"Waelden! Come over here, quickly!" I cried, with a mixture of horror and relief. Relief that the answer to the mystery, the cause of so much death to the orcs was solved; horror at the terrible wounds the man bore. My shoulders sagged in near despair as I sank to my knees on the grass beside him.
Greybeard, as I was increasingly and respectfully coming to think of him, had wandered over to the top of a nearby incline. Given what he had told me about his dealings with the Dwarf miners I wondered if that was the very mine they had planned to excavate. But he turned, and came running over at my call.
Leaning over the awkwardly prone form of a rather tall and muscular man, I tried to see if he was even alive. Could I feel any breath against my cheek? Could I see any rise and fall in his chest? This was no hunter out of Elthengles I thought, knowing what that likely meant.
Then Waelden was at my side, a gasp of recognition escaping him. He raised a fist in the air.
“Duncadda, you fool! So it was you.”
I felt that stab of pain and anger in my companion even as I looked at the many wounds, many cuts and stab marks on the man before me. I wanted to heal any suffering in both of them.
“Yllfa, you’re the healer. Is he still alive?”
I cautiously lay a hand on Duncadda’s chest, again leaning forward to see if there was any sound or movement. Waelden had seen those wounds too. He would have known what they meant from his own experience of battle. He turned away, seemingly in resignation that we were too late, mumbling under his breath about the stupidity of youth as he kicked some rocks out of his path.
And I silently agreed, thankful that Waelden himself was wise enough to know when to engage in a battle and when to turn away. I saw the grey streaked hair and beard of his as an award of honour. No fool of a man was he to survive as long.
Then my thoughts were back with Duncadda as I felt a slight tremor of movement under my hand, and heard a weak rasp of breath. His breathing was so shallow he could easily have been thought dead.
“He still breathes, but only just” I whispered, my thoughts a whirl with how to keep him breathing.
Again Waelden was supportively close, hovering to see what could be done but giving me room to do my own work.
“Alive? 'The fool. What was he thinking!” The deep anger in my companion’s voice was not truly held against his friend, I knew, but against those who had harmed him so. “ Will he survive the trip down, if I carry him?”
I glanced up at the face of the increasingly dear man, whose shadow fell over me. Waelden was certainly strong enough I thought. But he couldn’t risk carrying Duncadda yet.
“He will die for certain if we attempt that,” I replied.
“Then what are we to do?” Waelden asked with just a hint of impatience. “Can you help him here?”
My short and unspoken answer should have been ‘no’. But I did not want Duncadda to die out here in the wilds. I did not want any to perish from orc-inflicted wounds.
“What can I do?” Again that frustration of feeling unable to help his dying friend echoed in Waelden’s voice. “ A merry chase he led us on, and now we find him nearly dead, feasting in his dreams, on the way to the Halls!'”
I made my decision then. ‘You can let me do my utmost, dear Graybeard’ I thought. ‘This fight is mine for the moment, even as I know you would give your life to protect this man, or your daughter...or me.’ Duncadda would live if I had anything to do with it.
Unfastening the travel bag on my back, I lowered it to the ground searching keenly inside for the leather pouch that held a couple of my healing potions. No mere simples were these, but potions I had developed over time, and with help. There was the sound of glass against glass. With a sharp intake of breath I withdrew the dark leaf-green bottle I was looking for, and removed the stopper. An odor of strong mead and rosemary greeted me, but I alone knew what other ingredients the draught contained.
“He is chill to the touch,” I said to Waelden. “He has lost much blood and must be in considerable pain. Can we risk a small fire here to warm him?”
“I can get a fire going. The orcs won’t bother, and if they do, I'll cut them down where they stand.” Laying down his own shield, and Duncadda’s which we had found earlier, Waelden seemed a little less agitated now given a means of action. 'Bema's beard, if you survive this Duncadda, you'll never hear the end of it,” he uttered, moving a short distance away to collect fallen branches and twigs.
I took up my own water skin, dripping a few drops onto Duncadda’s parched lips. Seeing he did not moan or reach at that small thing, I took up the precious potion trying to drip a little into the corner of his mouth. I then followed with another very small amount of water. The water merely trickled out into his beard.
He cannot swallow, I thought, reaching to lightly feel along his jawline and his throat. The swelling could easily be felt, though it had been hidden from sight by his beard. Purple bruising hinted at a blow that may have dislocated or even caused a break in the bone. But I needed to lessen his pain now.
I heard the sound of Waelden returning. Then the sound of branches being dropped upon the ground, and his hands digging out a shallow fire pit.
“Is he dead yet?”
Throwing a rare glance of frustration back at my companion I tried again.
“Pass me my water skin, if you will.”
There was a slight flicker of concern on Waelden’s stoic face as he did what I asked.
“Do whatever you can, Yllfa”. The usual gentler tone that always drew me to him, was back.
Moving to sit behind Duncadda, I edged slowly forward, taking the weight of his head and raising it slightly to lay on my lap. I halted once, as he gave a weak groan, and as I realised my hands and thick woolen riding skirt were covered in fresh blood.
Wiping the blood off one hand, I lay it softly on the man’s brow. “I know” I whispered in his ear “I am trying to help. If I can get a few drops of this down you it will ease the pain a little.”
So I persevered with raising his head a little further, and taking a look at the wound on the back of his head that my movement had reopened. Edging forward a little more I managed to raise his shoulders slightly. On the back of his head there was a large gash. A further light touch told me it was a scalp wound only and, while bad, was likely a lesser concern than the twisted, probably broken arm, and cuts elsewhere.
Again I tried the water, the potion that would have been bitter save for the honeyed mead, and I stroked his neck, willing as much as I was able that he gained some comfort from the potion and touch alike.
An engulfing flood of warmth from the left told me Waelden had the fire lit. ‘Working together we can save him’ I thought. But I continued to whisper words of comfort to Duncadda. ‘Fight now, dark-warrior. Fight with us for your life.’
The wounded man's eyes opened weakly in response. He stared up at me. "Hanatanyel orenyallo" he whispered in a low, parched voice. .. before slipping back into a state of unconsciousness.
