Runes and Red Sails (Queenmaker Book 1)(31)

Aelfhild gasped, and Runild dissolved into tears.

Turning back toward his roost, the slaver kicked Ceolwen’s inert form.

Reasoning, arguing, pleading would be of no avail; there was nothing to do but get to work. Aelfhild bent over the body and stared at the wound. At the edge of her vision she could see Sola’s frail outline. The girl was as tranquil as ever.

Tears loomed on the horizon.

Do something. Do anything.

She shook her head to clear the haze and focused.

Blood bubbled from the gash in the man’s side with each wheezing breath. His forehead was clammy to the touch, and his heartbeat faint. She tore a strip of cloth from her sleeve, and turned to Runild.

“Runild, fetch some water.” The woman did not stir from her weeping, so Aelfhild shouted, “Runild, water, now!”

Ceolwen limped over and collapsed beside the body. “What can I do, Aela?”

“I do not even know what I can do. Tear some cloth for me; we can at least stem the bleeding.”

Runild returned with a bucket, and Aelfhild rinsed the wound. Blood kept flowing, though, no matter how hard she pressed. The man gurgled in agony, eyes bulging. Panic was written bold across Runild’s face, so Aelfhild kept yelling. There would be time for apologies later.

“Runild, hands here!”

Ceolwen handed over more torn pieces of dress, which they layered over the wound. Dripping tears, Runild shook visibly as she pushed with both arms against the compress.

“What else?” Ceolwen asked, staring at Aelfhild.

But Aelfhild could only shake her head. She knew nothing of this sort of thing. She had never been on a battlefield.

“Sniff it, maybe,” her mistress suggested.

“What?”

“I heard one of the women say once that if a wound smells rotten, the man will die. If it smells clean, he will live. I think.”

Aelfhild bent down and sniffed at the bandages. They stank like a midden, she flinched away, gagging.

Across from her, Ceolwen lowered her head.

No. Not like this. Not Sola. Aelfhild raged. She strode over to the aft platform and lifted herself up. Her hands left bloody prints on the deckboards. She spotted Bercthun chained to one of the benches, but he did not look up as she passed by. He looked alive, and that was all the worry she could spare for him.

Leofstan reclined in the stern near the rudder, Sigfus beside him. As Aelfhild approached, the towering Thrym spun and lashed out with his staff at neck level.

“No!” called his master. The end of the stick hovered in the air above Aelfhild’s shoulder. “What?” the slaver asked.

“We need pitch and fire, or boiling water and herbs. Otherwise your man will die.”

“You will get neither.” Leofstan sounded perfectly at ease. His head lolled to one side as he spoke. “Surely you nobles learn all the healing arts in the King’s court.”

She could hear the sneer on the last two words. Even though he had them entirely under his power, he still envied them. Aelfhild fought back the urge to gag once more at his pettiness.

“Your men have lanterns, and you must have pitch for the boat. Give us some, or your man will die.”

Her insistence seemed to ruffle his calm. He stood and strutted up to her until they were eye to eye.

“I could have Sigfus beat you again.” His breath was foul on her face. “And not go as easy as last time.”

“And your man would still die.” She matched his gaze, mirroring the ice in his eyes with her own. Every sinew in her body vibrated, every nerve tingled. She knew her limbs were trembling, but took no pains to hide it. She had but one advantage—he had let slip that she, too, was valuable, not just her mistress. Her hope was that he valued his purse more than his pride.

He blinked, then called out to one of his men. “Take your lantern below and fetch a dollop of pitch from the bucket. The slaves need it.”

“Remember my price, girl,” he hissed. “Save him or I will kill her myself.”





It was an idea born of desperation. Aelfhild thought that she might have once heard about such a process, maybe, but could not say where or when. But doing nothing was not an option.

One of the slavers had brought them a brick of sticky-hard pitch and an iron bowl for melting. Ceolwen held it over the lantern’s flame, watching the black ooze spread across the dish’s surface.

“Will this work, Aela?” she whispered, leaning close to her servant’s ear.

Aelfhild shook her head. Leofstan watched from above, appearing genuinely curious, and she did not want him to see a moment’s hesitation.

She put a hand on the wounded man’s pale forehead. The skin was dry and burning hot.

“Hold his shoulders,” she said to Runild.

With a wick of rolled cloth, she dabbed up some of the flowing pitch. Her fingers shook as the blood rushed through them. She took a deep breath.

As soon as the molten tar touched his skin, the man convulsed. Pink bubbles spumed from his mouth as he strained under Runild’s grasp. Aelfhild tried to work fast, dabbing and smearing the pitch, layering it with bandages.

At last, she sat back, and exhaled. Runild sagged, and Ceolwen handed the pitch and lantern back to the waiting slaver.

Clucking to himself, Leofstan stepped back from his ledge and left them alone in the hold.