Fallen Empire Page 2

  “My master has been mortally wounded. He is dying, sir! I need your help, please!”

  The fat man took a step back, eyes narrowing. He looked at her hands as if expecting to see a hidden knife there. She held out her empty palms. “I’ll have the Watch called, you bitch! You’ve murdered your master!”

  “Sir, I’ve done no such thing!”

  The rotund man pointed at Miriam. “Seize her! Take her prisoner, she’s a murderer! Murderer!”

  The far door creaked open and the tall slave appeared, a cloth held to his nose.

  “I said seize her! She is a criminal!”

  Miriam pulled up her skirt, and ran into the night, ducking down side alleys, along streets and across a small pedestrian bridge. When she could carry on no longer, she stopped, breathless, against the brickwork of a mighty mansion.

  Distant shouts rent the night. Miriam ducked into the shadows. Her lungs ached and her legs burned.

  She looked at the dark, early morning sky. “Gulgon, I call upon you for help.” She passed a hand over her chest. “Lord of Hope, I call upon you.” Slowly, she gained control of her breathing, her lungs hurting a little less. Hope returned to her.

  The shouting grew louder and was accompanied by the clatter of shod horses galloping across the cobbled roads. In the dull glow of a street lantern hanging from a post on the far side of the bridge, a group of riders galloped into view.

  The Watch.

  Miriam’s breath caught in her throat, and she pushed farther into the shadows, wedging into a corner and sliding down the wall into a sitting position.

  But are they after me? Or have they heard the shot of Vyder’s blunderbuss? Surely they couldn’t have responded so quickly.

  As quickly as they’d ridden into view, they were gone, heading in the rough direction of Vyder’s home.

  Miriam needed to get a hold. Her master needed her help. She pushed to her feet, straightened her dress, and walked briskly out onto the street. She rapped on the door of the mansion with a fist. Sucking a breath in through clenched teeth, she ignored the pain in her knuckles as best as she could. A window was unlatched high above her and the dark shadow of a person appeared, leaning out of the opening. She was unable to see a face in the darkness.

  “Wait there!” a voice called. “I shall be down presently.” The window slammed closed and the latch dropped into place.

  She wrung her hands and sent a silent prayer to Gulgon that this household wouldn’t be as cold and heartless as the others.

  The front door was unbolted and swung open with a soft groan. A short, plain looking man shuffled out to stand in front of Miriam.

  “What?”

  Miriam bowed her head and clasped her hands in a tight ball before her. “I’m terribly sorry to bother you, sir. It’s my master.”

  He took a deep breath and let it out in a rush. “What, does he beat you? Rape you? Call you names? I’m sorry, my love, but that is the life of slavery, I’m afraid. There is nothing I can do to help you.” He stepped back over the threshold and began closing the door. “Goodbye.”

  Miriam flinched at the words, my love.

  Maybe he can help me.

  “Wait, sir. No, it’s nothing like that. My master’s been stabbed. I need a doctor or a healer…or anything! I’m at my wit’s end.” Tears slid down her cheeks. “He’s probably already dead.”

  The man heaved the door back open and stepped towards Miriam. “I see.” His voice sounded interested. “I may be able to help.”

  “Oh, thank Gulgon!” She stared up at the early morning sky. “Thank you.”

  “Stay here, I shall return in a few moments.” The door slammed shut.

  Miriam rubbed her hands together, turned her back to the door, and leaned against a wall. In the dark, vacant street, moonlight shone with a gentle, opaque sheen upon the cobbled road. The neighbourhood was silent. Well, it was until a shutter on the upper level of a house opposite swung open. Miriam looked at the dark square beyond the open shutter, but could see no one. “Just what the bloody hell is going on down there?” a voice hissed.

  “Everything is fine, sorry to bother you!” Miriam was surprised her voice sounded confident.

  She squeezed her eyes shut and fell silent.

  “Is that you, Doctor Smythe? Are you helping someone?”

  She pressed her lips together in a tight line.

  “I say, I’m going to have my man summon the Watch. You see if I don’t!”

  Miriam remained frozen in place, breathing softly. She still couldn’t see anyone.

  The door next to Miriam swung open making her jump, heart leaping into her throat.

  “Right, let’s go,” the man said.

  She turned to him. “Are you a doctor?”

  “Yes. Well I—”

  “I say, Doctor Smythe? Is that you?”

  The doctor swung towards the house opposite. “Yes, Mister Flang. Nothing to fear. I have a late caller needing help.”

  “Oh jolly good. I thought miscreants were up to no good.”

  The shutter slammed closed, the sharp sound reverberating down the street.

  “Nosey old bastard,” the doctor said with a growl. He glanced at Miriam. “You understand I will require payment after I heal him, though?”

  “Of course, sir. Yes.”

  “Two gold coins.”

  “My master can pay, sir.”

  “Come let us go, then.” He held a small black bag in his hand. “You lead the way, miss.”

  She did, walking towards the bridge. She looked at him over her shoulder. “It’s Miriam.”

  “Doctor Smythe at your service.” He touched his chest. “Well, just call me Griff.”

  They walked over the bridge and turned down the street the Watch had taken. Griff sidestepped a pile of horseshit, and he tutted under his breath.

  “How long have you been a doctor?”

  Griff chuckled. “Oh, I’m not a fully-fledged doctor. Sorry to mislead you. I almost finished the last year of study, but dropped out due to lack of funds. Studying to be a doctor is a rich man’s game.”

  Miriam cleared her throat but remained silent. You’re richer than I’ll ever be.

  “Not that I’m poor, you understand.”

  She nodded and smiled. “Oh I understand, sir.”

  “Please, call me Griff, Miriam. I promise I won’t bite.” He nudged her elbow. “Much.”

  She looked across at him to see his teeth flash in the darkness. Miriam looked away and rolled her eyes.

  “I do,” she said.

  “What?”

  She looked at him again. “Bite.”

  He sniffed, then coughed, but did not reply.

  They turned a corner and moved to the side of the road as two riders thundered past.

  The Watch again. I hope they catch whoever injured Vyder.

  A third horseman reined in beside them, the horse’s hooves clattering on the cobbles as it moved around on the spot, agitated to be galloping again. The mighty animal mouthed the bit and stamped a hoof. “You there, have you seen a group of men come this way?”

  Miriam bowed her head, allowing Griff to answer.

  “No, I can’t say that I have, young man.”

  You’re about the same age if not younger. Miriam refrained from speaking, although it was an effort.

  “Thanks to you, sire.”

  Miriam caught what might have been a sneer, then he slammed his heels into the horse’s flanks and galloped away.

  Miriam increased her pace, her legs burning worse than before, but she ignored the pain. Griff, still quiet, matched her pace.

  Short of breath, she turned to Griff. “It’s just `round the next corner.”

  As they passed the large brick home where Miriam had first sought help, the scene of the fight came into view. Vyder lay still and silent upon the cobbled street, the dark stain of blood pooled beneath him.

  * *
*

  Griff rushed towards his patient. He waved his arm at the small crowd clustered around the fallen man. “Make way, I say, make way, there’s a doctor coming through!”

  The men and women stepped aside, but Griff still made sure he shouldered aside a man, ignoring his curse. “I said make way!”

  He knelt by the wounded man, swallowed hard, and opened his bag. He reached in and fumbled around for a moment before his fingers grasped the clean gauze.

  Knife wounds. He cursed under his breath. Knife wounds to the gut. The worst kind.

  Stem the bleeding.

  Griff licked his lips and shoved the thick gauze into one of the more prominent knife wounds. His fingers disappeared up to his third knuckles. Pulling out more of the material, he pushed it into the gruesome wound.

  The blood was a dark stain in the poor light. It was impossible to tell whether the blood was bright red or dark red. He placed a hand on the man’s chest and leaned down so his ear was inches from his patient’s mouth.

  He’s still breathing, so it can’t be arterial blood, otherwise he’d have bled out long before now.

  “Is he going to die?” a voice asked.

  The question went unanswered. He looked around at the closest bystander. He pointed at the man.

  “You! Help me.”

  The bystander turned away. “He’s as good as dead.”

  Miriam knelt beside Griff. She wiped her eyes. “What do you need?”

  “We need to get his shirt off. There could be other knife wounds underneath”

  She nodded.

  “I’m going to keep plugging the wounds I can see.” He passed a small knife to Miriam. “You cut away his shirt and expose his chest and belly.”

  “I’ll do my best, Griff.” She sniffed and wiped her cheeks.

  He touched her shoulder. “Miriam. I need you to take a deep breath and concentrate on the task at hand. You can do this.”

  She nodded and started work.

  Griff reached bloody hands into his bag and brought out more clean gauze. He pushed it into the largest wounds, his hand disappearing up to the second knuckles. Pushing in more gauze, he didn’t stop until the horrific wound was completely plugged. He knelt back as Miriam carefully cut through the thick shirt.

  Dragging his medicine bag closer to him, he dug a hand into the dark depths and rummaged around until his fingers touched the cold glass of the alcohol bottle. He pulled it clear, brought it to his mouth, and clenched his teeth around the cork. The cork came free with a soft pop. He poured the liquid over the plugged wound.

  That should stave off infection.

  He recorked the bottle and placed it away in his bag as Miriam finished the final cut.

  She’s doing well. This must be hard on her, yet she’s giving it her all.

  He took the knife from her shaking hands. “Thank you for your help.”

  Let’s see how bad this really is.

  Griff peeled the shirt clear to reveal the patient’s chest and abdomen. A dark stain covered the skin, making it impossible to see any other wounds. With deft hands, he pulled clear the bottle of alcohol and a gauze swab. Dousing the swab with alcohol, he wiped the patient’s skin clean. Stab wounds!

  Six of them. This man is going to die. He forced the thought to the back of his mind. “He’s not going to die, is he?” Miriam asked.

  Griff ignored her. Better to stay silent than offer false hope. The wounds oozed, so he cleaned them again, then began dressing them. Leaning down close to the patient’s mouth and nose, he made sure the man was still breathing.

  “Griff?”

  Ignore her!

  The patient was still breathing, although more slowly than before. Griff frowned as the scent wafted to his nose, but it was gone as fast as it had arrived.

  Smelled like faeces.

  He leaned down over his patient and smelled the wounds. All he could detect was the acrid aroma of fresh blood. The last wound, just below the belly button, was much smaller than the others. Griff sniffed the wound and flinched back, holding back a dry retch.

  He’s been stabbed through the bowels.

  Resting his weight upon his haunches, he sighed.

  Without emergency surgery, he’d be dead by sundown.

  “Griff, please, will he survive?”

  “If I can help it, yes.” He pointed at a short, burly man standing nearby. “You, sir, help me carry this man to his house.”

  He saw the relief in Miriam’s eyes. “Where does he live?” he asked her.

  She gestured towards a large, nearby building.

  “Do you have a lantern?”

  Miriam rushed away to get it.

  He delved into the bag. “Stupid bloody thing!”

  He upended it, the contents —tubes, bottles, clothes, small trays, bandages, implements, and scalpels — spilling on the table. With a gentle thump, an old medical book slid out last. . “Ah, there it is! He picked the pocket-sized book up and flicked through the ancient pages. He grunted and placed it back down.

  Miriam walked into the kitchen, holding a glass lantern.

  “Hold the lantern over your master’s belly”

  “His name is Vyder.”

  A highlander name.

  Griff picked up a nearby metal tray and emptied some alcohol into it. Rubbing his hands with alcohol, he leaned over Vyder and pulled open the wound holding his breath. One of the intestines had been nicked and faeces seeped into the surrounding cavity. He whispered a curse.

  “I need to clean and suture the intestine,” he muttered. Soaking a gauze swab with alcohol, he opened the wound as wide as possible, pushed the material in and allowing time for it to soak up blood and shit. Pulling it clear, he cast it aside and washed his hands in the tray of alcohol. Three more times he pushed gauze into the wound, cleaning the cavity. When he was satisfied, he took a length of bovine sinew, threaded it through a needle, and then soaked them both in a fresh tray of alcohol.

  He looked at Miriam still holding the lantern. “Are you okay?”

  She gave a slight smile. “Fine, thank you. If I swap hands every little while, I can keep doing this for hours.”

  Sterilising a spreader, he pushed the implement into the wound and opened it. The knife gash yawned open, allowing him the use of both hands. Reaching into Vyder’s abdomen, he began suturing the nicked intestine. The bowel was tougher than it looked. He held the intestine with his left hand and sutured with his right. But with each stitch, his fingers lost grip on the slippery surface. The lantern helped, but the light it cast was still dull.

  Better than nothing, though.

  Clenching his jaw, he grasped the slippery intestine and, using the curved needle, formed another stitch. Vyder grunted, but remained unconscious. One more suture should do it. He ignored the sweat beading on his brow. When he’d finished, he carefully cut the excess bovine sinew away and dropped it in the alcohol filled tray. He soaked another swab with alcohol and cleaned the wound. He repeated the process several times until he was sure the wound was clean. He inspected the sutured bowel in the dull light cast by the lantern for long enough to be confident that the intestine was no longer oozing faeces into the abdominal cavity.

  He cleaned the other wounds and sutured them closed but left the wound below Vyder’s belly button open.

  “Now, we wait for morning.”

  * * *

  Miriam’s arm ached and she changed hands, holding the lantern over her wounded master. She frowned at Griff. “But don’t you need to close that last wound?”

  He turned to her and smiled. “No, not yet. When morning comes, I want to double check that no more faecal matter is being exuded by the wound.”

  “Whatever you think best.”

  She placed the lantern upon the table and breathed a sigh of relief.

  “You’re welcome to sleep in one of the guest bedrooms.”

  “No,” Griff replied. “I’ll sleep o
n the floor beside my patient. I’ll need to check on him during the night.”

  “As you please.” Miriam tried to smile but forced away tears instead. “Can I bring you anything? A drink? Food? Blankets?”

  He held out his hands. “No, I’m fine.”

  Miriam sniffed and nodded. “I shall retire to my quarters. It is only on the other side of the kitchen.” She pointed the direction. “So please wake me if you have news.”

  “Fear not, Miriam. I shall.”

  She stood for a moment, hands clasped before her. She nodded, staring at her master lying still upon the table they’d eaten so many meals together. She supressed a sob and cleared her throat instead. Nodding again, she looked at Griff. “Very well, Griff. Thank you for your help.” She turned and walked away.

  When she reached her room, she did not change into her bedclothes. I may be needed during the night. She lay on her bed, even keeping her shoes on. She stared up at the dark ceiling. If Griff needs my assistance, I can be there in moments.

  A tear slid from the corner of an eye, down her cheek, and dripped into her ear. She wiped her nose and sniffed.

  Don’t you bloody die, Vyder! Miriam closed her eyes and sobbed.

  Exhaustion washed over her, causing lethargy to wash over her. Sleep took her in moments.

  A loud bang on her door broke her from sleep. She sat up and rubbed her eyes. Blinking in the dim light, her eyes struggled, until Griff morphed from a dark blur and back into focus.

  “Do you need me to hold the lantern again?”

  “No, Miriam. No, nothing like that.” His voice was soft, distant.

  “Griff?” she whispered, her voice quivering.

  She swung her legs off the bed and stood.

  “I’m sorry, Miriam. I’m so sorry.” He leaned against the doorframe and looked at his feet, breathing out in a long sigh. “He’s all but dead. There’s nothing more I can do.”

  II

  “It can’t be,” she whispered. “Gulgon, help me.”

  She staggered, her legs losing their strength. Griff grasped her before she could fall. She buried her head into his chest and wept.

  “Let me take you to him,” Griff said.

  But Miriam held fast to him, crying. “It can’t be true.