence, she did not know—and she did not want to become involved. Inviting him into her home would surely attract trouble.
But she could hardly call herself a healer if she left the injured untended on her doorstep, no matter how bothersome it might be.
With a sigh, she gained her feet and gathered up her basket, turning towards her cottage. She went to her garden and took up her wheelbarrow, dumping out the kindling. Up the rise she wheeled it, hoping the man was still alive. It would be troublesome indeed to have a dead man to deal with.
Thankfully he was still wheezing softly when she wheeled the barrow beside him. His mouth was slightly open, and he made no move when she prodded him on the shoulder.
Seraphine sat beside her, feline eyes clear and shining in the darkness.Well, what are you waiting for?
“If only you were as strong as you are plump, my sweet,” Hara said in a strained voice as she hoisted the man’s legs up. With an almighty heave, she hooked her hands under his arms and settled him in the bowl of the wheelbarrow, his head lolling gracelessly. Hara lifted the handles and made the slow descent to her cottage.
When she reached the door, she considered the difficulty of maneuvering the wheelbarrow through the narrow doorway, but to her relief it barely cleared the threshold and she was able to move the man into the center of the room. She set him down, then took a moment to rest her hands on her hips and catch her breath. She had some wiry strength in her, but she was not accustomed to carting full grown men the distance of a cornfield.
The meager light from the hearth cast the room in shadow, so she stoked the fire and lit a candle with the flames. Now that she had some light, she could study him properly.
Small, silver loops glinted at his earlobes. Royalty or close, she guessed. His dark brows suggested his shock of pale hair was artificially colored. Streaks of dried blood and vomit stained his hollow cheeks, leaking from lips that were parted andslightly swollen. If it weren’t for the filth staining the corners, it would be a very pretty mouth, Hara thought. He had a sort of androgynous handsomeness, his beauty ruined somewhat by the wretched state he was in. She could see now that vomit soiled the front of his plum colored cape, staining the embroidery at the edges.
Hara glanced at her bed. Devils take her before she would let this man soil her linens.
She put a full cauldron over the fire, then set about removing his clothing to assess his injuries. His mangled foot was even more ghastly under the light. It looked as though it had been caught in a bear trap and viciously yanked free. Hara swallowed against her suddenly tender stomach. In all the years she had worked as a healer she had never seen an injury this gruesome.
He did not stir as she removed his other boot, unbuckled a flat leather pouch from around his waist, and undid the buttons on his shirt and trousers. Mottled purple bruises bloomed across his shoulder, and blood oozed thickly from a nasty gash over his knee. What on earth had he gotten himself into?
Hara poured some hot water into a basin with soap and gently smoothed a rag over his brow and the filthy corners of his mouth. She discovered a split lip beneath the dried blood; someone had landed a solid blow across his face.
As Hara worked down his neck and chest, the touch of his skin shocked her. His flesh burned with fever under her fingertips, and the wet cloth made him shiver as she gently cleaned around his cuts.
At last his wounds were clean, and she worked a lather through his silvery hair. He stirred slightly when she poured clean water over his scalp, elegant brows furrowing. To her surprise, he let out a hacking, thick cough that wracked hischest. Pity welled up in her for this strange man. Clearly he had been through a life-or-death ordeal, and was ill on top of it all. Perhaps fate had led him to her.
Hara wheeled him to her bed and tossed away the coverlet. She heaved his shoulders onto the feather tick and then swung his legs over haphazardly. Again she stood over him, catching her breath. She couldn’t just leave him there, naked as a babe. Hara went to her chest of clothes and rifled through it. Her late aunt’s ruffled nightie would do. If he was sick on it, it would be no great loss.
She bunched up the gown and slipped it over his head, shimmying it with difficulty over his wide shoulders and tugging it down his waist.
With a soft grunt she laid him back against the pillows and tucked the blankets around him. His shivering had lessened, but her work was not finished.
To a mortar and pestle she added honey, cloves, and some garlic. Then she took out the box of gray powder she kept specially for festered wounds and added a pinch of it to the mix. Pestle in hand, Hara began to mix and grind the ingredients together, murmuring a spell as she did so. Her hands soon felt warm, her movements supple as she became lost in the comforting ritual. Soon the poultice felt ready, and Hara opened her apothecary kit to take out some bandage strips.
Gently, she lifted the sheets away from his injured leg and tucked them aside. Hara smeared the poultice on his wounds, working the mixture deep into the cuts as she continued to softly sing her spell. Normally, if the wounds were fresh, she would simply clean them and knit the skin together with a spell. But these looked as though they were hours old, and his fever worried her. Infection complicated things. Closing the wounds now would trap the infection within him.
If her suspicions were right and he had been bitten by an animal, she would have to take care to work the poultice into his cuts every night. Her powder was designed to fight infection of all kinds, including mad-dog sickness. This first application was essential: she needed to work the mixture into the open cuts so the medicine could enter his blood.
After she had wrapped the wounds in linen, Hara slipped her hand under his neck to lift his head. Parting his lips carefully, she tipped a cup of willow-bark tea so that the hot liquid poured into his mouth. He choked and gagged, spluttering the first mouthful, and then he began to swallow reflexively. When the mug was drained, Hara laid him back down onto her pillow and felt his brow. Sweat met her fingers, and his skin was still hot to the touch, but his breathing was a bit easier.
It was deep night now, well past midnight, but Hara barely noticed. She was accustomed to keeping odd hours; nightmares often kept her wakeful, and work was a welcome distraction.
