Free Dangerous Talents by Frankie Robertson Page B

eyelids drooped over glazed eyes.
    Ghav folded the front flap of Sorn’s pants down all the way, not quite revealing his genitals. Four gashes bled profusely, but only one appeared deep. That wound was enough to threaten Sorn’s life. Ghav pulled the obsidian knife from its sheath and started to set the tip to Sorn’s belly.
    Cele’s hand shot out, grasping Ghav’s wrist. “What are you doing? Aren’t you going to sterilize that?”
    Ghav stared at her, startled.
    Right, Montrose. The wound is already filthy and I’m worried about a few more germs ?
    Cele released his wrist. “Sorry. It’s just that where I come from, we believe that clean wounds heal better.”
    Ghav’s voice was a bit testy. “Here, also. May I continue?”
    Cele nodded, then as Ghav was about to cut she asked, “Have you ever treated something like this before?”
    “Twice.”
    Successfully ? She wanted to ask, but said nothing.
    Ghav must have guessed her thoughts. “This is a serious wound, my lady, and the treatment for it is limited. A great deal will depend on Sorn.” Ghav lengthened the deep gash, cutting gradually down through the layers of tissue, careful not to further cut the bowel that lay beneath. He nodded toward his bota. “Get that and pour it in the wound.”
    Cele picked up the skin and hesitated. She’d been drinking it with no ill effects, but the idea of pouring untreated, unsterile water into Sorn’s shredded belly went against the grain. “We really should boil this first.”
    Ghav looked at her impatiently. “My lady, pour it now, or I will summon someone who will. I must cleanse the waste from his belly before I bandage the wound, and I must do it now before he loses more blood.”
    Cele poured half the bota into Sorn’s wound.
    “Now come over here help me turn him to his side.”
    The two of them turned Sorn and Ghav pulled the edges of his wound apart. Sorn moaned. Bloody, vile smelling liquid poured out.
    None of her experience had prepared her for this. Cele’s stomach clenched. No. I won’t be sick. I won’t. Not now . She didn’t want to be here, seeing this, doing this to a man who’d been so kind to her, who’d made her laugh. But she couldn’t leave him, either. Cele swallowed tightly and her stomach pulled back from her throat a bit.
    They did it twice more, using two of Ghav’s three botas, before Ghav felt he could sew Sorn’s bowel. He selected a curved needle and a length of thread from his pouch. Cele pushed questions of sterile, dissolving sutures out of her mind. Ghav had to use what was available. He took small, delicate stitches, putting Sorn’s insides back together. She was amazed at how deftly Ghav worked with his huge hands.
    When he finished stitching Sorn’s interior, Ghav rinsed the wound yet again. The liquid sank into the sand. It still carried blood and stank of fecal matter, but less than before.
    “That was the last of my water,” he said. Ghav sat back on his heels and wiped a forearm across his brow, pushing his graying hair off his sweaty face. “I should do this again, but we won’t reach the spring till tomorrow morning, at best.”
    Cele reached behind her for one of the squeeze bottles in her belt pack. “Use mine,” she said, pulling open the top. Unbidden, the memory of desperate thirst rose in her mind. The dry, furry tongue, the near delirium, the aching need. Her mouth itched; she felt parched already.
    She pushed the unwelcome images away. They’d reach a spring tomorrow. Short rations weren’t the same as no water at all.
    Ghav gave her half a frown, but he took the container. When the wound was as clean as he could make it, he packed a poultice of herbs over the wound and wrapped a bandage tightly around Sorn’s middle.
    “Aren’t you going to sew him up?”
    Ghav shook his head. “The wound needs to drain.”
     
    *
     
    Dahleven rinsed the wound on his neck. The water ran clear; the bleeding had stopped. Damn. Dahleven scrubbed at the wound