Chapter Ten

Orc Attack – Part Three -

   Strider struck the last fleeing Orc down. When the enemy did not move again, the wanderer dared to take a look around. Dead enemies as well as dead villagers were lying on the paths. Huts were burning, but already the men and women were bringing water to extinguish the flames. Bradolla was one of the first to appear from her hiding place, and on her command those unharmed helped the injured. The larger than usual fire at the centre illuminated the vast amount of damage. Bradolla threw her hands in the air, whining loudly in dismay at the sight of every wounded man brought to her. She ran from one to the other, trying to help them all at the same time, but realising she could not. There were too many.

   The weeping of the wives was mingled with the cries of the wounded defenders. Strider wiped the blade of his sword with a piece of cloth and sheathed it. He was out of breath, worn out by the strain, and yet he felt a strange kind of contentment and pride in the victory.

   Dinúvren appeared beside him. They could see the centre of the village where those who had been wounded were being helped to sit or lie down. Bradolla's high voice could be heard. She commanded the other women to bring water to heat and bandages, while she hurried to her hut to fetch pots with salves and herbs.

   “How many died?” Strider asked quietly.

   “Five men and…” The fisherman swallowed hard. “Three lads.” He avoided Strider's gaze while his eyes filled with tears. “And Oldyna was killed by the fire in her hut. She could not get out when the roof collapsed.”

   Strider was about to answer when he caught sight of Talan's father. He collapsed near the fire and did not move. Quickly the wanderer knelt beside the man, turned him on his back to discover an ugly gash right across his chest. His jerkin was ripped open and saturated with blood.

   “I need hot water and cloths to stanch the bleeding!” he yelled at Dinúvren, who just stood there staring. “And bring my pack! Hurry!”

   “But you can't do that! Bradolla will look after him. You're no…”

   “I said hurry!”

   Dinúvren complied and left. Strider opened the already torn jerkin further. The wound was bleeding freely, and as soon as Nilana's brother handed him the cloth and placed a bowl of steaming water right beside him, Strider used some herbs from his pouch to add to the water to clean the wound and cover it. With a hand on the man's brow he then waited. Dinúvren stood aside, listening to the quiet sound of words he could not understand.

   “You know what to do?” he asked in a hushed whisper, but Strider did not heed him. He felt the man's heart beat strongly and was content. Assured that Talan's father would live, he rose to look after the next man lying on the ground. He had received a blow to his head, and Strider bathed the wound and – again with his hand resting on the man's brow - waited until he opened his eyes. The fisherman’s expression was puzzled, but before he could utter a word the wanderer had already left the place beside him.

   Dinúvren shook his head, but followed the wanderer, providing him with what he demanded.

   Bradolla rose from her crouched position. Did her eyes deceive her, or was that stranger actually washing Rilon's wound? She parted her lips to ask a question, but shut them again when a piercing cry resounded. She turned and saw Nilana carry her child out of her hut.

   “She's hurt!” Nilana screamed. “She's hurt!” And Nelin cried in pain. “Bradolla, you must help her!” Nilana sat on the ground, holding the little girl tight on her lap. “Please, help her!”

   “Why's Nelin here?” Bradolla asked, irritated at the sight of a child in this gruesome place. “She should have been with the others!” And when Nilana only cried, the old healer crouched beside her. “What happened?”

   “She's… She fell.” Nilana shook her head, unable to continue. Her daughter cried even louder, and Bradolla needed a firm hand to make the mother let go of her daughter. Nelin's left arm stood at an odd angle, and the slightest touch caused another heart-wrenching scream.

   “It's broken,” Bradolla stated matter-of-factly.

   “You must help her!” Nilana repeated, blind with tears. “Please!”

   “Well…” Bradolla flinched at trying to move the little girl's arm. She realised that this was beyond her skill. Nelin broke into tears again. “Bradolla doesn't know how… She fears, she can't set that.” She scratched her brow, driven by the urgency to look after so many others, who needed her help far more.

   “You can't? But…” Nilana pulled Nelin tight to her bosom, covering her with her own tears, and rocking her on her lap. “It won't mend like that!”

   “Not really, no.” Bradolla rose her gaze. The moaning of the men and boys called out to her. So many had been wounded. She must leave, and yet the sight of the little girl was awful. She would never be able to fully use her arm again. “But she is young and…”

   “It is only a broken arm.” The wanderer knelt beside Nilana and gently reached for Nelin. She looked up, a glimpse of hope amid her tears.

   “Aye, Bradolla knows that.” She frowned. “But you can't set it right. You're not even a healer!”

   Strider exhaled, his grey eyes fixed on Nelin.

   “I know it is painful,” he said quietly, “but I can help if you let me.”

   “You?” Nilana stared at him, disbelief and hope mingling in her haunted features.

   “You will not mess with that little one!” Bradolla objected face stern.

   Strider did not look at her, but waited until Nelin gave him a slight nod.

   “Aye, Nelin, calm down.” He put his left hand on her brow and closed his eyes. The surroundings became mere shadows, the sounds muffled. Bradolla's arguments and Nilana's frightened questions were lost. He solely concentrated on the little girl, soothing her with more than words, reaching out to her to let her know she could be healed. When he looked at her again, her eyes were half closed, and her breathing had slowed down. “Believe me,” he then said with a grin that seemed strange amidst all the dead and wounded, “I was a boisterous child, and my brothers were not always gentle with me.”

   “Your arm was broken too?” she whispered, and he could see that she no longer feared him.

   He nodded solemnly.

   “More than once.” Strider took Nelin's left hand in his and with the other stroked carefully along her forearm. “When I quarrelled with them, I sometimes got hurt. It is like that among boys.” He stopped his movement and without warning adjusted the broken bones. Nelin screamed. Then her body slackened in her mother's arms.

   “You hurt her!” Nilana shouted, but Strider raised his hand.

   “I had to, but she is fine now. She will wake up soon.” He carefully stroked the child's brow, and turned to Bradolla. “The arm has to be put in splints. Fetch two pieces of wood and cloth to fix it. And she needs a sling for some weeks.”

   “But…” Bradolla frowned, hesitating if she should object. Quickly she shouted the order to another woman standing close by. “Don't gape like that! Get some thin pieces of wood and bandages over here! Right now!” To stress her words she stood up and almost chased the woman to her hut. “You have to explain that… later!” she shouted back at Strider.

   The wanderer still held Nelin's hand, and Nilana reached out to lay her own on it, but stopped as if she was about to do something wrong.

   “Thank you,” she simply said, taking back her hand and stroking her child's hair instead.

   Strider bowed to her and rose. There were still many in need of help. He left Nilana and her daughter, evading two women carrying bowls with salve on Bradolla's command, to crouch beside Gaellyn. The enemy had inflicted a deep gash on his thigh. He bit on a piece of leather while another man tried to stanch the bleeding. Strider took his place and adroitly applied a tourniquet before he left the man in the care of the other.

   “Why… how do you know what to do?” Dinúvren asked beside him, still not believing his own eyes.

   “Just be content that I do.” Strider exhaled and again looked around the fireplace. He felt exhausted, yet he would not rest. They had beaten back the Orc attack, but at a high price: for weeks most of the men would not be able to go out for fishing and hunting. Abruptly he turned to examine another fisherman, writhing with pain. “Get me more water, please.”

   “Aye.” Still puzzled Dinúvren left.

   Bent down beside the man Strider did not see Baeni arrive behind him. Only when she pulled him roughly at his shoulder, did he turn on his knees.

   “Gaellyn is dying because of you!” Baeni accused him loudly, and her face was contorted with anger. “You left him in his blood!” Others looked up to the quarrel, and even Bradolla clamped her mouth shut to listen.

   “He is not dying. He is wounded, aye, and lost blood, but he will heal.”

   Baeni shook her head.

   “You lured them here, didn't you? You lured those foul creatures into our homes! This was your fault! If I wasn't…” Strider held the hand that was about to slap his face.

   “I did not lure them here, woman! If Daevan and I had not seen them, your village would burn now and you all would be taken to become slaves of the Orcs!” He let go of her hand, but Baeni's anger was not soothed. She waved her finger in his direction.

   “A fitting lie, Strider! Who'll ever know what is the truth? I wish you'd never have come here!” She spat on the ground before him and left. For a moment he stared after her, angered on one hand, but on the other hand full of pity for the poor souls, who had suffered in the attack, not only by the wounds one could see.

   “She's not known for her courtesy and gratitude,” Dinúvren said as he handed Strider the bowl. “Don't pay any heed her to words. I'm grateful you came back, and the others see it the same way.” He placed his big hand on the wanderer's shoulder. “We'd be lost without you.”

   Strider nodded curtly, then crumbled some leaves into the hot water. A wholesome scent rose, and with a piece of cloth soaked in it, the wanderer took care of Doran's bleeding shoulder. The old man woke, flinched, and looked up grudgingly.

   “Aye, my son, it's not that bad…” He struggled to sit up, but Strider held him down with a gentle but firm hand.

   “Rest for a while, Doran. Your work is done.”

   Doran gazed around, and with a grimace added:

   “It's a shame I missed some of the battle! How many men did we lose?”

   “Fewer than we would have without Strider's help,” Dinúvren said. They locked eyes, and Doran grinned.

   “Aye, I knew that.”

-o-o-o-o-

   Daevan sat on the ground and watched his trembling hands. When he closed his eyes for a moment, his head spun, and the nausea he had experienced earlier returned. He opened his eyes again, breathing deeply, but to no avail. He still shook like a leaf in an autumn storm. Two dead Orcs lay between the huts nearby, their maws with long and sharp teeth opened to a silent cry. Daevan had never before experienced such viciousness like the enemies had displayed. He had not only been taken aback by their fast and relentless approach, but by their whole appearance. They were merciless monsters on crooked legs, hideously ugly and terrifying. He had fought them, but now that it was over, he felt a chill creep up his limbs.

   “Let me see your arm, Daevan,” a friendly voice said, and Daevan looked up startled. He had neither heard nor seen Strider approach, and immediately looked down again.

   “It's not that bad. Please, help the others, who need you more.”

   “They are taken care of,” Strider said evenly, and crouched in front of the young man.

   Daevan swallowed, and clasped his hands to his forearms.

   “Bradolla said, she would come over here.”

   Strider turned on his heels, not leaving his place. Bradolla tried to calm down a young boy, who had suffered a cut to his waist and was screaming at her. The wanderer turned back again.

   “I do not think she will get here soon.” Still Daevan shook his head. Strider's voice dropped low when he continued, “There is no shame in being frightened by these creatures.” A shudder ran through Daevan, and though he was in pain, he would have liked to leave at once. The stench of blood and burnt Orc-flesh saturated the air, and made him heave. “The others were afraid too.”

   “You were not,” Daevan managed to say and bit his lip the moment Strider cut away the cloth of the sleeve to examine the wound beneath.

   “Only because I am familiar with them. I know of their viciousness, and what motivates them. You do not.” Strider bathed the wound with warm water and applied salve and a bandage.

   “You have fought them before?” Daevan asked when Strider helped him stand.

   “I have. Orcs and trolls, Men and beasts.” His face became fierce. “The Enemy gathers his forces, and there will be many fights ere these lands will find peace again.” Abruptly he turned and left Daevan alone.

   The young man stared after him, and finally realised that the battle had been won.