The silence that followed was deafening, broken only by Azarion’s clipped voice. “Ten.”
Keening cries of grief rose from the crowd but were soon drowned out by the triumphant roar of those who had sided with Azarion’s bid to reclaim the chieftainship.
Gilene turned to Saruke, who stared at her son with tear-filled eyes. Her mouth trembled. “He lives,” she said, as if still trying to convince herself that Azarion had come out the victor and the survivor of this bout.
Beside her, Tamura reacted in an entirely different way from Saruke, shouting her brother’s name and chanting “Ataman! Ataman!” along with the rest of the clan as Azarion took a victory walk along the circle’s perimeter, sword raised, his face gray. Blood coated his entire left side, but he paid it no heed as he recognized the clan’s acceptance of his leadership.
He paused briefly before the newly widowed Arita and the children pressed against her. Her expression was inscrutable when he leaned in and said something in her ear. Her features didn’t change, though her gaze flickered toward Tamura before she gave a quick nod.
By the time Azarion had completed his victory walk and stood before the three women of his household, the crowd had gone riotous with celebration, passing flasks of fermented mare’s milk between them and breaking into impromptu jigs, as if Karsas’s headless body didn’t sprawl before them in the bloodstained grass.
Gilene gathered around Azarion, along with Saruke and Tamura. Up close, he looked even more ghastly, and the serene facade he wore cracked under exhaustion. Pain darkened his eyes.
He grasped one of Tamura’s hands. “Get me to the qara before I collapse,” he said in a raspy voice.
His warning might have been a lightning strike at their feet. Gilene and Tamura each took up a place on either side of him and leaned close to offer support while Saruke cleaved a path through the gathering.
They made it to the qara without a moment to spare. Azarion took three steps past the threshold before dropping his sword and falling to his knees, bringing Gilene and his sister with him.
“Fetch a healer,” Saruke snapped once Tamura gained her feet, and the younger woman bolted out of the qara.
Saruke and Gilene managed to coax Azarion up long enough to stumble to his pallet, where he crumpled, facedown, into the bedding.
His mother used a knife to cut away his gore-soaked tunic. “Drying cloths, quick,” she commanded Gilene. “And there’s a small green box in that chest.” She pointed to one close to her pallet. “Bring it.” Gilene jumped to do her bidding, returning with the items requested.
Saruke carefully peeled away the last strip of Azarion’s tunic and tossed it aside. He grunted but didn’t move. Both women gasped at the sight of the wound, a gaping slash with ragged edges that split a diagonal line across the shoulder blade and down his back. Blood welled from the wound to slide down his side and stain the bedding.
To Gilene, it looked life-threatening. “Is it very deep?”
“Deep enough that it’ll need sewing.” Saruke peered more closely at the injury. “I won’t know much more until we clean him up.”
She opened the box Gilene handed her and tilted its contents into her cupped palm. Gilene recognized the yellow powder. Her mother always kept a supply in her cupboard to help control fleas in the summer.
“How does the yarrow help?”
Saruke poured the powder directly into the wound. Azarion didn’t move. “It stops the bleeding.” She gestured for Gilene to pass her one of the cloths, which she folded and pressed to his flesh. Blood saturated the cloth, and she applied more until the compress lay thick and blood-spotted under her hand.
Gilene had set a pot of water to warm on the cooking brazier when Tamura returned with the healer, a tiny woman who looked more avian than human with her withered hands like bird feet, a nose that resembled a beak, and black eyes that saw everything. She crouched beside Saruke to inspect Azarion’s injury.
Tamura joined Gilene at the brazier. “How badly is he wounded?”
Gilene stoked the coals before testing the water’s temperature with her finger. Not warm enough yet. “Your mother managed to stop the worst of the bleeding, but she thinks he’ll need stitching.”
The idea of a needle puncturing his skin made her shudder. Her oldest brother had suffered through such a procedure when he was eleven. She’d never forgotten the sound of his screams. “I didn’t know a horse’s hoof could cut someone so badly.”
The maneuver he’d executed to unhorse Karsas had been a risky one, dependent on perfect timing and speed to keep from being trampled. It had been an impressive display of Azarion’s daring and prowess, but he hadn’t come away from the feat unscathed.
Tamura gave an indelicate snort. “A horse’s hoof can do a lot of damage, especially its edge. He’s lucky the mare took him in the shoulder instead of the head. He wouldn’t have survived otherwise.” She and Gilene stared at each other, recognizing their mutual fear of Azarion’s close call with death.
Gilene left the brazier to join Saruke and Vua, the healer, at Azarion’s pallet. The healer was explaining that he would suffer fever from his injury and to dose him with both willow bark tea for the fever and bone broth for the blood loss.
She gingerly peeled back the compresses Saruke had used, careful not to dislodge anything newly scabbed. Azarion twitched but remained quiet. Gilene flinched for him.
Vua stared at the wound and frowned. “This is deep enough to need stitching,” she said, echoing Saruke’s earlier declaration. “I’ll return with supplies.” She replaced the compresses. “Keep a pot of water heated, and have more cloths ready.” She rose and departed, leaving Gilene, Saruke, and Tamura gathered around their silent patient.
Gilene touched Saruke’s arm. “What do you want us to do?”
Saruke ran her fingers through Azarion’s hair. “Watch over him while I brew the tea Vua wants.” She turned to Tamura. “See if you can find a family willing to part with some mutton bones. I used my last one two days ago for the soup we ate at supper. I need more to make that broth.”
All three women startled when Azarion suddenly spoke in a raspy voice. “Tamura.”
His sister bent down to him, the scowl on her face in contrast to the worry in her eyes. “Your years in Kraelag have rotted your brain,” she admonished him. “I can’t believe you were mad enough to roll under a galloping horse like that. I’d kill you myself for such idiocy if you hadn’t nearly completed the task on your own.” Her criticism lacked any sharpness.
Azarion’s pallor was still ashy, and his lips pale, but he managed a small smile. “Skin me later. Go see Arita. Make it known to all who will listen that I offer her my protection before word is sent to her clan of Karsas’s death.”