Standing Salnat's Rage

It wasn’t the gold, kept in two full pouches and locked in a chest in her cellar, that made Ingrid consider it. She placed credence to a host of nobler words: vengeance, duty, rationality.

 Ingrid gloved her hands and sorted through the metal instruments of her medical bag. The prince, missing half a leg, lay still on her surgeon’s bench. The guards scrutinised her; his betrothed cried in the corner, wiping at tears.

 “You.” Ingrid looked to the closest guard, “Get some felsmar root from my stores.” The guard darted off. “And you go get some water boiling. And you over there, keep stoking that fire. Heat this up on there, will you?” She handed another guard her knife. The guards scurried about in a panic to do as told.

 She started with rinsing the wound in alcohol. Ugh, it was hideous. A murky purple mixed in with the red. Ridgetusk horns carried a powerful neurotoxin. At this rate … well, she knew it right from the start. Just like caring for a flower, one had to cut away the stems that jeopardised the entire plant. Amputation. From flowers, to people, to kingdoms.

 And therein laid her dilemma. The man who had seen her foster parents executed lay before her on the bridge to death. One cut and the flower would prosper.

 The gold meant nothing.

#

Huddled in the corner of the slave caravan as it stopped for supplies by Calbrok, tattered shawl held out as a shield against the rush and brunt of the cold, Wylo saw her first act of genuine kindness.

It came from a one-handed man with balbird rot crossing from his nose to his ear. His ancient, wizened skin hung from his body like a soggy glove. He looked twice as thin as she was, which should have been impossible.

 “They forgot about you.” The man leaned by a pregnant woman who cupped her belly and sat against the wall. The man held out not half, but the entire loaf of cornbread that Palo the slave master had given him. If Wylo tried, she could have snatched the bread out from his hand and wolfed it down before the man had even noticed it disappear from his hand. She looked down to her own, half-eaten loaf and felt a burn of shame. She thought that she had forgotten that emotion.

 A few other slaves caught sight of the old man. A stockier man, young, with blonde hair that must have once dazzled in the sun, made his way over. He placed a hand on the man’s shoulder.

 “Don’t be ridiculous, gramps.” He held out his own loaf. Another man came over and offered his own. They began to squabble and argue. Wylo couldn’t help but laugh at the sight of them. Real, genuine laughter? From her own lips? The thought alone made her laugh some more. She climbed to her feet and approached the men.

 “You can tear off a chunk each. Then no will have to go hungry.” She tore off a piece of her own and handed it to the woman, who accepted it with a smile.

 The blonde man tore off his own. She remembered Palo calling him Stok earlier. The other two men followed his example.

“We need to feed enough for two,” Stok said. “For the baby.” Stok looked around to the other slaves, who averted their gazes and pressed their rations closer to their chest.

 “It’s alright,” the woman said, “I’m very thankful. The baby is, too.”

 “Next time,” Wylo said, “when Palo doesn’t skip you, we can do the same thing, and then your baby can be healthy, too.”

 The woman blushed and the men murmured agreement. When they returned to their usual spots along the straw-strewn caravan, Wylo sat by the woman, resting her back against the bars. Two carriages made up the caravan. One, lined with metal bars, held the prisoners, while Palo and his helpers occupied the sheltered carriage up front. A dozen reined oxen chewed at the sparse grass that pushed through the snow.

 “I didn’t see you with me in Dalna,” Wylo said.

 The woman shook her head. “They shoved me on in Tulnark.” She ran a hand across her belly as she spoke. “Husband sold me off. Didn’t want to deal with this.” Wylo recognised the lie. She had enough experience in the field.

 “I’m sorry.”

 “You?”

 “Thievery,” she said. “How far along are you?”

 “Almost there. Started a few months after Fendral’s glory.”

 “Does it hurt?”

 She looked down to her belly. A warm glow illuminated her eyes and tinted her cheeks. “Very much, but it’s worth it.” She spoke with an affection that shocked Wylo. She had never heard a mother speak with such care, such love. “I am Alma.”

 “Wylo.” She had delivered babies before, of course, but the people she helped rarely cared for their children. They existed as representations of their families, and that training began the moment they entered the world.

 “May I see your palm?” Alma said.

 Wylo froze and slid her palm against her thigh. Not again. Please not again. Don’t remember. Alma snatched out and grabbed her wrist, lifting it up and turning her palm to face the roof. Skash, the Mark of the Murderer, covered with scratch marks that festered and bled in a futile effort to erase the evidence of the crime.

 “Salnat’s breath. I knew you did not look a thief. Clever little liar,” Alma said. She did not seem horrified. “Who was it?”

 “It’s more than ‘who’.”

 “How many?”

 “Countless.”

 “Why?”

 That dreaded question. She forced her hand free and buried it between her thighs.

“I’m a coward. I just want to be a good person.” She met Alma’s eyes – so calm and motherly. “I want to be someone good like you.”

Wylo, always on guard, body held poised, tensed as Alma pulled her into a hug, and softened as her head fell onto Alma’s chest.

 “Don’t we all want to be good people?” her voice soothed into Wylo’s ear. “It’s so hard, though. So very hard.”

 “I’m a murderer.”

 “And I am, too.”

#

“Stand back, I’m going to amputate it,” Ingrid said, tightening a cord to the top of Prince Rin’s thigh. If she moved quick, she might be able to save his other leg. Focus, don’t dilly-dally.

His betrothed flared up.

 “Amputate it? Are you mad?” Her voice echoed with sobs and wails. “But we have the other half right here!” She thrust up a lump of flesh swathed in bloodied cloth. Lady Erna, a right pain up the—

 Calm, Ingrid. She doesn’t matter right now. “Lady Erna, I must move quick. Ridgetusk venom moves fast. I might be able to save his other leg.”

 Lady Erna bellowed out a volley of insults and accusations. It all blended into the background. Why shouldn’t she listen to Erna? Don’t amputate it and let the venom run through.

It must be an insult to Erna to marry a lame prince, especially one that may never be king. Ever since the old king’s death, four of the seven counsellors had refused Rin’s inauguration – the missing Dalna queen and princess possessed a more legitimate claim to the throne, wherever they were.

 “Guards, can you please escort Lady Erna to another room? You’ll find greenthistle stem on the second row of my storeroom. Use the flat of a blade to scrape out the liquid from within and have her chew on the stem. It will help calm her down.”

 “Treason!” Lady Erna screeched. The guards shared tired looks with one another. A pair of them took a shoulder each and forced her kicking and screaming body out from the room. “If you amputate any part of him, I’ll string you up in the city square!”

 The door shut. Ingrid breathed to calm herself. Just her and another guard remained in the room.

“Good Fendral, what a pain,” Ingrid said.

 “You should listen to her. Let him die.” the guard said. “We’ll get you out of the castle before things get serious. We’ve prepared an escape route.”

 She tightened the cord around Prince Rin’s upper thigh, rubbing the felsmar paste across the wound. “You should go, it’s about to get messy in here.”

 “We have paid you. You agreed.”

 “I said you should go. It’s about to get messy in here.”

 The guard’s armour clinked and groaned on his way to the door. “You’ll regret it if you let him live. Act quick and we can manoeuvre to stop Salmash’s advances. For the good of Dalna.” The guard closed the door behind him.

 Ingrid returned her focus to the patient. Prince Rin. Devil. Wicked. She fumbled about in her storage cupboard, lining up the knives and saws. Amputation was necessary. She had to do it. If she moved fast, she could stop the clash between Dalna and Salmash. They wanted his head.

Give it to them.

Her hand trembled. No one to see her. No one to scrutinise her. The knife wavered between Rin’s leg and his throat.

#

“Salnat’s scales, Palo. What is this?” Wylo barked at Palo through the bars, waving her hand around behind her. “Five people given no rations. Are you serious?”

 Palo shook his head. “Took on more than we had prepared for. A thief rifled through our supplies at Calbrok. I’m sorry. It can’t be helped.”

 “How will we survive? This is the Karm Alps we’re talking about.” The weather had taken a more pronounced turn for the worse ever since they had left Tulnark. Palo’s caravan had been the only one to undertake the tradeline across the Karm Alps during the season of Salnat’s rage, in which the weather worsened and culminated into The Blistering, which heralded the coming of the new year under Fendral’s glory.

Had it not been for the outbreak of war in Dalna, Palo would have never considered crossing the Karms.

 “Look, I’m sorry. I truly am. Leave it at that.”

 “But—”

 “I said to leave it at that.” He ran a hand to the hilt on his waist.

 “Wylo, it’s alright,” Alma’s cooed out from the far corner. Wylo returned to her and found the same crowd from yesterday and a few more people standing by. Of the group, Alma, the old man, and Wylo had received no food or water.

 “We can split it up like last time,” Stok said.

 “Don’t mind me, youngin’,” the old man said with a wheeze and a toothy grin. “I ain’t got long left either way.”

 “I don’t want to hear that, gramps.”

 “Better me than someone else. I’m a right eyesore, ain’t I? One arm, balbird rot. Eighty old years behind me. I ain’t missing much, let me tell you that.” Coughs truncated the old man’s speech. His condition had worsened.

 “He didn’t give you a portion on purpose,” Wylo said. “Nor Alma. Nor me. Rations are low. Best cut off the people he can do without, or the people that are most likely to die.”

 “Rot-ridden oldie and a pregnant woman I can understand,” Stok said. “But you? You look healthy enough.”

 “He’d have a right hard time trying to sell me.” Wylo shifted to hide her palm behind her leg. “He could do away with us and focus on the people that are more likely to survive the Karms. It’s just risk assessment. Like amputation.”

 “This isn’t a battlefield. What sort of triage is this?” Stok spat at the floor. “Either way, I’m not eating unless gramps gets to eat some, too.”

 “Well I ain’t eating a thing. Not even if Fendral gave it to me himself.” Husky coughs followed.

 Alma giggled. “What did I do to be blessed with such kind people? I’ll only be a burden on you for another month. I’ll have the slaver sell my child to someone who can take care of it.”

 “Him? He wouldn’t bother with something like that.”

 “He will. This baby is special.”

 Chunks of breads changed hands. The old man refused his, and Stok refused his, too. However, his determination to not eat only held out for a short while. In these conditions, balbird rot struck fast. The old man was gasping and breathless by the end of the day, and dead by the next. His death spelled an early end to Stok’s fasting. A pair of bodyguards carted the old man’s dead body out from the cage and threw him into a lake. One less starving person to worry about.

 Wylo wasn’t sure how it happened, but she found herself sleeping against Alma’s shoulder. Alma towered a good head taller than she did. Powerfully built, exuding care and kindness, Wylo couldn’t help but give in and accompany her. She reasoned to Alma that she wanted to be next to her to protect her.

 “You’re not a bad person,” Alma said one night, running a hand down Wylo’s head.

 “I am. You don’t understand.”

 “I can see it in your eyes. I understand people, Wylo.” Alma took Wylo’s hand into her own. “These callouses …”

 “I was a court surgeon.”

 “See? Kind.”

 “A surgeon’s blade can serve just as well as an assassin’s dagger. One cut vein, who would know, except another surgeon?” She looked to Alma, whose eyes watered a touch. She kept silent and pulled the cloak tighter over them. The action frustrated her. “Why are you so adamant on me being nice? I … I’m not even protecting you. I’m here for myself.”

 “The company is enough.” Alma beamed, which only added to the frustration. Wylo hadn’t done anything to deserve such a reassuring expression.

 “I worked as a court surgeon. The prince had ordered the execution of my foster parents when I was a kid. Put two and two together.”

 “I had an abusive husband,” Alma said. “And a daughter that didn’t live up to his expectations. Put two and two together.”

 “But that’s …”

 “Yes, apparently only one person can be capable of something cruel at a time, is that it?”

 “I—”

 “Don’t believe it, I assume? You think all I am is a bundle of something kind and warm, isn’t that right, Wylo?”

 Wylo found herself staring out at the caravan. The crisp winds had smudged the straw and wood floor with flecks of snow. She tightened her cloak tighter around her to cover her shoulders. 

 “What does it matter?” Alma said, leaning back and pulling Wylo closer to her. “No matter what, we are all capable of great evil. We’re also capable of great good. In pursuit of good, we are sometimes forced to brave the path of evil. Yet I struggle towards goodness. Desperately so.”

No, Alma was being dishonest. She didn’t have an ounce of evil within her. Wylo cast her eyes to the clumps of straw and sweeps of snow that covered the carriage floor. Alma tried to empathise with her, but Alma could never fathom what atrocities her hands had done.

These hands, marked with the Skash. These hands, that had forfeited her bread to help feed Alma.

 Alma pulled at Wylo’s shoulders, shaking her, as if begging her to understand. “We’re fellow companions stuck in the middle of that strange, twisting road. Don’t treat me like I am something amazing when I am just as lost as you are.”

 “I’m sorry, Alma.” She chewed at her lips for a moment. “Can you tell me more about your life. How did you really end up here?”

 “Will you surrender your secrets?”

 “No.”

 “Then the answer is no.”

#

Salnat’s anger heightened, the weather harshened, and their portions grew stricter. The old man’s death had only seen another man’s belly empty.

 The caravan clattered along the road, careening around the icy mountain paths of the Karms. The actions of the other prisoners continued to surprise Wylo. Before long, they all shared their portions. Even the ones that had kept to themselves and hadn’t uttered a word.

 They lost some people, but they had to expect that. Salnat’s rage stabbed at them, pinching at the gaps in their tatters and preying on their curled bodies at night. The days wiled away, and a week into the alps, the young man, Stok, almost didn’t wake up.

 Wylo found him at dawn, sprawled across the straw, a pink, bulbous hand freed from his hempen cover. She gasped and cried out, rushing up to him.

 “Palo!” she called. Palo, the slaver, cursed Salnat from up the front.

 “Keep it quiet you daft girl.”

 “I need a bucket of water. And a tinder box. Please, be quick.” She turned on Stok and slapped his cheek. “Wake up, wake up.” And for a moment, she was back in the surgery room. She made to call out for belbrush but held her tongue. Of course they wouldn’t have belbrush here.

 Part of her expected Palo to scoff at her, but Stok carried value. Slave owners loved strong, healthy, young men. She could almost see the urgency in his look. Stok alone could cover half the expenses of crossing the Karms at this time of the year.

 Palo barked up a storm of orders to his bodyguards. “Oi, you lot, get some water. Look for our tinderboxes. What else do we need, girl?”

 “Just some kindling. Something that’ll burn. And a stand for the bucket.”

 Wylo inspected Stok’s body as she shouted out a barrage of senseless words to him. Stok looked up blearily. His eyes edged open an inch and closed again. She pinched at an eyelid. Hypothermia. Frostbite in his hand. She could deal with that.

 A bodyguard dropped the requested items by her side. She pushed away the wet straw around her and piled some pieces of kindling together. She struck up a small fire and perched the bucket on the stand.

 “Stok, can you hear me?” By now she had gathered a small crowd of onlookers. They looked at her with respect. It frustrated her, made her feel isolated. Did they not know what these hands had done?

 “Wy …” Stok groaned out.

 “Stok, speak to me. What’s your name?” She lifted his hand and lowered it into the water. She monitored the water’s temperature with a finger, making sure it didn’t get too hot.

 “It’s … It’s Stok.”

 “And how old are you?”

 “Twenty f— … four.”

 She breathed a sigh. Not of relief. Exasperation. Stok had avoided the worst of the cold, but that was only half the ordeal. Fever and flu often struck afterwards, and she lacked the tools to better deal with potential nerve damage in the hand.

 The people in the caravan kept shooting her looks of appreciation and awe. She didn’t want to face them. She jabbed at random points along Stok’s body and kept up a conversation with him as he improved. Why couldn’t they look the other way? Or stop muttering about her supposed skill? She had dumped Stok’s hand into water and slapped his cheeks a few times. Anyone could have done that.

 The slaves would get ideas. They’d think she could save them all. Or protect them. The people in Dalna once believe surgeons saved lives, too.

 She didn’t talk to anyone all day. She assumed her usual spot by Alma, tightened her cloak around her, and leaned against Alma’s shoulder. Alma didn’t speak either. She kept quiet, pulled Wylo close, and hugged her in a way only a mother could.

 Wylo reasoned that the slaves meant well. They had all grown remarkably close. They kept their pasts a secret, and their histories hidden. You don’t pry about in a slaver’s caravan. But they had each found themselves indebted to one another in some small way. Palo treated them as products, and had it not been for the other slaves in the caravan, Wylo knew that each of them in turn would have come to see themselves as mere stock.

 Maybe she could save them.

 Fiercer weather approached. She needed them, and they needed her.

She cared for them. Under the moonlight, she lost herself in her calloused hands and the mark on her right palm. I will save them, she promised. I will use these surgeon’s hands for good.

#

“Wylo!”

 Hands clamped her arms and shook her about.

The world crashed. Wood snapped. Screams followed.

The floor broke from underneath her as her eyes snapped open. Alma kneeled in front of her, hair a wild mess like a lion’s mane, and shook her. Adjusting to the pandemonium around her, Wylo shot to her feet, helped up by Alma, and narrowly dodged a splinter of wood as it landed where she had been sleeping.

In the dark, Wylo made out the mess of snow, steel, and wood that twisted and shifted about. Alma moved with brutish strength that betrayed her frame. She held an elbow to the roof as it threatened to cave in and helped Wylo slip free from the carriage.

Alma followed her outside, sweating and huffing, arms guarding her belly. The roof broke inwards a moment later. An avalanche had smothered most of the carriage, but Wylo could still hear people inside, moaning and shouting.

 “Stay here, Alma.”

Wylo rushed to the carriage and dug her fingers into the wood, heaving out chunks, tearing her way towards the screams, which had smouldered into gasps and sobs. She ignored the bite of the cold metal as it dug into her flesh and the splinters that pricked her skin. She yanked out a flat board and found an outstretched hand. Stok’s hand. She tore back more pieces.

 The sight disgusted her even as a surgeon. Two beams right through the gut.

 Simple triage, she told herself. Move onto the next. She cursed Salnat and moved towards the next. A girl – her name must have been Penner. Still alive.

 “Penner, can you hear me?”

 A moan in response. Penner cupped her chest. Wylo forced back her hand and found an open wound. If she had bandages and stitches, there might be something she could do. Palo had carried a knife with him. That and a tinderbox to heat it up. She could do it.

 “Hold on, Penner.”

 She rushed out, tripping over the rubble as she did. She reached the smothered front of the caravan where dead oxen lay strewn about and forced back the crushed snow, working her way to where she had seen the storage boxes. She found food and clothes and threw them aside.

 She heaved back a frosty board and found Palo’s empty eyes staring up at her. She ran a hand into his vest and pulled out a knife. Ten minutes later, she had found bandages, a stitch, a tinder box, and half a bottle of alcohol.

 She returned to Penner and found her dead.

 “Oh.” She paused for a moment, stupefied, and then screamed. Curses. At herself, at Salnat, at Prince Rin, at anyone else who would listen. She had promised to protect them.

The wind wailed. No more screams. No more sobs. They had all died. Every single last one of them. She fell to her knees.

 A weight fell on her shoulders. A vest. She looked to see Alma standing over her, a hand resting on her shoulders.

 “I failed them, Alma.”

 “You did your best.”

 “It wasn’t enough.”

 Alma sighed. “It rarely is.” Alma dropped to her side and pulled her into a hug. “You aren’t a murderer at all, are you?”

 “I …”

 “You’re a poor liar,” Alma said. “You don’t have a cruel bone in you. I have a request for you. A selfish request.”

 Wylo looked into Alma’s eyes. A glimmer of hope sparked in those clear opals. “What?”

 “Protect me. Protect my child. Please. I can’t do it alone. Not here.” She waved around the rubble and the fallen sheet of ice. “Please see me and my child to safety. I beg of you. This child holds the future. I must protect it.”

 Wylo pulled the vest tighter around her body. “Just who are you? Who is the child’s father?”

 “An honest man who didn’t deserve the mess I had created and hidden from him.” Alma climbed to her feet and helped Wylo up onto hers. “We should try and find some cover before night. I’ll find what supplies I can from here. If we continue along the Karm Alps we should come upon Wolsboro soon enough.”

 Wylo didn’t press Alma for more details. She found some pockets along the vest to keep her hands warm. The hands of a failure.

 What did it matter about Alma’s past? She shrugged and moved to help Alma to clear her mind and distract her. As she moved, snippets of their voices broke out from the recesses of her mind.

 Why did you let me die?

 You could have saved me if you had worked faster.

 Why do you get to live and I have to die?

 Alma and Wylo were walking within an hour, pressed close to each other, a rope connecting their waists. Alma took the lead, back held straight, guiding Wylo and her hunched shoulders along.

 They found a cave cracked into the side of the mountain and spent the rest of the night by a campfire. Wylo took the first watch and Alma took the second.

 “Here,” Alma said when Wylo woke up, handing her a satchel.

 “What’s this?” Wylo peeled back the flap and groaned. Bandages, needles, splints, and any other medicinal supplies that Alma had recovered.

 “I thought it was better if you held onto them.”

 “And what’s in yours?” She nodded to the satchel that Alma held.

 “Rations, water, a dagger.”

 “A dagger?”

 “In case something attacks.”

 “Give it to me. You can’t fight while pregnant.”

 Alma shook her head. “You aren’t suited for one. I have Palo’s knife in your satchel already, but that’s for surgery.”

 “You’re not going to get into a fight while pregnant.”

 Alma laughed. “I asked you to put two and two together before, but perhaps there are ones and threes out there as well. I’m quite capable. Leave me the dagger. It’s better in my hand than in yours.”

 “What do you mean?”

 Alma laughed. A soothing yet cheery laugh. Wylo couldn’t help but giggle a little herself. The laugh died out as the wind picked up. They tightened their shawls and stepped out into the cold. The Karm Alps looked down to the distant carpet of barren treetops, tinted with spikes of white and blue.

#

Wylo had come to learn two distinct colds in her twenty years of living. The first was that of loneliness and despair, of clutching at your skin, hidden under the floorboards, trying not to scream. The second proved to be a more distinct, literal cold. The cold of one cramped up in the corner of Palo’s caravan, tatters pulled tight.

 Salnat’s rage on the Karms proved worse than both. It stabbed at her face and struck through her vest. Brutal and relentless. Torrents of blistering harshness where the wind changed direction and whipped at their faces broke up the icy colds. With the rope bound tight around her waist, she continued along the mountain passage, not a soul seen for miles.

 As Wylo trailed behind Alma, she kept an eye out for felsmar roots, which grew in high altitudes, and found a tangle of it growing out from between two boulders. Mashed into a paste, she could apply it as a numbing agent.

Their dwindling supplies of food and water concerned her. They had only found one crate of rations in the wreckage, half of which had been smeared out across the edge of the mountainside.

 Alma threw out a hand as they rounded a bend.

 “Back,” she said, “slowly.” The dagger slid from hilt to her hand.

 A Ridgetusk, marked by its wiry fur that matted like razor wire, lay curled up against the cliff wall. An eye peered at them through its heavy lids. A purple-tipped horn poked up from its snout.

 Wylo stepped back. She reached to tug at Alma’s sleeve, who swatted it away.

 “Alma, we can head back. It won’t attack unless you walk into its territory.”

 “It’s the only way forward.”

 “Are you mad? It’s a Ridgetusk.” She thought of Prince Rin’s mangled leg. “I’ve seen what they can do. If that horn touches you, I’m not sure I can save you.”

 “I’m not turning back and I’m not going to stay in the mountains until I die.” Alma rested a hand on her belly. “Just be there to help me afterwards.”

 “I’ve seen capable and fit men gored by them. One prick and that’s a limb gone if you’re lucky.”

 Alma held the dagger out in front of her, smiling with confidence. “You underestimate me, Wylo. I’ve done this before.”

 “Not while pregnant you haven’t.”

 “First time for anything. I won’t let any harm come to my baby, and I won’t let any harm come to you. We can’t turn back. We can’t survive out here for long.” Ignoring Wylo’s protests, she stepped around the corner and flapped her cloak out from behind her. Dagger held ready, her motherly face crumbled to reveal the powerful woman within – one of purpose, power, and conviction. Alma approached the Ridgetusk.

 The Ridgetusk pounced up with a start. Its heavy hooves cracked at the ice as it charged. Of all that Wylo had known of Alma, seeing her in action told her more than she could have ever guessed.

 Alma stepped to the Ridgetusk’s side at the last second, but slowed down by her belly, its foreleg crashed into her hip, sending her spinning. Wylo cried out for her, but Alma caught her balance and lashed out with her dagger in retaliation, catching the beast on its haunch. The dagger slipped from her hand and clattered to the stone.

 The Ridgetusk skidded to turn about, horn pointed out. It charged again.

 Alma, in great defiance of her appearance, lunged forward to grab the beast. She rested her shoulder by the base of its horn and dug her hands into the beast’s neck, digging deep into its skin. She held the beast to a standstill; the two opposing forces pushed against one another.

 “Stab it, Wylo.” Alma shot an eye at the dagger that lay besides them. Wylo sprinted out, plucked up the knife, and jammed it into the beast’s chest. It staggered in a frenzy, but another two cuts dropped it to the ground, dead.

 “Alma, that was—”

 “Save the compliments,” Alma said on her way to the floor, clutching at her hip as she did. “You cut up Ridgetusk before?”

 “Does it hurt, Alma?” Wylo knelt by Alma’s side and pressed a hand to her hip, causing her to wince. She ran a hand across Alma’s upper body, searching for anywhere else she could have hurt herself. She had never noticed Alma’s toned physique until now. A body that had been chipped and smithed at every single day. A survivor.

 “I’m fine, really. Just a little sore.” Alma’s hand moved from her hip to her belly. “Baby’s angry. Kicking about.”

 “Maybe baby’s angry that it didn’t get to see you wrestle down a Ridgetusk.” 

 Alma raised an eyebrow. “Humour? From you?”

 “It’s the truth.”

 Alma laughed. “Maybe it is. But stop dodging the question. Have you cut up Ridgetusk before?”

 “No.”

 “The wind’s blowing southward. We’ll be safe against that wall. I’ll get a fire going. Drag it over there and I’ll tell you how.”

 “We can eat these? But that’s for royals and nobles and …”

 Alma pressed her palms to her lips and did a guilty flick of her brows. “I’m not good at keeping secrets, am I?”

 “You were a noble?”

 “I was.” Though Alma said it a little too eagerly.

 “A royal.”

 “No.”

 “I guess we’re a pair of bad liars, then.”

 “Alright, yes, I was a royal. Now you’ve had your fun, stop prying about,” Alma said. She pressed against her hip as she pulled herself up and limped over to the wall, where she dropped down and used the rock to support her back.

 “Put some ice on that hip,” Wylo called to her as she coiled a rope around the Ridgetusk’s body and dragged it over. She slung down her satchel and Alma fished through the roots and kindling she had picked up along the way. “Does it taste good?”

 “Excellent. You’ll see for yourself soon enough. We can keep that horn. Expensive. Might be able to find us a cottage somewhere.”

 “Us?”

 “You’re not going to find anywhere else with that brand.”

 It felt strange to consider herself as part of an ‘us’, yet she couldn’t deny that flutter of warmth. She pressed the dagger to the Ridgetusk and, as instructed, cut a line down its belly.

 The winds assaulted the other side of the wall. The Blistering approached.

#

Prince Rin, groggy and drugged up on anaesthetics, looked at Ingrid with an eye parted a quarter of the way.

 “You … remind me … of someone.”

 Ingrid put on her best smile. “Must be the anaesthesia. You won’t remember all this in an hour.”

 A cruel fate waited her. If not a bitter end for Prince Rin, then a cruel, bitter end for the innocent lives of the simple people that wanted anything but war and misery.

 Just pick up a scalpel and jam it into his throat.

 Rin continued to inspect her with his misty eyes, as if his mind waged war against the drugs that deluded him. A flicker of a smile snapped upon his lips, hiding the monster she knew him to be. She knew how those eyes soured and that snarl grew. She had seen it from beneath the floorboards as he accused the inhabitants of hiding the deposed queen’s daughter, Runa. Of course, they had never found the evidence, nor made the connection between Runa and Ingrid the surgeon – but a prince did not need evidence to have people hanged.

 Where had her hate gone? Her vengeance?

 “I … will … remember. Must … remember,” Prince Rin droned on. His eyes slid to a close, held a moment, and shot open. His words tumbled out in a frantic hurry. “They wanted me dead I know they wanted me dead they had assassins and they gave the assassins gold from the treasury and they tricked me to go hunting and tricked me to fall in a Ridgetusk lair and they wanted to pass it off as if they were all innocent so they must have put you up to it to take the blame why didn’t you kill me they paid you to kill me why didn’t you?”

 Ingrid blinked and said nothing.

 His speech returned to its bleary, inebriated pattern. “Someone … saved me. Despite … everything. Despite … all … I’ve … done.”

 “Perhaps death is too good for scum like you.”

 “Maybe … maybe …” He fell asleep.

 She contemplated a scalpel that night in her study.

 She dug it deep into her palm. The mark of Skash. The Mark of the Murderer, of cowardice. The harshest punishment one could inflict on another. It marked someone as scum for the rest of their life. It signified turncoats without an ounce of honour. And it felt good on her skin. It belonged.

 Why did these hands refuse to kill? Why had they disobeyed her?

 Hair ruffled, skin muddied, Ingrid unlatched the window and Wylo climbed out. Stand in an alleyway at night and you’re bound to be kidnapped. That’s exactly what she did.

#

Alma hadn’t walked properly since her fight with the Ridgetusk. She tried to hide her pain with either a smile or her hood, but Wylo had seen enough injured people in her lifetime to pick out her limp and the way her skin rushed pale with every step.

 “Alma, we can slow down.”

 But no matter her reasoning or complaints, Alma didn’t care. The injury had only emboldened Alma.

 “Alma, please. You’re going to destroy yourself for that baby if you don’t be careful.”

 “Then so be it.”

 “Alma, why are you so determined to cross the Karms?” She stamped her foot into the ground and barked the words. Alma stopped just a few metres ahead of her. Her face mixed with pain and nausea, she met Wylo’s eyes.

 “What did I say about prying?”

 “Shut up, Alma. I want to help you. I’ve sworn it. I won’t change my mind no matter what. I deserve to know. This is my life here … I promised to save you and help your baby. Let’s look for a cave and wait for the cold to die down. We can find help from some travellers. Trade will continue soon. You’re destroying your body, and you’ll harm your child if you keep doing this.”

 Alma shot in a sharp slice of breath. “They’ll kill me if they find me. That’s why.”

 “Why do they want you dead?”

 “Because I’m a coward and a fool. Can’t you leave it at that? For me?”

 “No. I can’t.”

 “My cowardice has lost honest men their lives.”

 “So have mine!” She screamed the words. It felt liberating. “Maybe the two of us are a pair of spineless, wicked wretches that gamble with other people’s lives. Can’t we be honest about it all?”

 “Honesty lost me my daughter.”

 “And it will save you your next child.”

 Alma glared at her. “You’re young. Naïve. An—” as she stepped forward, she fell to her knees, clutching at her hip.

 “Alma, are you alright?” Wylo rushed over to her and clasped her shoulders, her frustration forgotten. Alma’s hand slid from her hip to her belly as her face twisted to a grimace.

 “Wylo.” Alma clambered up to her feet, using Wylo’s arm as a guide. “It’s happening.”

 “It? The baby?”

 “Help me. We need to find some cover.”

 Wylo pulled Alma’s arm around her neck and positioned her shoulder to support Alma’s weight. As she did, a gale of icy wind crashed into them.

 “Hail winds,” Alma explained, gripping tight to Wylo’s skin to find some sort of relief. “The Blistering. It’s coming.”

 Wylo angled her body to shield Alma from the brunt of the cold. Her mind swirled, a murky mess, but despite everything, she knew that she had to save Alma. The wind harshened and white strips of snow sprayed out across the mountainside, limiting her vision.

 They collapsed into the cover of a cave, which shielded them from the brunt of the cold.

 “Lie down,” Wylo ordered, kicking open the satchels. She tore out everything she deemed as even slightly useful: bandages, knife, thread, kindling, food, alcohol, felsmar paste. Anything that served any sort of purpose found itself laid out across the stone. “Alma, keep talking to me.”

 “My hip. My stomach.” Alma groaned.

 Wylo gritted her teeth. She couldn’t waste time being proper about it all. She undid Alma’s belt and pulled down her trousers, finding a bruise that had starkened to a brownish yellow across her hip.

 “Broken,” Wylo said, running a hand across the bone. “Both hip and your water.”

 “My hip? But how will I—?"

 “Pain beyond pain, Alma. Likely death. Unless …” She held the knife up to her eyes. As she piled the wood for a fire, she kept up a rapt description of what she planned to do. “I’ll cut along the abdomen, into the womb, and get the baby out from there. I’ve done it before when it endangered the life of the mother, but not up here and not in these conditions. I’m not sure if I can.”

 “Make your judgement,” Alma said. “Ignore me. Save the baby.”

 Wylo avoided looking into Alma’s eyes as she struck up the fire. She pressed the end of her knife to the flames. “I’m not sure how to take care of a baby, Alma. A baby needs a mother.”

 “Just in case …”

 “It won’t happen. You’re going to live. I’ll make sure of it.” Wylo snatched up the bottle of alcohol and pressed it to Alma’s lips, forcing her to down a good third of the bottle. “The more intoxicated, the better.”

 She placed Alma’s dagger by the fire and a convulsion of pain ran down Alma. She shot out with her hand, found Wylo’s wrist, clenched down on it and screamed. Her legs stiffened and wriggled about.

 “It’s trying to get through.” Wylo scraped up some snow from outside and padded it along Alma’s hip. “It’s going to hurt, Alma. Keep talking, anything to take your mind off it.” A buffet of wind struck down and entered the cave – so cold. She repositioned herself so that her back took the brunt of the blow. Another one followed. Stronger than the first. The Blistering had begun. “Promise me you’ll keep talking no matter what. It will help with the pain.”

 Alma swallowed and nodded, grabbing a fistful of snow in each hand.

 As Wylo pressed the knife to Alma’s belly, the memories rushed back to her. The knife. The blasted knife. Always finding its way into her hand when it didn’t belong there. She let Alma get a head start on talking before digging the scalpel in.

 “I once ruled Dalna—”

 The speech broke out into screams. Ahh, the screams. Wylo knew them well. Ignore them, she told herself. Ignore them. You’re good at ignoring screams of pain. How many people’s lives had she doomed by ignoring their screams of pain and saving Prince Rin? She continued with the cut. Blood streaked out. Her hand shook.

 “And … and I had a d-daughter.” 

 Just keep working. Just ignore it all. You’re a killer. What does a few screams matter? She kept a hand pressed to the cut as some hopeless attempt to staunch the flow of blood. A fresh wave of ice crashed down against her back. She reached for some of the felsmar paste, dabbing it along the skin, dulling the pain.

 Consider amputation. Be free of them.

 No. Protect them. Be a surgeon. Save lives.

 You failed to save them before. Why care now?

 “And the king mistreated her. I … I had to do away with him. I killed him … oh, I killed him and ran. I … had some people protect her. I-I don’t—”

 Stok, the old man, Penner. They had all died. She had promised them safety. She had failed.

 Why care about them now? You’ve doomed countless lives. Why care?

Wylo finished the cut, reached inside, and pulled out a tiny, beautiful, screaming baby. She cut the cord, stripped off her vest, exposing herself to the full onslaught of The Blistering, and rolled the baby inside it.

Because it’s all I can save. Right here. Right now. I can save them.

 “I don’t k-know w-w-where she is. If she’s alive or dead. I ran. Disguised m-myself for f-fifteen years. But t-they discovered me. I-I had to come here t-to escape.” The baby screamed over Alma’s voice.

 “Congratulations,” Wylo said, handing her the baby, who quieted the moment Alma took her into her arms. Alma cradled the baby, still somehow managing a smile that burned through pain. Wylo pressed the heated flat side of the dagger to bleeding points along the cut to cauterise it. She raised a shaking hand, holding a needle tip. Her bare back screamed out as the ice winds cut daggers across her skin.

 The fire crackled. If she could just heat her back up just a little bit. No.

 “Dalna.” Wylo dabbed at her wound with warm water and pressed a stitch to the skin. She ran curls with the thread around the skin, dabbing the paste where she stitched. “Did you s-say Dalna?” She could barely think over the cold.

 “It’s a girl, Wylo.” Alma coddled the baby, cheeks flushing with warmth as her body trembled and teetered the line between pain and happiness.

 “Did you say Dalna?” The brunt of The Blistering dulled. A newfound heat welled within her as she worked. The heat of hope.

 “I’ll name her Diana.”

 “Were you Dalna’s Queen, Alma?” She barked out the words, almost begging.

 “Yes. Once.”

 And the tears came crashing down. The winds outside chewed at her, yet she felt an exhilarating warmth that she had desired for more than twenty years.

 “We need to stay here until the weather clears up and you’re strong enough to walk, mom. I’ll keep the fire going. You need to rest the best you can. Fendral’s glory will come in a day or two. We still have the Ridgetusk meat and—”

 “Mom?” Alma’s eyes shifted with a mix of hope and worry.

 “Yes, mom. I have three names. Wylo, my name as a slave. Ingrid, my name as a surgeon. And Runa. My name as your daughter.”

 “Runa …” Alma raised her eyes up from the baby. Her blue eyes rippled with disbelief. “Is it really you? I had lost you. I …”

 “It’s me, mom. I thought I’d never see you again.”

 Alma’s disbelief faded away, replaced by affection. “You always were an annoying little child,” she said with a little laugh. “Talented, almost a genius. I can’t believe you came to be such an amazing surgeon. Yet,” she said, “you do tend to get distracted.”

 Wylo looked down and found that she hadn’t moved the needle for the past minute. “Oh.”

 “It really does hurt, Wylo, but I can put up with it. Diana here helps.”

 There was a crack from somewhere above them. Outside. The scathing cold weakened. The direction of the wind had changed. Wylo breathed a sigh of relief. They really might make it out of here alive.

 Alive.

 And for the first time in a long time, she didn’t mind that. Not one bit.

 “Your baby. She …”

 “Has a claim to the throne. A legitimate one, unlike Prince Rin. But now that you’re here, you can contest—”

 “Let’s not go back to Dalna.”

 “What?”

 Wylo sighed. Dalna and Salmash warring had been inevitable, a dead prince or not. She had heard the counsellors speak of it. She knew how deep Salmash’s hatred ran. She let the warmth of the fire calm her. She realised the obvious. She never could have saved the people in Dalna, or in the caravan.

 The amputation had saved herself.

 “I’m just a simple person, mom. There’s nothing special about me. I’m just me, and now I have a mother and a younger sister. Let’s just find somewhere far away from all these wars and pointless scuffles and settle down there. Where there’s no one to be enraged by our existence.”

 “But Dalna—”

 “You had fifteen years to return there and find me. Why now?”

 Alma gave her a curious expression. Was it pride? She had never seen that expression directed to her before. “You are a far more mature person than I could ever hope to be, Wylo. I am a coward. I was afraid. Even now, I’m afraid to use the name I gave you. Cowardice drove me away. Cowardice saw me never return. I couldn’t stomach the thought until I saw the walls closing in on me and I had to escape. I’m sorry, Wy—” she paused. “Runa.”

 “Wylo’s fine. I always thought Runa was a little too stuffy for me.”

#

It wasn’t the flimsy bag of copper and silver, thrust upon her with a slew of pleading and begging, that made Wylo consider it.

 “You know I don’t accept payment, right?” Wylo said. It was a stuffy day. Fendral’s heat beat down, trapping the whole town in a humid mess. Even with the sweat curling her brow, she couldn’t help the satisfaction that bounced about in her chest. They had found a suitable place in Holston, a good way south of the Karms. Kids outside splashed about by the river while adults chewed hay and fished.

 “Then what do you want? I’ll do anything. Please.” The man carried his boy, who in a show of bravery, clamped his lips shut tight with his teeth and refused to cry.

 “Wylo, is he giving you a hard time?” Alma poked her head through the door. As she did, Diana began to scream from the other room. “Oh my, she can’t go a second without me.” She darted off.

 The man looked at her pleadingly. Wylo sighed.

 “What I mean by ‘I don’t accept payment’ is that I don’t care about your money.” She threw a thumb to the flimsy pouch. “I’ll do it for free. Chuck him on the bench. It’s just a broken leg.”

 “He’ll survive it, right?” The man laid out the boy on the bench.

 “Salnat’s breath. Of course he’ll survive.” As she ran her finger across the boy’s leg, feeling at the muscles and bones, she found herself thinking of the news delivered by carrier eagle. Dalna remained strong; Prince Rin was to be inaugurated in a unanimous vote by the counsellors. Even here, she had heard rumours of his accomplishments and the mystery of his saviour, who had disappeared from existence.

 Perhaps Alma was right. Perhaps all people do have a great capacity for good, but she doubted she’d ever forget what Rin’s capacity for evil had achieved.

She looked to the saws and knives she kept lined up on the wall. She hadn’t had to amputate anything yet, but she’d be there if she needed to.

END