Free Bloodstone by Barbara Campbell Page A

in one hand and an overflowing basket of medicinal supplies in the other. Griane paused long enough to give her a quick hug before issuing orders: stone pots of water for cleaning wounds, tallow for ointment, greenwood to splint broken bones. A few eyes went wide at the last instruction, but Bethia stepped forward, offering to make the necessary prayers and sacrifices so they could cut living branches from the trees.
    At some point, Faelia joined them, fetching water and cleaning up the vomit and blood and urine that slimed the rushes. White-lipped but determined, Sali applied poultices of yarrow and hartstongue, stitched flesh wounds, and replaced soiled bandages with fresh ones.
    Griane held out little hope for those with belly wounds. Mother Netal had taught her to ease suffering and preserve life, and when that was not possible, to use her skill to offer a clean and speedy death. For now she stanched the bleeding, numbed them with brogac, and prayed.
    Even her prayers were brief; as soon as she finished tending one person, another needed her to splint a bone or dig an arrowhead out of a shoulder. By midday, she was soaked with sweat and blood, her legs trembling with exhaustion. She sent those with minor injuries home. A dozen still remained in the longhut, most deeply unconscious, a few tossing restlessly with fever. Half might survive if the wounds didn’t turn putrid. The next two or three days would tell.
    When she paused for a sip of water, Mirili whispered, “They took Owan, too.”
    “Oh, gods.” Duba had lost her husband last winter. Now Owan. He was only a year older than Faelia. “I’ll go to her. Will you stay with the wounded?”
    Mirili nodded, her gaze lingering on Nemek.
    “He’s young, Mirili, and strong.”
    Mirili nodded again, her face haggard; Nemek was her only son.
    Keirith. My son. They have taken my son.
    Mirili touched her cheek. The silent sympathy of the gesture brought tears to Griane’s eyes. She blinked them back. Tears were useless.
    Outside, she gulped great lungfuls of air, so clean and cool after the smokiness of the longhut and the stench of blood and death. She would go to Duba first. Then she had to find Darak.
    After those first few words, he had not spoken. When she knelt beside him, when she pushed the broken shaft of the arrow through his arm, when she stitched and bound his wound, he simply sat there. His silence chilled her, conjuring up memories of the days after Tinnean’s transformation when he’d huddled between the roots that had once been his brother’s feet, his spirit slowly drifting away. She had brought him back then; she could—she would—now.
    There were more bodies in the center of the village. Some were already hidden under mantles. Women squatted beside others, helping Bethia and Muina strip and wash them. Tradition dictated that only priestesses could prepare a body for burial, but with Lisula still recovering from the birth and with so many bodies—dear gods, nearly a quarter of the tribe lay there—the women had forsworn tradition so that their dead could be ready before sunset.
    Her breath caught when she saw Jani. Griane knelt next to her and stared down at her uncle Dugan’s body. Red Dugan they still called him, although the hair had long since gone white. She’d hated him as a child, fought with him as a girl, avoided him after her return from the First Forest. Things changed after he married Jani. Perhaps her uncle had mellowed; more likely, Jani insisted he make an effort. Whatever the reason, Griane and her uncle had learned to tolerate each other, and Jani and Dugan had enjoyed a good marriage for more than ten years.
    Dry-eyed, Jani drew the mantle over his face. “He wouldn’t listen. Had to go with the other men. Old fool.” Her voice broke, and Griane hugged her hard.
    He would lie here with the others tonight while the priestesses kept vigil with Gortin. On the morrow, they would make the journey to the Death Hut. How many more